A Twist Of Heat (H.E.A.T. Book 2.5)

  Contents

  Title & Copyright

  More Books By Nicola Claire

  Book Description

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Review Request

  About The Author

  A Twist Of Heat

  H.E.A.T. Series, Book Number 2.5

  By Nicola Claire

  Copyright © 2014, Nicola Claire

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 978-0-473-30646-5

  nicolaclairebooks.blogspot.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  Cover Art by Nicola Claire

  Image credit: 123RF Stock Photo

  Image #8250029

  More books by Nicola Claire:

  Kindred Series

  Kindred

  Blood Life Seeker

  Forbidden Drink

  Giver of Light

  Dancing Dragon

  Shadow's Light

  Entwined With The Dark

  Kiss Of The Dragon

  Dreaming Of A Blood Red Christmas (Novella)

  Mixed Blessing Mystery Series

  Mixed Blessing

  Dark Shadow (Coming Soon)

  Sweet Seduction Series

  Sweet Seduction Sacrifice

  Sweet Seduction Serenade

  Sweet Seduction Shadow

  Sweet Seduction Surrender

  Sweet Seduction Shield

  Sweet Seduction Sabotage

  Sweet Seduction Stripped

  Sweet Seduction Secrets (Coming Soon)

  Elemental Awakening Series

  The Tempting Touch Of Fire

  The Soothing Scent Of Earth

  The Chilling Change Of Air

  The Tantalising Taste Of Water (Coming Soon)

  H.E.A.T. Series

  A Flare Of Heat

  A Touch Of Heat

  A Twist Of Heat (Novella)

  A Lick Of Heat (Coming Soon)

  Citizen Saga

  Elite

  Cardinal

  Citizen

  A Twist Of Heat (H.E.A.T. #2.5)

  This one is from the heart; a thank you to all my readers; a sexy, seriously naughty, delightfully twisted novella about redemption, forgiveness and love. Oh, and it involves a very long chain and a man who knows how to use it. Enjoy! - Nicola Claire

  "I sometimes wonder if life had gone differently would I be a different man? It’s hard to say. I can’t imagine being any other way. I am who I am and I relish it. I breathe the air I want to breathe. I drink the wine I want to drink. I touch the flesh I want to touch. I am in control of my world and no one can tear it asunder."

  Ethan Keen lives by a certain set of strict rules. Secrecy and discretion are paramount. And memories must stay locked away in a mental drawer. It makes him hard and uncompromising. It means his role as Superintendent of South Auckland Police is kept clean of all that taints his private life.

  It means he hasn't spoken to his daughter in six long years.

  And then a new pet arrives. On his doorstep, eyes downcast, face serene. Her grace is exquisite. Her silence a siren call to his soul. Her surrender is his undoing. But also his salvation. For his sweet Haydee he'll break his rules. For his sweet Haydee he'll remember.

  Wild passions ignite in a twist of heat that sears them both together. And for Ethan, nothing will ever be the same again.

  NB: This delicious erotic companion novella to the H.E.A.T. series is a stand alone story. You do not have to read any of the previous H.E.A.T. books to enjoy this hot & sizzling adventure. However, events in this book take place during A Touch Of Heat and may contain plot spoilers.

  Ethan is a Dom who takes what he wants and delivers unending pleasure in the form of controlled release. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

  For: My Sweet Street Seducers.

  You guys rock!

  And I thought you might like a little more naughty in your Christmas.

  Chapter 1

  “Thank you.”

  I sometimes wonder if life had gone differently would I be a different man? It’s hard to say. I can’t imagine being any other way. I am who I am and I relish it. I breathe the air I want to breathe. I drink the wine I want to drink. I touch the flesh I want to touch. I am in control of my world and no one can tear it asunder.

  The Scotch tastes like honey going down. I clink the ice in the tumbler as I hold it up to the soft light in the room. Golds and bronzes, ambers and mahoganies glint in the many facets of the cut glass. The fire crackles in the background but there is little else to distract the mind. Heat. Warmth. The flicker of a candle.

  It’s not been lit to set a romantic scene. Tonight is not about romance. That may come. Or not. Tonight is a performance we’ll both have to play. And the candle is a prop, nothing more. The fireplace a tool to make her comfortable. It’s not particularly cold in Auckland, but this house is old. Insulation could have been better.

  But in here she’ll not think of the cool night air. Nor the seasonal wind that buffers the window. The world outside this room ceases to exist when she walks through that door. For her it will be an escape. Turning her back on whatever it is that she runs from. Opens herself to whatever it is I can give her.

  And I can give her a lot. Freedom in the form of surrender. Unending pleasure in the form of controlled release.

  They give up their bodies for a moment in time free of everything but this.

  My eyes find the clock on the mantel, an old carriage clock that belonged to my father. It’s two minutes fast. No matter what I do, no matter how often or not I wind it, it is always two minutes fast. I don’t mind. You’d think I would. But punctuality is essential in my world. If she arrives on time, the clock on the mantle will already read two minutes too late. If she arrives early, I’ll keep her.

