My One Excerpt

Copyright © 2010 January Rowe
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

My man moved down the slopes with his usual acrobatic grace. I sped after him. We were nearly alone on the mountain. I was exhilarated, drunk with acceleration. Somewhere on the run, I lost sight of him. I stopped to catch my breath at the lip of a snowy valley, pausing to admire the crowding Rockies and the stretch of smooth snow below me. The Durango Mountain Ski Resort was magnificent. Even so, I wasn’t sure why Ridge wanted to come here instead of the better known Vail or Aspen. Purgatory was at least a six-hour drive from Denver, and a long way from Northern California.

A blur sped by me, sending a cold slurry of snow into my face and chest. I heard Ridge’s laughter.

“You jerk.” I launched down the hill after him.

But he didn’t let me get close. I followed him into ever more isolated runs. Finally he stopped next to a grove of mixed evergreen and aspen trees. Panting, I slid to a stop too.

Hopping over to me on his board, Ridge kissed me long and hard and deep. He held my head immobile, his fist wound tight in my hair. Our upper bodies twisted together, and I worried about my skis getting tangled up with his board.

Our tongues danced madly. I relaxed into him, taking in his sexy scent of leather and musk. Savoring the feel of his tongue, his teeth, his lips, prickles of heat shooting through me, I moaned into his mouth. Profound and wickedly erotic, his kiss told me he owned me.

My man broke the kiss and released me. Utterly teased and steaming, I was surprised the snow didn’t melt where I stood.

His blue-gray eyes sparkled as he slowly unzipped the front of my snowsuit to the waist.

“Briony.” He sent me a leisurely, lusty look that made my pelvis throb, and then slipped his gloved hand over my bare breast.

I gasped—the leather was chilly against my bare skin.

He pinched my nipple. I shivered with excitement and cold.

“Mmmm, what I could do with these puckered beauties.” He pinched my other nipple.

“I’m not getting them pierced.”

I’d been refusing for thirteen months. Ridge was a jewelry artist. A famous one. He wanted one of his creations dangling from every part of my body. Most especially the intimate parts.

But I had the one piece of jewelry I needed from him. I wore his collar around my neck. He’d designed it just for me. Crafted of polished silver, studded with semi-precious gems in gold and green hues, the choker was a symbol of our love and trust. A sign of his ownership and my devotion. I never took it off.

He squeezed my nipple harder, and a spasm of pain and pleasure shook me.

“You’re too plain,” he said.

“And you’re too fancy.”

As if to underscore the difference between us, the early Rocky Mountain sun suddenly reflected off his silver flesh tunnels.

My Ridge was a work of art, both natural and manmade. Tattoos of dragons and other fantastical creatures flowed over his perfectly proportioned body, now hidden by bulky snow gear. His eyes were the color of a stormy sky, his features beautiful, firm and unforgiving.

And even though my man wanted more from me than I could ever give him, he still loved me. Grasping my entire breast with his gloved hand, he drew me toward him and kissed me again. My body drank in the feel of his parka-buffered body, the hungry strokes of his tongue, the pressure of his grip on my boob.

He pulled back and gazed at me, his smoky blue eyes flashing with desire. His expression stopped time for me. He’d chosen this place, this moment for play. My heart lurched with anticipation.

Stepping out of his snowboard, he planted it upright in the snow. He strolled around the little grove, pausing every once in a while to examine a specific tree. Finally satisfied, he grasped a sturdy evergreen trunk. One side was nearly bare of branches.

“Take off your skis and get over here, Bri.”

I did as he asked, excitement roiling inside. Nudging me against the tree trunk, he studied us both. The tree was on an incline, so he stood slightly below me. I couldn’t wait to find out what he would do.

He took off his ski gloves and shrugged off his parka. The black under-armor hugged his upper body, showing off every cut and bulge. My breath came faster as he grasped the sides of my face with his strong fingers.

His stormy eyes now scoured mine, looking for confirmation. His silent question—and my answer—was the first step in our intimate protocol. It was his way of making sure I was prepared to offer up my body to him. This was our private acknowledgement of the SSC: safe, sane and consensual.

He waited for my reply. I usually responded with a smile or sigh, sometimes even a delicious shudder. I delayed answering, prolonging his sweet touch, his attention, his love. A cord of awareness stretched between us, drawing us closer. And closer still. Soon we would reach the point of no return.

I moaned, signaling my surrender.

My heart thudded against my breast as he leaned in to slip a belt out of the loops in my snowsuit. He’d made the belt for me. It was a bronze masterpiece, a chain link of stylized aspen leaves.

He jerked the sleeves of my snowsuit, pulling down the one-piece garment to puddle at my calves. My naked body was now exposed to the clear mountain air—and to my man. I shuddered with the sudden cold, my nerves dancing with anticipation. He smiled up at me, pleased with my distress. He was in a sadistic mood. If he continued that frame of mind, I might be treated to hours and hours of sexual teasing later. I’d already seen him examining the ceiling plant hooks at the condo.

He brought me back to the here and now when he kicked my ski-boot-clad feet apart roughly. He fondled the bronze belt, his gorgeous eyes narrowing, his mouth in a tight line.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Today he’d indulge my masochistic side. I’d been begging and begging for a punishment scene for months. He’d refused. He said he hated to hurt me.

He stroked the belt, our gazes locked. Fire spread from my clit outward and inward. Then he smirked.

He was teasing me. He wouldn’t use his art for impact play.

He snaked the whimsical belt around my body and tree. My arms and waist were held immobile against the wood by the cold metal. Ridge carefully positioned an aspen leaf to dangle near my crotch.

I loved bondage. I adored the release of control, of worry, of responsibility, and the powerful orgasms it brought. I appreciated the way my restrictions symbolized what was best about our D/s relationship. And of course I enjoyed the immediate sensations, too—how the belt bit into my flesh, the way the cold mountain air slid over my skin, how Ridge’s eyes darkened with desire at my wanton exposure.

I’d never been bound to a tree before, and the pine aroma was heavenly. I took a long, happy breath.

Ridge watched me silently, his arms crossed. He always allowed me the time to savor my submission.

He stripped a small branch from my tree. Pine needles spiked the end. He drew the branch over my lips, down my neck.

Sensual tension coiled around us.

His eyes never leaving my face, he flicked the spikes over my collarbone. He then stroked my breasts, in ever smaller circles. Would he use the spiky branch for impact play? My heart lurched with anticipation. Arching my back against the chains at my waist, I offered him more to play with.

“Are you a woman or a forest sprite?” he asked, drawing the branch down my stomach.

“Woman, of course.”

He inserted the branch into the metal at my waist, making the binding even tighter.

“Then why are you part of this tree?”

“Because you put me here.”

His hot eyes roved every part of my body, finally settling on my breasts. He loved my breasts. Reaching into a pocket of his board pants, he pulled out two bronze nipple clamps. They were beautiful, fashioned in the shape of a tiny pine cone clusters.

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