Redemption and Glory
Bored with all the groupies who provide him with anonymous sex, famous sculptor Adam accepts the offer to lurk behind a voyeur screen at his agent’s BDSM club. Watching the magnificent Mistress Glory in action, Adam is so smitten that he can’t decide if he wants to tame her or kneel before her.
When Davinia helps her business partner at a book signing, the man of her wet dreams, a magazine’s “Most Eligible Bachelor,” comes by to help publicize the event. Instant lust turns to chagrin when he addresses her as Mistress Glory.
As the two novices to Dominance and submission explore what turns them on in this exciting new world, the journey takes explosive twists and turns. Add the sexy agent and his slave, and anything can—and does—happen.
Warning: contains male/male and female/female action, a foursome and lots of dungeon activity resulting in one scorching-hot story!
“Anson’s BDSM tale is full of passion. There are big things going on in this small book, including a ménage, m/m and f/f trysts and lots of bondage…colorful scenes that might make even fans of erotic romance blush at times.”
Reviewer Jaime A. Geraldi, RT Book Reviews
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An Excerpt From: Redemption and Glory
Copyright © CRIS ANSON, 2014
All Rights Reserved, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.
“Oh Mercy, the book looks fabulous! And so do you!”
“And you look gorgeous as well.”
Davinia Quaid, Vinnie to her friends, had gone all out with her nineteenth-century green-silk gown with pannier-style drapes on the skirt and dripping ivory lace from elbow-length sleeves. What she liked best about the gown, though, was its low-scooped neck that exhibited her assets to perfection. She wore her shiny auburn hair in an upsweep that showcased her long neck and creamy skin.
Her best friend and business partner at Urban Country Interior Design, Mercy Howe, also hosted a colonial cooking show on Boston TV. It was the week before Thanksgiving and they were celebrating the release of her first colonial cookbook. In keeping with her TV persona, Mercy wore a modest Quaker-style blue gown from the 1750s with a dainty lawn ruffle edging the modest décolletage and a slit linen skirt revealing a dark-blue petticoat.
As guests arrived, Vinnie took on hostess duties, welcoming guests, reminding empty-handed folks that books could be purchased at the front of the store, guiding them to the munchies of miniature corn muffins and squares of apple pan dowdy—recipes to be found in Mercy’s book, of course—and hard cider, a colonial staple.
She was tickled to note that Mercy’s fiancé Seth Burroughs wore a plain William Penn-era outfit of fine ecru linen with snowy white cravat, matching Mercy’s look perfectly. Must be true love to get him to wear a get-up like that in public. On the other hand, he did his blacksmithing gigs in costume, so maybe not.
After about a half hour of meet-and-greet, as she wondered when the actual book-signing would be announced, she heard a ruckus at the entrance to the room and turned.
Adam Connelly. The Adam Connelly, sculptor extraordinaire, New England’s Most Eligible Bachelor, intimate friend of Mercy and Seth—emphasis on intimate. Vinnie could only be jealous of the stories she’d heard of their ménage.
Cameras flashed, people flitted around him, and Adam strode through the doorway dressed in an embroidered frock coat of cream-colored silk over a bright-saffron waistcoat and indigo-blue breeches fitting his six-foot-plus frame as though hand tailored for him. In his large hand he held three of Mercy’s cookbooks.
Coming to a stop in front of Mercy and Seth, he handed her the cookbooks and said in a commanding baritone voice, “I’d be honored if you’d autograph them for me. These will make great Christmas gifts. And I can tell them I know the author.”
Holding up the books, he positioned himself for publicity shots with Mercy. People surrounded them, clamoring for him to turn this way or that way.
Chagrined to be on the edge of the crowd, Vinnie could only stare at him from afar as he genially endured the commotion. She couldn’t help noticing one especially aggressive young woman with longish blonde hair who consistently maneuvered her way alongside him as though she belonged there, regardless of who else begged to pose with him. Idly Vinnie wondered if the woman was part of his entourage, perhaps his current squeeze. Regardless, that gorgeous man packed a lethal punch and she wanted some. She hoped he stayed long enough for her to work her way through the gawkers to get up close and personal.
