Purely Professional
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Authors: Elia Winters
Purely Professional
By Elia Winters
Columnist Bridget Hartwell agrees to write about BDSM to impress her new executive editor at
Sultry
, the “sex-positive magazine for sex-positive women.” Unfortunately, it’s a topic she knows absolutely nothing about…but if she ever wants that promotion, she’ll need to learn the ropes, fast.
English professor Max Harlow is active in the Dom/sub scene, but only for casual play. He’s never found his ideal partner: a woman who is his equal, but sexually submissive. When he’s asked to explain the lifestyle to his cute but obviously inexperienced neighbor, Max is certain it’s best to approach it academically—to keep things purely professional.
Until Bridget’s first article is a huge hit, giving her the perfect excuse to delve deeper into the naturally submissive side of her sexuality. As their encounters intensify and each of her boundaries is skillfully pushed, Bridget must decide what this all means…for her identity, her career and, most importantly, her future with Max.
60,000 words
Dear Reader,
Happy 2014! You know, I love futuristic romance, and I swear it wasn’t that long ago that I was reading books in the genre that used years like 2014 and 2015 to indicate a time that seemed really far out. Of course, I suppose I’ll be saying something similar twenty years from now, when it’s 2035. (And isn’t
that
a weird thought?) As it happens, in the lineup this month we have both a futuristic romance and a hero who travels
from
the future, and both give a unique look into a future that’s actually a little further out.
I love the premise of Libby Drew’s time-travel male/male romance,
Paradox Lost
, in which a time-travel guide who takes clients to “whenever” must travel
back
to 2020 and enlist the aid of a PI to find a missing client. And in PJ Schnyder’s
Fighting Kat
, Kat and Rygard go deep undercover, posing as gladiators. In the interstellar arena, it’s all about who’s the strongest predator…
I mentioned futuristic romance, but how about a trip to the past in Jeannie Ruesch’s historical romantic suspense,
Cloaked in Danger.
Aria Whitney’s life has taken her from the sands of Egypt to the ballrooms of London, but when her father goes missing, can the handsome earl with a dark secret help her find him, or will a dangerous scandal threaten both their lives?
In
Mistress by Magick
, Laura Navarre concludes her fallen angel Magick Trilogy, a riveting historical fantasy romance trilogy set in Tudor times. Also wrapping up a trilogy this month is Fiona Lowe. In
Runaway Groom
, the third book in the Wedding Fever trilogy, can a Harley-riding Aussie guy on the road trip of his life allow an uptight and disgraced lawyer to steal his heart? The first two books,
Saved by the Bride
and
Picture Perfect Wedding
, are now available, as well.
Debut author Anna Richland delivers
First to Burn
, the first book in her Immortal Vikings series with a hero straight from the time of Beowulf. Wulf Wardsen is an elite soldier whose very existence breaks all the rules—and he’s deep in the military zone of Afghanistan with an army doctor determined to do everything by the book. Meanwhile, Cindy Spencer Pape brings back her very popular steampunk romance series, The Gaslight Chronicles, with the latest installment,
Ashes
&
Alchemy.
This January, Heather Long delivers the start of a new series of contemporary romances. If you like your romance a little on the crazy, cracktastic side, this book is sure to please. Cinderella had her fairy godmother and Princess Mia had her grandmother, but Alyx—she gets a software magnate who knows that in his world,
Some Like It Royal.
And speaking of cracktastic, Kelsey Browning has another installment in her steamy Texas Nights series. Roxanne Eberly wants nothing more than to make her lingerie store a success. Enter up-and-coming attorney Jamie Wright, who’s all tangled up in Roxanne’s life…and her lingerie…in
Running the Red Light.
If you want to start from the beginning, pick up
Personal Assets!
Mystery fans will be glad to welcome another installment from Jean Harrington in her Murders by Design series. In
Rooms to Die For
, when interior designer Deva Dunne finds a body hanging from a balcony in the gorgeous Naples Design Mall, she soon learns she’s caught up in a mall drug bust gone viral.
We’re thrilled to offer a large lineup of debut authors this month, in addition to Anna Richland. Joining us with books in the new-adult, erotic romance and contemporary genres are a new group of incredibly talented authors we’re proud to welcome to Carina Press. Elia Winters debuts with erotic romance
Purely Professional.
When a journalist explores the submissive side of her sexuality with her Dominant neighbor, she must confront what these encounters mean for her own sexual identity, her career and her budding relationship.
Three debut authors bring new-adult offerings to Carina Press. Danube Adele proves the new-adult genre is more than just contemporary romance in
Quicksilver Dreams.
