Wrong Place, Wrong Time? It certainly seems so for supermodel Darlene Jackson and Vlad Ivanov, FBI agent-turned-NFL player in order to find a serial killer.

Almost an ex, now a widow since her ass of a husband got blown away along with his groupie bimbo, Darlene is drawn into the investigation…and to Rangers’ new place-kicker Vlad.

Sparks fly the first time Darlene and Vlad meet—and when they realize they’re both into the BDSM lifestyle, those sparks burst into flame. She’s into submission, he’s into control…and they’re both out to stop the serial killer before he strikes again.

After they’re seen together by a prime suspect in an upscale dungeon, Darlene becomes a likely target—and the perfect bait. Vlad has to do his duty, but he’d gladly give his life to keep his lover—and his love—from coming to harm.

But before they can have a life together, Vlad has to accept that he can dominate in bed but not at the bank, and Darlene needs to persuade her parents that despite the differences in their backgrounds and races, Vlad is the man she wants for all time.

Available for purchase from Ellora's Cave

Excerpt:

His eyes shone with ice-blue fire. His thin lips curved in a welcoming smile. Vlad was little more than a stranger to Darlene, but he inspired her trust…her passion. Her need to submit to his greater strength, give over control of her mind as well as her body.
She went on her knees and laid her head against his thigh, taking in the heat that warmed her cheek through the finely woven cotton of his khaki pants. Muscular, powerful yet not muscle-bound, he’d have no trouble protecting a woman. His woman. With very little effort he could sweep her up and carry her along on the strength of his desire.

“Did you keep your hair short for Travis?” When Vlad tunneled his fingers through the short-clipped curls on her head and found the sensitive spot at the base of her skull, it sent a shiver of anticipation clear down to her toes.

“Not for him. I’ve always kept it short—sometimes shaved—because I wear a lot of differently styled wigs for photo shoots. Actually it’s longer now than usual. Do you mind?” Some men, particularly white men, seemed to set a lot of store by their women’s long, silky hair.

“Not at all. I love how it feels when I run my fingers through it. It’s soft. Incredibly soft.” He sandwiched her head between large, strong hands, tilted her chin up so she had to look him in the eye. “Lay your hands on my thighs and look up at me. I want to taste you.”

He bent over and took not her lips but her throat, licking and nipping at the sensitive flesh. “Sweet,” he murmured as he withdrew and brought his face close enough that she could see the surprisingly dark, coarse hint of a five o’clock shadow on his chin and upper lip. “Open to me.”

When she did he kissed her, at first no more than a mere brush of his unexpectedly soft lips across her own. He tasted of mint and beer and iron control. Slowly, enticingly, he nibbled at her lower lip, using his hands on her head to turn her slightly, give him the angle he wanted. When he closed his lips over hers and plunged his tongue deep in her mouth, she sucked him inside. Her pussy contracted with sudden need as he tongue-fucked her for what seemed like hours, holding her steady with both hands molding her skull. Controlling her and giving a hint of the pleasure yet to come.

His muscles tightened under her hands. Though she wanted to slide them in and up, cup his balls through the barrier of his pants, he had yet to give her permission. She wanted to drown in his warmth, absorb the heat of his hard body. She wanted him to take her now, ease the longing he built up in her with every sensuous stroke of his tongue against the roof of her mouth, her teeth, the inner part of her lower lip.

As if he’d read her mind, he slid his hands lower, cupped her breasts through the long, loose shirt she had on. Slowly, one at a time, he began to work the buttons loose, reminding her of a very patient child unveiling a Christmas present, savoring the wait, the anticipation. When he brushed her rib cage with his fingertips, shards of pure need scurried through her nerve endings at the contrast of his touch with the whisper of silk against her skin as he slid it aside. All the while he kept her mouth, tongue-fucked her there with silent promise. Promise she wanted him to fulfill. Now.

He caught her moan of pleasure, devoured it. Stood and dragged her to her feet. His heat seared her as he explored her upper body, her breasts, circling yet not touching her aching nipples. He dipped the fingers of one hand under the waistband of her capri pants but quickly moved back to trace the curve of her spine back to her neck. Grasping the loose shirt, he slid it down to puddle against her hands—hands she kept still at his order, as though her fingers still were splayed against his muscular thighs.

She let out a little whine of protest when he released her mouth. “You may take off the shirt,” he said, his tone barely hinting at his own arousal, although his flushed face and a throbbing vein in his neck revealed much more.

The fabric slid down her arms, its touch light yet arousing as it reminded her she was following a lover’s direction. His order, even though it had been gently stated. His gaze warmed her flesh, made her eager to dispense with the bra…the capris…the thong bikini panties that already felt damp from her arousal. To stand naked before him, offer herself for a Master’s pleasure.

“Now take me to your bed.” His gaze seared her skin, made her nipples pucker visibly beneath the sheer nylon of her bra.