Disciples Of The Whip

by Susan Swann

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

His touch was mesmeric . . . It was as if she trembled on the edge of an abyss. If she fell she would be shattered by explosions of pleasure, but Stone kept her teetering, wanting, thirsting . . .

A mysterious gift, handed to her by a dark and arrogant stranger. Who was he? How did he know so much about her? How did he know her life was crying out for something different? Something . . . exciting, erotic?

The pearl pendent propels Marika into a world of uninhabited sexuality, filled with the promise of a desire she had never thought possible. The Discipline of Pearls . . . an exclusive society that speaks to the very core of her sexual being, bringing with it calls to ecstasies she is powerless to ignore, unwilling to resist . . .

Discover Piatkus Entice: temptation at your fingertips - www.piatkusentice.co.uk

Release date: February 4, 2010

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 224

Sample

Propping her chin on her hand, she swished the coffe around in her cup. It had long since gone cold. She could ask Gwen to make more, but decided against it. Pressing the button on the intercom, she spoke to her personal assistant.

‘Gwen. I’ll be leaving early today. I’m taking the Collins file home with me. I’ll look it over during the weekend.’ Her voice was low and throaty, carelessly commanding.

‘Oh ... er yes. Right you are,’ Gwen replied.

Marika heard the question in Gwen’s voice and smiled. It was uncharacteristic of her to leave the office much before six and she often stayed on long after everyone else had gone home. She had a reputation for being hard-working and thorough, even obsessive at times; one of the reasons why PrimeLight handled so many big names.

Marika loved her job. For the past year she had lived and breathed for work alone. Her dedication had paid off. The coveted directorship was in the bag, her appointment a matter of formalities only. She had everything she wanted; designer clothes, an expensive car, a flat in Primrose Hill.

And James, her friend and long-term lover. That was what made her present restlessness all the more puzzling.

Something was wrong with her and she was at a loss to understand it. Perhaps she ought to have a health check-up, though she felt great physically and knew that she looked good.

The grey Armani suit, worn over a shell-pink silk blouse, fitted her slim figure perfectly. Sheer dark grey stockings and grey courts completed the outfit. She wore her shoulder-length blonde hair swept into a french pleat. Neat white-gold earrings were her only jewellery.

Marika knew that she thrived on stress, loving the thrill of the chase, and feeling comfortable delegating and giving orders. So why the recent headaches, her inability to sleep, and the vague feeling of dissatisfaction which coloured everything she did?

Well this weekend she’d take time out to relax. Maybe she’d give James a call and ask him over for dinner. She and James had an arrangement which suited them both. Neither of them wanted the involvement of a live-in affair. It was a good thing that James was married. He would never be tempted to get serious.

Marika gathered up the Collins file and placed it in her slim leather briefcase. As she uncrossed her slim legs, she was aware of the whisper of nylon as her thighs brushed together. The slight dragging sensation as thin fabric slid on skin was pleasant, but something she hardly noticed usually.

Today it prompted a reaction, a rising tide of heat which seemed to centre somewhere near the base of her belly. This wasn’t the first time it had happened either. All week she’d been experiencing those flutters of self-awareness, little random messages that told her she was erotically charged.

It was like being twelve again, and having just discovered the ways to make herself feel good.

After those first furtive investigations under the bedclothes, she’d masturbated three or four times a day, enjoying having power over her body and exulting in the pleasure she could coax with her fingers. It was a guilty secret, something she hadn’t told anyone else about. Once she’d began to have boyfriends she hadn’t done it to herself so often.

Lately she’d started to masturbate again. And her love-making sessions with James were oddly unsatisfactory , but she didn’t tell him that, afraid to hurt his feelings. After he’d left her flat the previous night, she used a vibrator. But even pleasuring herself didn’t assuage the hunger.

She felt as body-conscious now as she had done all those years ago. Why was she so damn needy? It was inconvenient, unwanted.

Her Janet Reger knickers had ridden up under her skirt and a thin band of silk pressed snugly to the groove between her buttocks. The pressure of the fabric made her even more aware of the state she was in.

Shifting to make herself more comfortable, she knew that the crotch of her knickers was damp and her sex felt swollen and sensitive. Imprisoned by the closed purse of her sex-lips her clit throbbed dully.

Pressing her hand to her lap, she rubbed her knuckles against the bulge of her crotch, but that only made things worse. There was no time to see to her body’s needs now. She’d just have to ignore the insistent clamouring.

Marika reached for her grey raincoat, grabbed the black leather briefcase and left the office.

‘I’ll be at home all evening, if you need to reach me,’ she said cheerily to Gwen on her way past her desk.

