Awakening
Elene
Sallinger
This is the story of Claire Ryan and Evan Lang. 35-year-old
Claire joins a local book club for romance readers in order to get over the
breakdown of her 10-year relationship, there she meets book shop owner Evan, a
dominant man who has never recovered from the sudden death of his submissive
wife.
As their relationship develops and they embark on the path
of Claire’s submission, it becomes harder and harder for Evan to keep his
emotional distance. Claire is open and responsive and he wants her badly, but
refuses to let himself go.
As Claire falls deeper in love with Evan, she realizes that
he is holding back and decides to end their relationship, forcing Evan to
confront his own past and his feelings in order to save his new love.
Winner of the New Writing Competition at the Festival of
Romance 2011
About the Author:
Hailing from Washington, DC, Elene Sallinger first caught
the writing bug in 2004 after writing and illustrating several stories for her
then four-year-old daughter. Her writing career has encompassed two
award-winning childrens stories, a stint as a consumer-education advocate, as
well as writing her debut novel, Awakening - a novel of erotic fiction that won
the New Writing Competition at the Festival of Romance 2011.
Excerpt:
‘I feel safe here.’ She waved a hand around to encompass the
bookstore. ‘You make me feel safe. Despite your attitude, I don’t believe you
would hurt me.’ Claire flushed such a sweet shade of pink as she spoke, her
hazel gaze roaming the store as she looked everywhere but at him.
Safe. She thought she was safe with him. That he wouldn’t
hurt her. Evan sat in stunned silence for the briefest moment before a red tide
of fury suffused his body. Fury at Marianne for dying and leaving him alone
when she had been the centre of his life. Fury at Claire for tempting him and
reviving desires that he’d believed were dead and buried with his love. Fury at
himself for being so damned foolish and afraid in the face of his temptation.
In that moment, he knew himself for a coward and he snapped.
‘Safe. You think you’re safe with me?’ he all but sneered at
her. ‘You know nothing.’ He spit the words at Claire as he leant, forward his
hands clenched into fists on his knees. She shrank away from him, pushing so
far back into the leather club chair her feet no longer touched the floor. Her
eyes were wide with shock and the beginnings of fear. Shame crawled over his
skin and he reached for self-control, only to lose it all over again when her
small, white teeth bit into her trembling lower lip.
‘Damn you!’ He slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair,
causing her to jump at the violence of his action. ‘You are anything but safe
with me. Every time you walk through that door all I can think about is bending
you over my lap and spanking that pretty little ass until it is shiny, red, and
stinging. Then fucking you from behind so that the sting feeds the orgasm I
give you. I fantasise about binding you and whipping those sweet little tits,
your pussy, and your ass. Marking you everywhere so that each time you look in
the mirror you remember me and how I put them there, and then beg me to put
more on you when they heal. I want to drench you in my come, fuck you in every
goddamn hole, and make you scream until you can’t speak.’
As the words died on his lips, he dragged in a breath and
took Claire in, really saw her now that the apex of his anger had passed
somewhat. She was glassy-eyed and panting. The knuckles of her slim, elegant
fingers were white and she gripped the arms of her chair as if her life
depended on it. She looked like she was having a panic attack.
Fear and shame overrode his anger and he lurched forward,
coming around and sitting on the table before her. He took her face between his
palms. She was so tiny, his hands seems to swallow her up.
‘Claire.’ He spoke softly, soothingly, as he rubbed his
thumb over her cheeks. ‘Claire, please. Look at me.’
She turned just a fraction, closing her eyes and refusing to
look at him. Her motion brought his thumb to rest on her lower lip. Quickly, so
quickly he almost missed it, she licked his thumb. It was the barest touch, but
the sight of her pink tongue against his skin was more than he could take. What
control remained to him was lost.
‘Damn you,’ he repeated, but this time it was the hoarse
whisper of a drowning man. ‘Suck it,’ he demanded as he thrust his thumb
between her full, rosy lips. She obeyed instantly, enveloping the digit in wet,
velvet heat. A shudder coursed through him at the silken feel of her mouth on
his skin. She sucked gently in slow draws that he felt all the way to his cock,
which surged violently to life.
With his other hand he untied the bow that held the halter
of her dress together and yanked the barrier from her body so that it pooled at
her waist in a lake of red silk. She faltered briefly, but continued to suck on
his thumb as he squeezed her breast, massaging and shaping it in his large
palm. She was small, tiny even; the entire globe barely filled his palm, but
his mouth watered to taste her. He pulled his thumb from her mouth and trailed
damp circles around each nipple before leaning down to suck the puckered tips
into his mouth. He sucked hard, eliciting a cry of pained pleasure from her as she
arched into his mouth.
He squeezed and pulled, sucked and bit at her nipples
furiously, his mind blank except for the driving urge to mark her, claim her.
Only when they were red and swollen, jutting out from the cream of her skin,
did he leave her breasts. But he was far from done with her. He yanked her hips
forward and roughly pushed the skirt of her dress up to her hips. She wore a
brief, black silk thong which disappeared in a savage yank as he tore it from
her. The fragile elastic snapped as easily as if it were an errant thread. He
dropped the offending silk to the floor and threw her legs over the arms of the
chair so that she was spread and open to him.
He didn’t stop to appreciate the sight she made, though the
memory would haunt him later. Her eyes were half-closed and glazed with desire.
Her rosy lips were parted and damp from her tongue. Her small, tight breasts
were swollen and tipped with hard, berry-red pebbles from his earlier feasting.
The scarlet silk pooled at her waist, framing and showcasing her plump hips and
drenched pussy. The damp curls were trimmed close, just a shade darker than the
honeyed brown of her tousled hair. No, in that moment, he only took in the
sandpaper dryness of his throat and the need to taste her.
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