  I take another measured sip of whisky and feel the burn as it coats the back of my tongue. I shift in my seat with an unusual amount of anticipation. I haven’t met this woman before but I’m told she’s perfect for me.

  I don’t believe in perfection anymore, even though I aim to attain it. Too many have let me down in the past. Too many have fallen short when they should have succeeded. I force my mind not to dwell on the past; I keep it locked away, but tonight it threatens to escape the confines of my carefully built filing cabinet.

  My eyes land on my desk. It’s clear of the case files I brought home and the memo I was drafting. Even the laptop has been stored securely in a locked drawer beneath. Just one single item sits in the centre of the dark wood. Glinting like the Scotch in its crystal glass.

  I smile. I have no expectations but when they see the chain they try harder. I admit to myself I’m looking forward to her trying harder.

  The doorbell rings, two deep, full sounding gongs. Most unlike what you’d think a weatherboard house would have. But this is an old house. A big house. When my father built it, it had been sitting on several flowing acres. Not anymore, but the beauty is still retained in the detailed fretwork, the moulded plaster ceilings, and deep set skirting boards. She is a grand old lady.
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  I place the whisky down on a side table, and move to my feet in a smooth glide. I know how strong I am. I know how fit I am, how long I can keep going without needing a break. I’ve honed my body to meet the demands of the lifestyle I live. And that does not just include my profession. Which, unfortunately, is spent more behind a desk now than in front of it.

  I see her silhouetted behind the stained glass in the door. I have no idea what she will look like. Only what she won’t look like. That is essential. Jason would never have sent her to me if she didn’t meet that most basic of rules. I pause taking in her willowy frame, the indistinct features of her person. Once I open that door the fantasy of her potential will be over.

  Am I ready?

  I think I’ve been ready for a while. My usual pursuits have not sustained me.

  I reach forward and turn the handle, pulling the door wide and catching my first glimpse of her.

  Her dark head of hair is bowed, eyes to the floor, hands clasped loosely in front of her body. She’s tall. But at well over six feet, I still tower above her. Her hair is short. I usually prefer it long; the one concession to history. I can’t tell what style it’s in, but her nails are painted, her clothes of a high quality, and her handbag a fashion brand-name that speaks of class rather than show.

  She is exquisite and I haven’t even seen her face, her eyes, yet.

  She waits patiently with a type of grace that does wild things to me. She says nothing, does nothing, but waits. I could leave her here, shut the door, and know she’d still be standing outside my house until I told her otherwise. I know this, as easily as I know that she’s turned on right now.

  “Haydee,” I say, my voice deeper than normal. It’s the voice I reserve for just this. “Come in.”

  She steps towards me, her face still tipped down to the floor, and brushes past in a sweet cloud of vanilla and rose petals. It’s not as overpowering as I would have thought. Subtle. Like her breathing. Measured like her graceful steps. Controlled like her still tipped down head.

  I feel something I haven’t felt for a while. Hope.

  Will she break the pattern?

  I quickly quash that thought and close the door behind her, then walk past and into my office, which is directly off the main hall. The rest of the house is lit up; an invitation to explore she won’t accept unless I tell her to. The lure is in the potential, which I will deny her tonight. She will see my entrance hall floor and the inside of my office. And that is it.

  I sit down in my chair and pick up my Scotch, taking a sip and staring at the doorway. It’s empty. My pulse spikes.

  “You may enter,” I say into my glass.

  Soft footfalls sound out on the polished wooden floors and then she rounds the doorway and steps across the threshold.

  She’s here now. There’s no backing out. It’s as good as a contract. She knows it and I know it. And yet neither of us have said yes.

  Mid-thirties, at a guess. Jason hadn’t said. Age is irrelevant in our lifestyle. Of course, consenting age is a given and I refuse to consider anyone as young as Lara. But mid-thirties is pushing it. The night just took on a shade of regret.

  “You may lift your head,” I say, placing my glass on the table beside me and resting my hands on the arms of my chair.

  Her eyes are brown, a deep chocolate that looks like it melted. Her face has a natural tan and her hair is cut like a pixie. I like it. But fuck! She’s young.

  Her gaze lands on the chain on the desk and skip off it. Not too quickly. Not too slowly. Just right. She’s seen it. She’s noted its significance. She’s moved on.

  Will she move on so quickly after tonight?

  She hasn’t looked at me yet. She’s taking in the books on the shelves, I even think she recognises a few of them. She’s spotted Lara’s brass monkey figurine. See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. Why my daughter left it behind, I don’t know. Maybe it was a message.

  Clearly one I couldn’t ignore because I’d moved it from her bedroom and placed it in here.

  I suddenly wish I hadn’t.

  Haydee’s eyes finally rest on me. There’s a soft curve to her lush lips that brings to mind an erotic image of her on her knees. I wonder what sounds she’d make with that mouth. I wonder what she tastes like.

