Secrets: Curvy Submissive & Older Dom (Submission Island Book 3) by Q. Zayne

Author:Q. Zayne [Zayne, Q.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romantic BDSM
Publisher: Hughes Empire
Published: 2017-05-05T16:00:00+00:00

Time’s Folds

I shut my suite’s door and stood panting from my rush to elude Marcus’ search.

Listening while standing as still as a statue, I made sure I wasn’t followed. What could I have said to him if he caught me? ‘I’m a fool, I hoped you might love me?’ I couldn’t stand saying it to myself. I’d never say it to him.

I paced, pushing my thumb into the middle of my palm. Focusing on the pressure, I willed myself to stop the churning inside, the undertow of loss.

This was a vacation. Crazy things happened on vacations. It was one of the seductions of travel. Being a different self seemed possible. Seductions were acceptable. One Bastille Day, a pub owner banged me against the wall in his wine cellar. I came hard, my skirt up, my hands gripping the old stones. Our stealthy pleasure stayed with me as a secret. I never saw him again and felt only heat at the memory. The only rule of travel sex was to recognize the pleasures were for the moment. They existed in a passage of time, the way a story existed within a book. It wasn’t anything that extended into ordinary life.

This was my chance to experience magic. I could even—. I squared my shoulders. Yes, I dared imagine continuing to enjoy Marcus’ attentions. I wanted to surrender myself to his mastery. I’d ignore reality for these halcyon days on Submission Island.

I stalked across the room and stared at myself in the mirror. Time already stamped itself on my face, the lines extending around my eyes and between my brows. I was 28. Past my youth, my use-by date, by the standards of my culture. My cousin Steffani sent me scathing send ups about modeling. Her best years were behind her at 26. She hadn’t made it big enough to succeed with a clothing line, perfumes, or the other fall backs of the top beauties. She was, like so many women in our youth-obsessed consumer culture, expendable. Her scathing humor buffered the often disheartening search for a second career. I missed her scorching messages. This was the longest I’d gone in years without being online.

'My beauty,' Marcus’ voice followed me into my private thoughts. I pushed it away and paced the suite.

I steered Steffani to an online university, in hopes she might expand her options. No progress there. She still lived the glamorous life, always another party, another shoot. Her life reminded me you could meet all the narrow standards of beauty of our world and still not succeed. Like me, she was achingly lonely. Perhaps one day we’d share an apartment in a country where the dollar went much further. We’d hire a succession of gardeners and masseurs to have good-looking men with good hands on the premises.

I’d have my own moon garden and take consolation in it at night, During the day, we’d watch shirtless men tend it in the tropical sun.

I strode back to the door and latched it.

The prospect

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