One moment Taylor was just a regular girl working two jobs to pay her bills, and the next, she was reading minds, dreamwalking and being saved from bad guys by her sexy neighbor, Ryder Langston. In
Tell Me When
by Stina Lindenblatt, college freshman Amber Scott begrudgingly lets Marcus Reid into her life, but she didn’t expect the king of hookups would share his painful past. And Kristine Wyllys brings us the first of two steamy, dark-edged stories full of action, vivid storytelling and emotional intensity. Don’t miss
Wild Ones.
Our last debut author, Rhonda Shaw, caught me by surprise with her book,
The Changeup.
People who know my sports tastes know I don’t normally go in for baseball. And those who know my reading tastes know I don’t usually go for an older heroine/younger man set-up. But Rhonda’s story hooked me from the start and I’m pleased to be releasing her first book this month. I hope you enjoy this contemporary sports romance as much as I did, and perhaps find a new book boyfriend in sweet and sexy pitching phenom Chase Patton!
I’m not one for making New Year’s resolutions, but I will make one—we’ll continue to strive to bring you a variety of fantastic books from authors who deliver stories that you’ll want to talk about. Thank you for joining us for another year of publishing at Carina Press—we’ll do our absolute best to make it an amazing one!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to
[email protected]
. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
www.twitter.com/carinapress
www.facebook.com/carinapress
Dedication
for Herman
,
my favorite
Acknowledgments
Considering this book started as a solitary enterprise, it certainly didn’t stay that way for long, and I’m immensely grateful to everyone who came on board along the way. First of all, none of this would be possible without my amazing agent, Saritza Hernandez, who believed in this book—and in me—right from the beginning. She listened to my dreams of being a published author and showed me how to make them come true. Whether by email, phone, text or one ridiculous five hour “lunch,” she’s been guiding me every step of the way and I couldn’t do it without her.
Another huge thank you goes to Kerri Buckley, my editor at Carina Press, who made this book shine. Her feedback was a perfect balance of kind-hearted and totally honest; she showed me what to add and cut and polish to make this book the best it could be. To my surprise, revising was a delight, even when I was cringing over all my overused phrases. She’s helped me become a better writer overall.
A handful of beta readers have been reading and commenting on
Purely Professional
from its infancy. A special shout-out to Wren for amazing feedback, for teaching me about wine and for making me believe I could really do this. Thanks to my book club for bringing up the topic of BDSM erotica in one of our meetings, inspiring me to finally confess what genre I actually write. Any shyness in that area has, by the way, long since dissolved.
Finally, a special thanks to my husband, who doesn’t complain when I plug in my headphones and disappear into my writing for hours. He has been unfailingly supportive in this entire endeavor. His blind faith and unconditional love make my world a beautiful place indeed.
Chapter One
The morning was almost too perfect: cool late-spring air, the sky sunny with a light scent of recent rain.
I’m in a coffee commercial.
The thought came to Bridget unbidden as she jogged down the sidewalk, wet pavement slapping beneath the soles of her running shoes
.
She looked down the street, expecting to see children playing with a puppy, or a family washing their car, or maybe both, set to a swelling orchestral melody in the background. The neighborhood was silent, though, and she ran alone through the picture-perfect morning.
Well, not completely perfect, she amended. She had to admit to herself she wasn’t much of a runner as her side began to ache with each breath. By the time she looped the neighborhood and reached the end of her driveway again, her breath was coming in gasps. Winded, she walked back and forth for a few minutes, trying to slow her racing heart. Maybe she wasn’t as fit as she thought. Maybe she’d been a bit impulsive to throw on her crappy tennis shoes and go for a jog, like she was back in high school on the cross-country team and not a thirty-something woman procrastinating about work.
When her heart rate slowed to something resembling normal, she stopped pacing and wiped her sweaty face on her shirt. Maybe the exercise had cleared her brain and she could write the article she’d been putting off for the past week. Her deadline was looming, and she never missed a deadline. She checked the mail: a few bills, a magazine subscription renewal notice and a small package.
A package? Ooh. She pulled it out to look and sighed: it wasn’t for her. This wasn’t a new occurrence. Bridget checked the return address label but didn’t recognize the company.
Fortunately, it was no hardship to bring the package to its rightful owner.
Her next-door neighbor Max lived in a house much larger than her quaint Cape-style home. As she walked up the flagstone path leading to his front door, she admired his well-appointed Colonial flanked by nicely trimmed plants. She wondered (not for the first time) how a college professor had time to landscape, then rang the doorbell.
When Max opened the door, looking predictably gorgeous, Bridget immediately wished she had showered first, or at least changed out of her running clothes. No one should look as good as he did in jeans and a T-shirt. He ran a hand through his hair, the dark curls tousled and damp like he’d just come out of the shower. He leaned against the door frame and surveyed her with his bright blue eyes, looking her up and down, taking in her attire and her breathlessness. His gaze lingered on her body a bit longer than necessary, but he always seemed to study her like this. From anyone else, the survey would have made her uncomfortable, but Bridget liked the way Max ignored propriety in these moments, a lazy smile crossing his lips as his eyes returned to her face.
