‘This book. This book knocked me on my butt, it twisted me up in knots and consumed me until the end. Just be warned, it is not your typical romance. It’s a wild ride with a naughty, naughty man.’ Kendall Ryan
‘THIS BOOK WAS SO GOOD! I fell hard for Dixon…I would give it more than 5 stars if I had them.’ Wicked Good Reads
‘Wickedly sexy, provocative and daring with the right dose of the quintessential bad boy…’ Heidi McLaughlin
‘Monica James is a master of story telling that holds you captive with memorable story lines, intriguing characters, steamy scenes and unexpected twists and turns. You will devour every word she offers. I am officially addicted to Dixon Mathews.‘ Rachel Brookes
‘A captivating, witty, and sexy read. Monica James has written an intoxicating novel that will leave you on the edge of your seat and thirsting for more when it’s all over.‘ Justine Elvira
‘Monica James has created another character that I couldn’t get enough of. Dr Dixon Mathews’ kept me addicted until the very last page.’ Lisa Edward
‘I am addicted to three things: carbs, books, and Monica James. I devoured this!‘ CJ Roberts
New York Times bestselling author Jasinda Wilder presents the second darkly seductive novel starring the mysterious Madame X.
Everything Madame X has ever known is contained within the four walls of the penthouse owned by her lover, her keeper, the man who controls her every move and dominates her desires. While Caleb owns her body, someone else has touched her soul. X’s awakening at the hands of Logan’s raw, honest masculinity has led her down a new path, one that is as exciting as it is terrifying.
But Caleb’s need to own her completely knows no bounds, and he isn’t about to let her go. Not without a fight that could destroy them all…
The way it always is, it seems. Do you keep me naked merely because you enjoy the sight of my nude body? Or is it another form of control, of manipulation? A way of keeping me contained, keeping me captive? Some of both, I think. When I am naked—which is often, now that I live with you in your cavernous tower-top home—your eyes flit and float to me, rake over me, absorb my dusky flesh and athletic curves. Your eyes are always on me, even when you are working. Your eyes move from your laptop to me, pause on the elegant column of my throat, slip and slide down to the valley between my heavy breasts, to the flat plain of my belly, the juncture between my thighs, and then you, somewhat reluctantly, it sometimes seems, force your gaze back to your work.
Life with Caleb Indigo: a concerto of keyboard keys clicking and clacking, an overture of gazes and glances. You are always working. Always. I wake at midnight in the morning to the sound of your phone ringing—your ringer is a plain, old-fashioned bleating of a rotary-style phone—and you answer it with a curt “Indigo,” and you listen carefully, intently, and then respond in as few syllables as possible, end the call, toss the phone onto the nightstand close to hand, and tug me roughly up against your chest. Four a.m.: you jab your legs into slacks, shrug into a button-down, fingers nimble on the buttons, announce that you have business to see to, and then you do not return till three in the morning or four or even six, when you appear looking haggard and unshaven with dark circles under your eyes. But then, I, anticipating your return, am awake. And you know this.
And you stand at my side of the bed, staring down at me, waiting. I roll over, gaze up at you. Slowly, you divest yourself of your clothing. Your gaze will not leave me, and perhaps you slide the flat sheet away to bare my form. I cannot help but notice the way the zipper of your slacks tents and tautens as you gaze at me. And I am, in that moment, flushed with desire.
I cannot help it.
And I do try. Just to see if I have found some new source of self-control where you are concerned.
But the result is always the same: I see you, watch you peel the shirt off, unbutton it quickly, swing your arms back to pinch your shoulder blades together, and the shirt falls away. Your torso is bare, magnificent, a sculpture of tanned, muscled perfection. My throat will tighten and I am compelled to swallow again and again, as if I could swallow down my need for you. And then my gaze will rake down your furrowed eight-pack abdomen to your groin, to your bulging zipper, and my thighs clench around the gush of heated need. My breath comes in panting gasps.
I don’t need to say anything.