‘Have a good weekend,’ Gwen smiled. ‘And enjoy the party on Saturday night. Should be plenty of opportunity to network. Though I’m sure you’d thought of that. You never miss a trick.’

‘Oh, yes... Yes. I’ll make the most of the occasion,’ Marika said.

She’d almost forgotten that she’d promised to look in on the author’s promotion at Waterstones. Janice Clements was a new client, the wife of an MP. She’d been paid an enormous amount of money for her first novel, a lurid tale of sex and intrigue, guaranteed to be a bestseller.

How could she have let that slip to the back of her mind? It wasn’t like her at all. Janice Clements was relying on her to attend and she didn’t want to mar their new relationship by disappointing her. She made a mental note now. Waterstone’s — Saturday. Eight sharp.

As the lift descended silently to the car park, Marika stared through the glass and chrome lift shaft which was attached to the outside of the building.

London’s Dockland took on an almost fairytale magic at this time of day. The deep purple sky formed a backdrop to the glowing towers of glass and steel, which were reflected in the muddy waters of the Thames. Pin-points of light on the Isle of Dogs looked like christmas-tree decorations.

In the car park she approached her blue BMW, her heels clicking on the concrete. Recessed lamps cast a bluish light over the lines of gleaming cars and gave the concrete pillars a stark beauty. She disliked car parks. They were sterile, anonymous, a bit threatening.

‘Miss Fremen?’

The voice made her jump. She hadn’t heard the man approach. He was very tall and slim, dressed in something dark and well cut, expensive-looking. Immediately she was on her guard. He was hardly likely to call her by name if he meant to mug her, but she slowed warily anyway, her fingers reaching for the personal alarm cylinder which was attached to her key ring.

‘What do you want?’ she said.

The man smiled. She judged him to be in his late thirties. His hair was dark and close-cropped. He exuded confidence and self-possession.

‘You’re forthright. I like that. And beautiful too. He wasn’t lying.’

‘Who said those things?’

He ignored her question.

‘I’d like to give you this.’ He held out his hand. Covering his palm was a flat, black velvet box.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ Marika said coldly. ‘I don’t know you. Why would you give me anything?’

The man smiled again, showing very white, even teeth. His face was lean, with high cheekbones. There was a rakish charm about him and something implacable in his calm dark eyes. She felt instinctively that he could be dangerous.

He was very good-looking, she decided and was annoyed at the quick flare of interest. He seemed to sense it and she saw an answering response in his eyes. His gaze flicked over her, slowly and insolently.

‘This is something you’ll come to value,’ he said softly. ‘Take it.’

Marika stiffened, suddenly aware of the tension between the two of them. Her earlier state hadn’t entirely subsided. As she took a step backwards, the cool silk of her knickers brushed against her sex, which seemed to flutter in response. In her belly a hot, deep throbbing began.

Lord, all she could think about was what he’d look like naked. She imagined the flat planes of his chest, the muscles pushing against the smooth skin, his hard, flat belly and his cock, rearing up potently from the cluster of black curls at his groin.

The starkness of the imagery shocked her. She had never had such an immediate physical response to a stranger. The man could not have known what she was thinking, but Marika felt the guilty colour rush into her face.

‘Leave me alone, please. You must have made a mistake,’ she said, with a calmness she didn’t feel.

He shook his head. ‘No mistake. And I assure you that this is deadly serious.’ His voice was deep and well modulated.

She recognised the tones of someone who was used to getting their own way. Someone like herself.

‘It’s just a box,’ he said. ‘I want you to have it. That’s all. No strings. No explanations.’

His tone hadn’t changed. He seemed certain that she’d take the box. Suddenly she was angry. Who did he think she was, trying to manipulate her? She hated having responded to him with that shameful surge of lust.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t know you. And I don’t want your gifts. If you want to talk to me make an appointment at my office. Now stand aside.’

He smiled slowly. ‘I’m afraid I cant do that.’

Cloak and dagger, like a bad film, she thought. He seemed to have got his script straight out of Raymond Chandler. She was tempted to tell him to go straight to hell, but he stood between her and the car. Although slim he looked very solid.

The man waited silently, watching her reactions. His dark gaze unnerved her. She felt a trickle of icy sweat run down the inside of her silk blouse.

He didn’t look like a madman, but you could never be sure. Her throat began to dry with alarm. She decided to humour him.

‘OK. You just want to give me the box?’ she said evenly, surprised that her voice came out as anything more than a croak. ‘That’s really all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘Put it on the car,’ she said.

‘As you wish.’ Leaning forward he placed the box on the bonnet of the BMW. He smiled again. ‘I just wanted to be sure that I delivered it to you direct. There must be no mistake. I’ll bid you good night, Miss Fremen.’