“Miss Bridget Hartwell.” He raised his eyebrows. “Been running, I see.”
“A little,” she said. “Clearing my head.”
“Writer’s block?” He shifted against the door frame, scratching his hip with one hand, the motion shifting his loose jeans just enough to reveal the jut of his hip bone—had hip bones always been so sexy?
She nodded, forcing her gaze away from the distracting stretch of skin. “I’m just stuck. I’m not sure the run helped, but at least I’m not home staring at a computer screen. Of course, that’s where I’m headed back to…so we’ll see. You’re lucky you don’t have to worry about writer’s block.”
He gave her a pinched expression. “They do require me to publish things from time to time.”
“And how do you break your writer’s block?”
He grinned and raised his eyebrows, but didn’t answer. She shook her head and sighed in mock exasperation, then looked down at the package in her hands. Remembering why she was there, she handed the small, light box over to him. “Another package of yours. I swear to God, I’m just going to start opening these if they keep coming to me.”
“Yeah, I’d love to see your face if you did.” Max took the package from her and read the label with a cryptic half smile. “You know, if you’d just change your last name, this wouldn’t be a problem.” He pointed. “It clearly says Max Harlow, not Bridget Hartwell.”
“Well, if you didn’t live next door to me, this wouldn’t be a problem either,” she bantered back. Something about the way he looked at her, his gaze lazily poring over her body, made her skin feel hot in a manner completely different from her run. This was Max, though, and this was just how they were with each other. Months of flirtation that never amounted to anything, neither of them pushing any further, comfortable with this harmless give-and-take.
“You’d be heartbroken if I moved away.” Max tossed the package and caught it lightly with one hand.
“I know,” she said with mock sadness. “I’d be completely bereft.” Bridget felt her face flush and hoped he would mistake it for physical exertion.
“Are you sure you’re not stealing my mail so you have an excuse to come see me? I know you just can’t stay away.” He hooked his thumb in the waistband of his jeans, angling his hips even more. This was going a little further than usual, but his half smile said it was all just teasing, none of it real. When she found herself staring at the place where his fingers rested on the denim, she jerked her gaze back up to his face again. His smile had broadened. Were they playing some kind of flirtation chicken here?
“You’ve figured me out.” She stretched her arms up and back, knowing her shirt was riding up, and grinned when she saw him follow the motion with his eyes. “I’d better go home and shower. Unless I can come in and use yours?” She batted her lashes.
He laughed, and Bridget knew she’d won this round. “My door is always open. Are you ever going to let me read those magazine articles of yours?”
“Not in this lifetime, Harlow. See you later,” she called over her shoulder, already walking down the path. When she made it back to the sidewalk, Bridget looked back to see him still standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb and smiling at her. She jogged the rest of the way to her own front door. Had to put up a good front, after all. No need to let him know that she was still tingling from their encounter, no matter how much she played it off. By the time she looked back across the grassy expanse between them, he was gone.
Bridget shut the door behind her and leaned against it, feeling suddenly winded again. Why did he always do this to her? She had exchanged packages with him almost every week since he moved in six months before, always the banter and flirting and sexy looks, never anything more, of course. That was just the kind of man he was.
In her bedroom upstairs, she looked out the window at his house across the lawn, unsurprised to see a car in his driveway. His guests came and went at all hours, and if she didn’t know better, she’d swear he ran some sort of drug cartel. But every one of his guests was female, and they all looked pretty damn happy when leaving. She hadn’t been spying—of course not, she told herself—but she couldn’t help noticing these things. No way around it, he was a playboy.
Bridget sighed and let the curtains drop back across the window. She padded barefoot down the hall to the bathroom, leaving her running clothes in the hamper, enjoying the feeling of the house’s cool air on her naked skin before climbing into the shower.
Her thoughts drifted immediately back to Max and their little flirtation about his shower. It was a joke, of course, maybe just one step up from their regular banter, and yet she felt a spark run through her at the thought of him right outside the curtain, or perhaps in the shower with her, running his soapy hands across her bare skin…
She wouldn’t get anything done if she kept up
that
train of thought. And yet there
was
a trick for ridding herself of writer’s block that worked nearly every time.
Hair still damp, Bridget sat down on her bed and opened the bedside cabinet drawer. Her favorite glass toy in hand, she settled back against the pillows and closed her eyes.
There was something so delicious about starting off slow, postponing the inevitable, something her sexual partners never seemed to appreciate. A gentle brush against her swollen nipples, once, twice, then a slightly firmer tug that made her suck in a breath. A light touch of fingertips over her stomach, one deft flick against her clit, then back up to her breasts again. There were never enough hands.
