During the first Tuesday of 2017 I present to your attention the latest release by author Nia Farrell. This is book 4 of her Replay series focused on different stories taking place in a BDSM theme resort. If you want to know more about Nia and her writing, take a look at her Author Spotlight and interview.
Ex-Navy SEAL Marcus Vos is a man with dark passions but enough of a conscience, he’s stayed away from the woman he wants…until she’s given a weekend at Replay, the local BDSM theme resort where patrons play in the past. The last time they were there as guests, he sent Gini home alone. But Gini’s returning—solo—for a pirate weekend over the Fourth of July, with plans to explore her own sexuality. She hopes to learn what she likes and why she’s drawn to some aspects of BDSM. She doesn’t know that Marcus will be her guide. Playing Captain Hook will be easy for this amputee. He plans to keep his PTSD service dog close by. He’s told Gini the truth about his sexual addiction, but she’s about to learn that he’s a Dominant, too. One who requires a service dog’s help to wake up from flashbacks and nightmares, episodes that occur up to six times a night. What happens when the man you want is a haunted hero with wounds that you’re helpless to heal?
The Captain came in. Gini stood, blinded and mute, unwilling to break D/s protocol by speaking without permission. Even if she didn’t know this Dom, she trusted Sir Josef, and he trusted the Captain. She wanted to trust him, too.
“Kneel,” he rumbled, commanding, demanding, the low notes in his voice resonating within her.
She dropped to her knees.
For a long, telling moment, all she could hear was the sound of her heartbeat, the anxious measure of her breath, and the lap of water against the side of the ship as it gently rocked to and fro.
The Captain circled her, boot heels marking his passage. He smelled like the sun, earth, sea, and leather. Naturally clean. Decidedly masculine.
He stopped behind her and leaned down to murmur in her ear. “You,” he growled, “will call me ‘Master.’ Now, wench. What am I to do with you?”
Captain Hook straightened and came to stand in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body and smell the musk of his sex. “I know what you wanted. I know what you’ve said. No penetration. I can respect that. There are many other avenues to explore, if you will let me lead you. This is your chance, to stay or go. But if you stay,” he said firmly, “the clothes come off.”
Gini bit her lip and nodded. Part of her resisted, but she knew that they would be in his way, making some things hard and other things impossible to experience.
“Words,” he growled. “I need to hear you say it.”
She inhaled sharply. Swallowed hard. “Yes, Master.”
His rumbling voice was like a velvet glove, stroking her—a sharp contrast to the metal hook that skimmed the side of her neck and followed the top edge of her chemise from right to left and back again.
“Corset,” he said.
She felt for the center opening and began to unhook it from the waist up, freeing herself from its constraints as she went. Beneath her chemise, her breasts sighed in sweet relief. As much as she admired the mounds they’d made bulging from the top of her stays, she was used to wearing a bra only when needed. At home, she generally went without.
What she lacked in size, she more than made up for in sensitivity. She could nearly bring herself to orgasm just by playing with her nipples.
Captain Hook hummed his approval. “Now the chemise.”
She found the cord that gathered her neckline and pulled one end free of the bow. Loosening the lace, she felt for the hem, crossed her arms, and pulled it up and over, careful not to dislodge her blindfold.
A single word, bursting with masculine appreciation, despite her small breasts. Her body was toned from running and denuded thanks to her first wax job. The pink had almost faded from her now-hairless genitals.
He circled her again. She held her breath and remained motionless. Still on her knees, she could only imagine how he saw her. She wasn’t just built like a gymnast, she’d competed when she was younger until a shoulder injury had ended her dreams of glory. Forced to sit on the sidelines while she recovered, she’d started reading. Falling in love with the written word had forever changed her world.
He traced the scar from her surgery with his finger. “I want to tie you up,” he said. “Will this be a problem?”
“No, Master,” she managed. “As long as I’m lying down, or standing, not hanging with my weight pulling on it.”
He stood silent for a moment. “You’re to tell me immediately if you have any problems, understood? Good girl. Keep the stockings.”
She waited, breathless, a small gasp escaping when she felt the metal hook slip beneath one breast, lifting it for his consideration. Her nipples tightened, almost painfully, into hard-as-diamond points.
“Do you need to void before we get started?” he asked.
Gini’s face flooded with color. She’d been so nervous, she hadn’t eaten or drunk much of anything today. “I’m good, Master.”
“From what the ship’s surgeon tells me, you’ve been bad. Very bad. Hiding this from your friend.” He leaned over and smacked her ass. “What were you thinking, hmm?”
“That’s for starters. I’m going to sit, and you are going to crawl to me, following the sound of my voice. When you reach me, you’re going to stand between my legs, with your right side facing out. I’m going to turn you over my left knee, and I’m not going to stop until that bottom of yours is cherry red.”
Captain Hook led her back to the bed and helped her onto it, positioning her in its center to lie on her back, atop what felt like towels that he’d added. From beneath them came the crinkle of vinyl or plastic. Maybe a shower curtain, to keep the bed clean and dry?
The bed that they would share. Tonight, and tomorrow night.
Oh, God. She’d be sleeping with him, wouldn’t she?
Trying not to think about it, Gini raised her arms above her head, stretching them out on each side. He let her smell the leather from the handcuffs that he fastened on each wrist, before securing them to the corners of the headboard.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her cheek with the backs of two fingers.
The mattress dipped when he shifted, reaching. Then the whisper soft sensation of a feather stroking her skin, teasing, caressing, leaving a riot of gooseflesh in its wake. Her arms. Her face. Her neck. Her chest. Her nipples peaked, her breasts ached. There was an emptiness in her core that only an orgasm could ease.
She pressed her legs together, hard.
The feather drifted lower, down the midline of her body, over the taut plane of her abdomen to the top of her hairless mons. He inhaled deeply, as if smelling her arousal, then fluttered the feather over her belly from hipbone to hipbone in a decreasing spiral that ended in a point above her womb.
It drifted down again, further this time, over her mons to the seam of her thighs, pausing, then tracing a line down one leg, blazing a path back up the other.
“So responsive,” he hummed. “Those nipples of yours are begging to be clamped. Ask me, and I’ll do it.”
One of the things she’d most wanted to try, knowing how sensitive she was.
“Please, Master,” she whimpered. “Oh, please!”
He reached for the bedside table again. A cool metal chain dragged across her ribs, under her breasts. Then the bite of pleasure/pain as he fastened a clamp on one nipple, then the other.
Sweet Baby Jesus.
She almost came, then and there.
He growled a warning. “No orgasm without permission, wench, or you may go the rest of the weekend without. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master.” She pushed the words through clenched teeth, breath hissing as she fought to control her body’s response.
As if to test her, he slid the curve of his hook down her body, underscoring each breast, then catching the chain between them and lifting, pulling on the clamps.
“Please!” she bleated, already feeling her body seizing. “Please, may I come?”
“Not yet.” He released the chain, easing her torment but far from ending it. The exquisite pain from the clamps was a sharp contrast to the piece of fur that she felt next, soft, soothing, comforting. He stroked her skin, bringing every inch to a new awareness before setting it aside in favor of a Wartenberg wheel.
The sharp metal spokes tracked tortuous lines down her body. Breasts, chest, abdomen, groin. She bit her lip and moaned at the sensation. “Please, Master,” she grated when it halted, poised at the delta of her thighs. “Please, may I come?”
He leaned away, and came back to her. This time, he had ice.