The photo frenzy finally subsided. Mercy was ushered to the signing table and a line formed. Adam mingled with the guests, graciously posing for individual photos. Vinnie had to give the man credit. Anyone could snap a photo of him, but he only posed with folks who held a book of their own and prominently displayed his own copy with each flash. She wondered if the man carried a torch for Mercy. To Vinnie’s knowledge, several months had passed since Mercy had last seen him. As far as Vinnie was concerned, Adam Connelly was fair game. And she was a huntress on the prowl.
Distracted by a reporter wanting more information about the author, Vinnie lost sight of the sculptor for a moment. When the woman thanked her and departed, she realized her feet hurt. Why she’d worn authentically styled colonial shoes with no structure or support, she hadn’t a clue. Except she wanted to look totally in character for her best friend. She bent down and, balancing on one leg, lifted the other to give her ankle a quick massage. And felt a warm, solid presence against her butt and large hands on either side of her waist.
“Here, let me help you.”
Her heart skipped a beat then pounded back double-time in response to Adam Connelly’s deep, resonant voice.
She turned around slowly and looked up. And up. Into the most devastating green eyes she’d ever seen. Sun-streaked brown hair curled at his nape and his ears. Clean-shaven masculine jaw, cheekbones sharp enough to cut through ice. The cover photo on the magazine that she’d drooled over was only a pale imitation of the real thing. The man was indeed lethal.
No wonder Mercy had succumbed.
A fleeting doubt passed through her mind as to whether she could fuck a guy who had fucked her best friend not all that long ago. Then he spoke again, and his sex-laden voice sent chills skittering down her spine.
“Is this a modeling gig to contribute to the ambiance?” He gestured to her costume. “Do you work for the bookstore? The publisher?”
Vinnie managed to find her voice and was pleased—stunned, more like—to discover it was strong. “I’m her business partner at Urban Country. I came in costume to support her. Since it’s Mercy’s night to shine, I purposely stayed in the background so as not to steal her thunder.”
“You could steal thunder, lightning and the aurora borealis from any woman around.”
His compliment went straight to her head and short-circuited all her synapses. She had to re-engage her brain. Fast. “How did you happen to be here, all decked out like an eighteenth-century fop?”
“My agent worked it out with the bookstore.”
“Oh. No one told us.”
Adam Connelly turned his sharp gaze to Mercy, seated at the table chatting with the dwindling line of book-buyers and signing happily. Seth leaned over her chair in proprietary fashion, holding each book open for her to sign, a proud look on his handsome face. Vinnie couldn’t help but wonder what thoughts, what jealousies, churned behind Connelly’s façade when seeing them together, so obviously well matched.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Connelly asked. “I mean, look at them. Dressed like two Quakers. As though they belong together.” His gaze flicked back to her and her legs felt as though they were melting.
“While you and I…” His eyes raked her from the curls piled atop her head to her exposed cleavage, her tightly cinched waist that still tingled from the heat of his fingers, down to the hem that almost grazed the floor, then back up again. “You and I are dressed like peacocks.”
He touched her cheek with a knuckle. “Do you think that means we belong together?”
Vinnie blinked. She’d been more than ready to make a move on him, but it seemed as though Adam Connelly was beating her at her own game. She made a big show of scrutinizing him, even going so far as to nudge the open edge of his silk coat to eyeball his trim waist.
Spreading his arms wide, he said, “Checking me out? I like that.”
“Just looking for your belt. You know, to see how many notches you already have on it.”
He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear. “Like any roué, I keep my notches on my bedpost. Want to come over and count them?”
Amusement warred with desire. Damn right she wanted to see his bed. But she was pretty sure she didn’t want a one-night stand. This guy looked good enough for a month or two of solid sex. Or hell, she could probably take a year of him and not get tired.
“You can bring your own flogger…”
Her eyes widened.
“I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you in public.”