At last, she began to rub her clit in slow, purposeful circles. This was nice, familiar, the arousal sliding through her veins like hot wax. The glass shaft felt icy cold against her heated, sensitive skin, and when she slid it deep inside, she couldn’t help but clench around the firm, unyielding surface. Bridget drew it out slowly, imagining her partner poised above her. His identity didn’t matter in the moment, just his glorious cock with its firm tip still inside her, and she thrust the toy hard back in.
It never took long. No matter how she wanted to draw it out, savor the moment, it didn’t matter: the more she fucked herself, the sooner she reached the edge, and the faster she wanted to go. In those shimmering moments where her world dissolved down to the sensations between her legs, the man above her became Max, his gaze locked on hers, wry smile gone, eyes bottomless and dark with passion. She may have started with the idea of a faceless partner, but as she approached the brink, it was Max; it always became Max. When she came, it was with that image fixed in her mind, the thought of him watching her fall apart beneath him. The pleasure drove all else from her mind.
Once everything was put away, she dressed in comfortable clothes and padded downstairs, feeling refreshed, renewed, ready to face the article she’d been avoiding writing for days. She couldn’t deny her responsibility any longer. With a new executive editor at
Sultry
, she couldn’t afford to miss deadlines or do anything less than her best. Maybe she didn’t really have writer’s block, and just enjoyed having an excuse to masturbate.
She really had no right to think about Max, the man she didn’t even know well but enjoyed casting as the star in her sexual daydreams. Honestly, she didn’t know much about him other than he was an English professor at the local university, frequently received packages in the mail at his gorgeous house, entertained a lot of female callers and had an amazing body. Not much to build on. Should she feel guilty? No. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and she set the thought aside.
With a mouse wiggle, Bridget’s computer screen came alight, document open just as she’d left it. Playtime: a Defense of Toys. It seemed all the more appropriate to be writing about this now.
The words didn’t exactly come easily, but it wasn’t torturous, and she finally finished her piece about why sex toys were beneficial to a healthy relationship. And why not? Even though her own sex life rarely extended past that bedroom nightstand drawer, if she were to bring a partner home, she would expect him to accept her toys. True, she hadn’t had the opportunity to show them off, but she’d be all right with it. It wasn’t like she was playing with anything hard-core, right? Simple vibrators and dildos. Totally boring.
Her fingers paused over the keys. Boring? She’d never thought of her masturbatory hobbies as boring before. She included toys, and that was a little kinky, right? Not as kinky as some of her favorite fantasies, the ones she didn’t share with anyone, not even her sexual partners…
Bridget had stopped typing, her mind wandering down the dimly lit hallways of her kinky fantasies, when the doorbell rang. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that it was almost two; she’d been writing for a while. She checked her appearance in the hall mirror as she walked by. Her hair had dried into its usual curls, albeit a little more wild than usual, but her face still had a “recently fucked” look to it. She tried to compose herself a little. How did one do that, anyway?
Bridget peered through the peephole first and sighed. Of course it would be him.
Max was slapping a few letters against his hand when she opened the door. “Time for me to return the favor.” He handed her the letters with a smile.
“Thanks.” She smoothed a hand across her hair. “You didn’t have to do that, though. You could have just stuck them in my mailbox.”
He shrugged. “One’s a bill. Looks pretty important.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “And I just couldn’t bear to be separated from you.”
Bridget rolled her eyes and smiled despite herself.
This
was the subject of her fantasies?
Max thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned against one of the pillars framing her front steps. “So, according to record, we should be able to go another few days without having mail to exchange, right?”
“That’s how it usually goes.” She looked past him and noticed his driveway was empty again. “Your company’s gone already?”
“Oh, yeah, only a little lunch meeting. She just left.” Was it her imagination, or were his blue eyes twinkling with some kind of mischief? Lunch meeting, sure.
Max seemed in no hurry to leave her porch, studying her in a way that was familiar but not intrusive. “All right, back to work.” She gestured over her shoulder, hoping he would take the hint. It wasn’t that she wanted him gone, but having him so close to her was making it difficult to think properly.
“You get that writer’s block worked out? Or are you going to try a marathon next?”
“I’m fine, thanks. And you know, lots of people run.”
“Lots of people warm up for it first,” he replied with a half-smile. “All right, I’ll let you get back to it.”
“I have to. My editor wants the piece by this evening.”
“A slave to the machine.” He tipped an imaginary hat to her before turning away. “Good luck.”
“Thanks.” Bridget shut the door and leaned against it, relieved that she probably wouldn’t see him for a few days. Not that she disliked his company, but she couldn’t help feeling awkward. She needed to cultivate a new fantasy that didn’t involve her incredibly sexy neighbor.
* * *
“Chinese tonight?” Helen leafed through the menus she’d taken off Bridget’s fridge.
“Whatever.” Bridget was scrolling through the Netflix instant-watch options and didn’t look up. “Comedy or drama?”