You unhook the clasp of your trousers, pinch the zipper tab in your big thumb and long forefinger, slowly draw it down. Free your erection. It will sway in front of my face, tall and hard and perfect.
And I am undone.
Any will I possess is eradicated.
Your hands will be rough on my flesh, scraping, teasing, possessing. And I will revel in that roughness, in the clutch of hard hands on my buttocks, tugging me to the end of the bed and holding me aloft as you plunge into me, eliciting a whimper.
And I will come apart for you, watching the tendons in your neck pulse and tighten, watching your abdomen flex, watching your hips drive, watching your biceps ripple as you keep me held effortlessly where you want me.
And you will come, too, but never quickly. Never until I have reached my own climax. And sometimes not until I have reached it twice. If I do not find that release with the driving and thrust of your body, you press that big thumb to my clitoris and force me to it with gentle, skillful, insistent circles as if you somehow just know precisely how to pleasure me.
When you do find your own release, it is quiet, an intense groan, perhaps a bead of sweat trickling down your temple, as if even your sweat obeys the rule of artfulness that seems to dictate your existence.
And then, done with me, you will brush a thumb over my temple, sweep flyaway locks of raven-black hair aside, grant me a moment of eye contact, a moment of personal connection. Just a moment, only a fragment of time. But something, at least. As if you know I need those moments to continue this . . . game.
This faux-domestic relationship.
Without those moments of intimacy granted in that postcoital gaze, I would combust. Detonate.
And even with them, I am discontent. Disturbed.
You know it.
I know it.
But we do not speak of it. I try, and you brush it aside, sweep the conversation away like so much dust from a corner. Answer a phone call, claim to have a meeting to scurry off to, an e-mail to answer, a deal to broker.
✘Twinsie Deb’s Review
Exposed by Jasinda Wilder
Caleb, X, and Logan LOVED IT AND CAN’T WAIT TO SEE THIS COME FULL CIRCLE!
5 Nerve wracking stars
Ok, so I went into this one knowing that it would end on a cliffy… I mean, it’s the second book in a trilogy for fuck sake… but I’m still reeling from it! Damn it Jasinda! I want more! I need more! I grieve for X, I pine for Logan, and I plot for Caleb’s demise. This story is unusual and profound. You won’t want to miss it!
At the end of the first installment, Madame X, I have to admit I still kind of had hope for Caleb. I wanted to see him become the man I knew he could be. He teetered on the brink of evil, but always seemed to redeem himself at every turn. I’m not so sure he’s redeemable anymore. He has fallen down too many times to get back to where he needs to be. I guess anyone can change, but at this point, in my heart Caleb is dead to me! DEAD I TELL YOU!!!
Logan is still a breath of fresh air. He seems genuine and kind at the moment, but we all know shit can get pretty hairy in just the matter of a chapter or two. So far so good though. I know he means well where X is concerned, but sometimes I think he may be laying it on a little thick at times. I, myself would have been awfully overwhelmed by his presence and his need to fix everything. He does still make me swoon though!
X is still finding things out about herself. Good things, shocking things, and things she can’t explain. Caleb is still a lying sack of shit when it comes to what really happened to her and Logan seems to be an open book divulging anything and everything he can get his hands on that pertains to her. Now that she’s knows one of the most basic things about herself, she wants to transform to that person she now knows and not be X anymore. Who can blame her? My heart still breaks for her and I can’t wait to read the last installment, Exiled so that maybe reading her parts will make my heart sore instead of wilt.
It’s a well written book. The dialogue flows perfectly and the storyline is wonderful. The characters, good or bad were exceedingly powerful and kept me on the edge of my seat though most of it. From cover to cover you’ll be offered tons of excitement, loads of angst, and some of the longest sex scenes I think you’ll ever read. Oh. So. Hot. I loved it with my whole heart and can’t wait to see how this all plays out. Bravo Jasinda. You rocked it!
ARC Provided by publisher and Author for an honest review
READING ORDER – Exiled coming 8.2.2016
About the author:
Jasinda Wilder is a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and international bestselling author. She is a Michigan native and currently lives there with her family. Visit her official website at jasindawilder.com.