Turning on his heel, the man walked rapidly towards the stairs which led to the lower level. Marika watched him until he was out of sight, then she unlocked the car and slipped into the driver’s seat.

Who the hell was he? And how had he got past security? Her hands were shaking and she gripped the steering wheel to steady them. Through the windscreen she saw the black box, its opulent velvet reflected in the gleaming blue bonnet. It was the sort of box expensive jewellery came in. And large enough to hold a small bomb.

She was tempted to drive straight out of the car park and leave the box where it fell, but curiosity got the better of her. Come on, you’re being melodramatic, she told herself. The man had known who she was. He had been polite, his manner cool, quite deliberately neutral.

Making up her mind, Marika opened the door, scooped up the box and placed it on the front seat. She was too spooked to open it here. She’d wait until she was safely inside her flat, with a Johnny Walker Black Label and ice in her hand.

Starting up the BMW she headed for the ramp, the rubber of the tyres squealing in protest as she swung the car in a tight half circle.

Nestling in the folds of deep red satin was a pendant. The heavy gold chain was curled snake-like around an oval of jet, surrounded by pearls.

She lifted the pendant, feeling its weight and running her fingertips across the smooth surface of the unmarked jet. The pearls had a wonderful creamy lustre. As she turned them this way and that she saw peach and pink lights in their depths. They were real, not cultured. She was puzzled. The plain jet oval seemed incongruous against the richness of the gold and pearls.

Somehow she sensed that the pendant was incomplete. It needed some final decoration to give it a unique character. She didn’t know how she knew this, but she knew that she was right. There was nothing else, no clue to who had sent the pendant or why.

Then, under the crumpled red satin, she found a small black card. There was a telephone number, embossed in gold.

She looked at the card for a long time. It wasn’t a London number. The gold lettering against the black looked classy, mysterious. She was intrigued, as no doubt she was meant to be. The whole scenario, the meeting in the car park, it was a set-up, designed to arouse her interest.

She pressed her lips together. One thing she did know. No one gave you anything for free in this life. There had to be a pay-off. The pendant was expensive, distinctive. Someone wanted something from her; someone who was confident of her response.

Marika took a sip of the whisky. One thing she hated was to be manipulated or taken by surprise by anything. In all of her business dealings she was in control. Her private life echoed the fact. She loved order in everything. Neat lines of figures on a page, matching colours, her spotless flat decorated in almost Spartan good taste.

She drained her glass and poured another drink, topping it up with water. Whoever her mysterious admirer was, he was going to be disappointed. She certainly had no intention of phoning that number. If some rich, bored playboy wanted to play games that was his affair. She didn’t have to go along with him.

Leaving the box lying on the coffee table, she ran a bath. She undressed, then removed her make-up and unpinned her hair. While the bath filled, she washed her hair and swathed it in a towel.

Easing herself into the bath with a sigh, she soaked in the foamy water. With a conscious effort she let the tension go out of her body. It had been a strange ending to the day and she just wanted to forget everything for a while. The whisky imparted a pleasant haze to her perceptions. Breathing in the fragrant steam rising around her, she closed her eyes.

But somehow he was there, the dark, nameless man who had stepped silently out of the shadows in the car park.

With an effort she cleared her mind, concentrating on her breathing and clenching then relaxing her muscles; exercise techniques she used to unwind after a hard day’s work.

The bath ought to have been soothing, but the perfumed water caressed her sensitized skin like hot silk. She squeezed water over her shoulders and allowed it to trickle over her breasts.

Despite her efforts she couldn’t help but be aware of the state she was in. The gnawing hunger deep within her hadn’t gone away, it had merely subsided for a time.

As she soaped them, her nipples gathered into red-brown cones. She trailed her fingertips over them, idly at first, then with more purpose.

Her nipples had always been sensitive and prone to becoming erect without the slightest stimulus. They were large and prominent, embarrassingly so. She always wore a bra, or the dark areolae showed through fine fabrics. The hardened stems even poked against the woollen shirts and cashmere sweaters, forming visible peaks in the fabric. She would have loved to go bra-less, but was too self-conscious to do so.

As she caressed her nipples they lengthened and hardened. She pinched and rolled them, biting her bottom lip as they awoke under her fingers. Little slivers of sensation radiated downwards, finding an echo in the ticking between her thighs. She smoothed her hands down to the slight pout of her belly, stroking and kneading the warm wet skin.

Now she didn’t try to fight the pleasure that was spreading through her. Instead, she indulged herself.

Throwing back her turbanned head, she rested it on the bath cushion and parted her legs. Drawing up her knees, she let her thighs fall open and slipped her hand into the soapy wetness of her vulva.

The first touch on her thickened sex-lips made her ga. . .