  “Have you done this before?” I ask. Such an easy question to trip them up on.

  She nods her head once. It’s slow and purposeful and executed with infinite grace.

  This woman is better than expected.

  “Tonight is an audition, if you will,” I say. “For both of us. If at the end of the evening you are not satisfied and have no wish to continue, you may walk out the door with no regrets. Likewise, if at the end of our evening I am not convinced you’ll meet my requirements, I shall ask you to leave. No regrets. If we both agree to explore this further then you may take the chain.”

  Her eyes flick to the length of delicate emerald and diamond studded platinum chain in that instant. She immediately looks at the floor realising her mistake.

  Sweet woman. I’ll let her have that one.

  I stand up from my chair and walk toward her. Her head remains tipped down. I walk around her body, taking in the straight elegant slope of her back, the long line of her neck, and the soft curves of her hips under the silk dress she’s wearing. I wonder what she has on underneath it. I stop my perusal standing directly in front of her and place one finger under her chin.

  Her face comes up with the minute amount of pressure I execute, until she’s looking at the ceiling and tipped her head in just the right way to bare her throat.

  Her invitation is greatly accepted.

  I run my tongue up the side of her neck, feeling her pulse beat wildly under that beautiful, delicate skin. My lips press to her ear, hot breath washing down moist skin. She shudders.

  “I wonder what turns you on, sweet Haydee,” I muse. “Would you like dinners and dancing? Being showed off while you wear what’s mine? Or do you like dark corners and sinful deeds? Hot bodies, and eager limbs, a litany of dirty words slipping over your skin?”

  She moans. It’s soft, barely there. So well controlled. She’ll give if I give. And she’s just told me without words what she likes.

  “I’m going to taste you,” I whisper, moving my lips across her cheek, bypassing her mouth, and then down the other side. “I’m going to lick you until you scream. Will you scream, Haydee? If I suck on your clit? If I stroke your pussy and fuck you with my mouth? Will… you… scream?”

  She nods her head, still looking up at the ceiling, even though I’ve moved my finger from under her chin.

  “Sweet Haydee,” I say with genuine pleasure. “Take the dress off and lie back on the desk.”

  I move to the fire and stoke it, my back to her, my eyes for the flames. I rest my hand along the mantel and stare into the orange glow, allowing myself to get hypnotised by the flickering light. The heat warms my hands and lips, as I hear the sound of silky fabric slithering to the floor.

  I’m hard for this woman who hasn’t said a word. I’m aching to sink myself inside her and lose all sense of time. My clothes feel too restrictive; I envy her freedom right now. But I don’t loosen my tie. I don’t adjust the erection that is pressing painfully against my belt buckle.

  I turn around and find a goddess lying back across my desk, surrounded by emeralds and diamonds.

  “Feet on the desk,” I say, watching her chest rise and fall rapidly. “Wider.” She obeys. No hesitation. No annoying efforts to hide herself. In this she is mine. Completely.

  She’s experienced, I can tell. And for a moment I am jealous of whomever trained her. I should thank them. This night is shaping up to be the most entertaining I’ve had in a very long, long time. But that curl of emotion digs deep. This exquisite creature needs to be mine. And mine alone.

  I move to the edge of the desk and run a finger down between her breasts; they are small, like she is small. Easily fit inside my palm, my mouth. My finger dip
s into her belly button, she’s wearing a belly ring. I’m amused to note it matches my chain.

  I reach over and lift the chain off the desk from beside her. Her eyes meet mine. It’s too early to be offering her this gift, but that’s not why I’ve picked it up.

  “Hands down by your ankles,” I whisper.

  Her responding smile is like a thousand lit fireworks exploding in the sky. She wraps a delicate hand around an equally delicate ankle and repeats it on the other side.

  I take the chain and drape it over her wrist, then wind it around her ankle, draping the length of it across her pubic bone to the other side. I repeat the motion, securing her hand to her ankle on this side, until I’m satisfied she can’t escape. The notion of her imprisonment pleases me.

  “This will hurt if you move against them,” I say. “The jewels are hard against flesh.”

  And oh, what flesh. Dark skin, the pale silver of the platinum chain, the brilliant green and sparkling white of the gems contrasting strikingly against it. I have a sudden desire to bathe her in jewels. Which is ridiculous, I don’t shower my pets with gifts. The chain is more than enough.

  “Are you wet?” I ask. She nods her head, then bites her lip seductively. I shake mine and tsk her. “What do you want, Haydee?”

  She makes a sound. It’s unintelligible.

  “You may talk.” It’s an unusual request and we both know it. For a moment I hold my breath. My bizarre need to hear her voice, to hear what she sounds like when she talks, has taken me by surprise.

  Haydee recovers better than me.

  “You, Master. I want your lips, your tongue, your teeth, and your fingers. I want them on me.”

  Sweet Jesus, this woman is beautiful.

  “Where?” I demand. I swallow my reaction and say in a controlled voice, “Where do you want my touch?”