Free Photo Slave (The Art of Domination #2) by Erika Masten

my nerves, starting to wind them tighter and tighter.
“It’s not the pleasure of being sexually dominated; it’s the novelty.” It
became clear his nod was meant to be as sarcastic as his tone. “You don’t know
that you like it….
    “You mean like you
don’t feel an uncontrollable attraction to a creative life—the temperamental
personalities and the passions and the conflicts that all converge to make a
masterpiece or at least a statement?” he challenged me. “Like you don’t feel a
thrill at the pulse of shimmering lights and throbbing music at places like Haute?
You don’t feel pleasure at the power exchange inherent in letting a strong,
capable lover dominate you and take you? When he forces you to feel the overwhelming grip of his hunger and his will
to own your every desire?”
    I sat totally unable to
respond, paralyzed by the need quavering painfully through my stomach and my
sex, through my tensed arms and my thighs as I pressed my legs together to keep
myself from squirming. The man could compose a picture with his voice as well
as he could with a camera. Maybe better, because I couldn’t just see the images
he conjured in my head; I could feel them.
    Beal ended his circuit
standing behind me again and shrugged. “Well, maybe I can change your mind
about that, Miss Moreau,” he suggested with smug dispassion, both of us knowing
what was happening inside my body just then.
    What Beal didn’t know
was just how strong my resistance to change could be, after the pain change had brought into my life over the
last several years. Thank you, no, but I had my vision of what I wanted my life
to be—what it had been before Dad had died, before I’d lost control of myself,
before my carelessness had torn a gaping rift in my family and my relationship
with my older sister. What mattered more than the whim of change, more than what
my mind might have lusted after or my body might have craved, was dedication to
a decision and a course of action, to a path that walked me away from the brink
of an emotional abyss.
    Nolan Beal was sexy as
hell, the sexiest man I’d ever seen, let alone fucked. He was everything I
wanted, that felt good, but wasn’t good for me. Most of all, he was change,
constant change—which was chaos. That was the reason that I was eventually
going to overcome my desire for him and walk away. He could have now, have me now. The future was my day.
    I saw the twitch of his
brow that said he was trying to read my thoughts, that said he was surprised at
my lack of protest. Instead of confronting me, Beal raised the camera and
snapped it at me, making me jump and then laughing softly at the way the start
broke me and made me sag back in the chair.
    “Bastard,” I muttered
before I could stop myself.
    “That’s Nolan to you,”
he breathed through his smile. Then he lowered that camera again, to show me
his face, the intensity of his expression.   “Say it. Say my name.”
    After the rise in
tension between us, I bridled with resistance. “Why do you care if I call you
by name? Everyone calls you Nolan.”
    “Not the way you do,
Brown Eyes. Rilla says my name like my mother. Clean your room. Take care of
business. Behave as I want you to. She says it to manipulate me. Cheri says my
name to connect to me, to try to relax me. To foster a sense of rapport and
familiarity. You really should talk her into studying psychology; she’s a
natural. But you, Brown Eyes, you say my name like it’s a swear word. I like
that about you. But I also like making you use my name as a vow. And a plea.”
    His broad hand, long
fingers and slightly tanned skin, abruptly slid down my chest, sending a
violent shiver of sudden and intolerable delight through my shoulders and down
my spine. Dipping down the bodice of the slip dress, Nolan cupped one of my
heavy, tingling breasts and blatantly kneaded my flesh. The shutter snapped.
    I stiffened again.
“What are you—?”
    “You want to know the
story for