Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

regardless of
the lack of a mask to help her excuse herself for liking it.
    As that very
impulsiveness was part and parcel of the professional package that made up
Nolan Beal, I didn’t imagine anyone would really mind me giving them something
else to talk about when the next dinner party conversation turned gossipy. Thus
relieved of the most tedious observances normally required of polite society, I
merely took the crinkled paper and Iva Moreau both in hand before I descended
the staircase to the third floor of the nightclub. She should have considered
herself lucky, even not knowing the specifics of what she was tempting me to do
to her. Plenty of my play partners had gotten much worse for much less than showing up dressed like that and
making accusations about how I did business—in front of gallery owners I needed
as my supporters at a time when both my client list and my line of detractors
were growing exponentially.
    Iva started to speak,
but I pushed her backward against the balcony’s shiny railing and took her face
in one hand. I didn’t have to grip her forcefully or roughly, just lay my
fingertips along her cheek, thumb tracing the angle of her jaw. Her skin was
already warm and heating quickly, even as her breathing slowed and her gaze
went soft, almost unfocused. Did I have that effect on her? The thought churned
a wave of pride in my chest.
    Of course I’d already
noted what method best stayed Iva’s wrath and stilled her anxiety, what brought
out the obedient submissive in her. Handling her delicately when she expected
force and severity melted the woman, a trait I found unexpectedly calming to me
as well, even while it aroused me. Then turning rough and demanding with her
just when most women would have said they wanted tenderness and soft whispers,
in those most intimate moments…. That suited both our tastes just fine.
    Not that I had spent
far too much time over the past three days picturing Iva Moreau’s reactions to
having her panties ripped off, to being thrown down on the couch, to being made
to present herself and put my cock inside her before I’d give her the fucking
we had both wanted. Not that I had repeatedly entertained regret that I hadn’t
preserved more than the initial moments of abandon on film. And not that I
should have been considering all this now, as I read and reread the signature
and date on the mangled model release I held with the hand I wasn’t already
using to rein in the passionate Frenchwoman. Hell no. That wouldn’t have been
like me at all. I would have chastised myself for forgetting the names of my
liaisons ten minutes after they’d left if I normally bothered to learn them in
the first place. Yet I had no problem remembering Iva Moreau in minute and
intimate detail.
    I still chalked my
fascination with Brown Eyes up to curiosity, to her periodic failure (thus far)
to sink down to my low expectations, and to the air of unpredictability
apparently inherent in the women in her family. Unpredictability. Yeah. I could
just as easily have said volatility. Instability. Contrary nature. Like Cheri
and this release, wherever it had come from.
    Lingering stiff and
still against my hand, against all the points where our bodies brushed as I
kept my hold on Iva, kept her waiting, the woman returned my regard with quiet
impudence. It was in the jut of her jaw and the pinch of her luscious mouth.
The LEDs inside the crystal chandeliers kept changing from warm shades of amber
and vermillion to icy topaz blue and sea green tones, backlighting the sandy
waves of her hair and lending her an otherworldly and unobtainable allure. It
was difficult to concentrate on dealing with her provocations and her insolence
when she looked like a dark angel in a wet dream.
    Iva finally gathered in
a slow deep breath and used it to say, “You lied.”
    I stopped staring at
Iva to look at her, really look at her, as I shook my head. “I didn’t.”
    “You led me to believe
that handing over