The door read: Club Imperial
The truth was: It could never hide all your secrets.
Emmy learned that the hard way.
Behind Club Imperial’s doors lay all of those Emmy never wanted to share. Secrets she wanted to hide forever from the world. And Nathaniel.
As she lay unconscious in the hospital, beaten and bruised, Nathanial never left her side. He didn’t want her lifestyle—their lifestyle—to take away from the justice her attack deserved. Slowly, as Emmy started to recover, she started to accept all the good in her new life…
Until the day her phone rang and her world, all those secrets, came crashing down around her.
Terrible things she left behind suddenly reappeared, and her scars were ripped open. Emmy wasn’t sure she could survive the pain, again, and she had to let Nathaniel go to protect him from the hell of her past…
But Nathaniel wasn’t walking away.
**Content Warning: Contains explicit content that may not be suitable for all audiences. Also contains BDSM, Erotic content and language. 18+ Audience
The car turned off the road to a paved driveway that disappeared through the trees. They wound through the greenish midday light and the trees disappeared from her side of the car to reveal Nathaniel’s North Hills estate. Her jaw dropped.
There were acres of manicured lawns between them and the house. There was a stand of trees half way there with a pond surrounded by carefully maintained cattails and native grasses that were starting to perk from their winter rest. She thought she saw a spigot in the middle for a fountain.
Beyond was an enormous white and brick Jacobean-style mansion. Three floors tall with huge windows over-looking the lawns, the front door was set back from the driveway, giving the house a u-shape to the front. There was tower—a tower—above the main entrance which rose to a fourth floor. The top of the house was lined with white cement railing and each of the two front wings had a parapet on the corners. She started counting chimneys and finally had to stop at twenty-five. As they drove further, she caught glimpses of the depth of the house, and there were more chimneys she hadn’t seen earlier. All of the windows were three panes wide and seemed to be floor to ceiling. Part of the back of the house looked newer, but had been added on in the style of the original. It had the traditional white puzzle cornering and there was some ivy on one wing, but it was carefully maintained.
Emmy looked at him. “Is there a ballroom?”
“Of course,” he said dismissively.
“You live in this?”
“Quite.” He smiled. “I’ll give you the whole tour when you’re feeling up to it. Your room is in the back overlooking one of the gardens and the pool house.”
“Pool house,” she mumbled. “You have a pool house.” She turned back and pressed her hand to the window. “It looks like Hatfield House.”
With that thought, the pang of loss hit her so hard she had tears streaming down her cheeks before she even realized what was going on. It had been years since she had thought about Hatfield House and the sudden realization that it was the last time she saw her father was like a bolt of lightning.
“Oh, my God.” Nathaniel pushed over to put his arm around her. “What’s wrong? Holy crap, please stop crying.”
She tried, she really did. But she couldn’t stop the gasps and hiccups that went along with the emotion. She looked at him. “You want to know more about me? The last time I saw my father was at Hatfield House outside of London. We were there for a benefit to try and save the Ukrainian Symphony Orchestra. He was there with Sarinya and had just proposed to her. I left the next day to go back to Boston, and he was killed in a car accident three months later, after playing out the season with the London Symphony. They were going to see Sarinya’s family for holiday, and he never made it.”
He just held her a moment while letting her cry. “I’m so sorry, Emmy.”
“I didn’t think a stupid house could do this to me,” she said, smearing the tears away indelicately. “I mean, I like your house, I just didn’t think it was going to make me think of my dad and get me all worked up like this.”
“You have had a very traumatic two weeks, Em.” He tried to console her. “I suspect most anything will set you off.”
“I hate being emotional,” she hiccupped.
“I can’t imagine why.” He smiled at her.
She smiled back, starting to feel a little more balanced. “You have a beautiful house.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He lowered his voice and continued, “But you can’t go in the West Wing.”
“Why not,” she asked, confused.
“Because that’s where I keep my secret magical rose.” He laughed. “And sometimes the teapots talk.”
Emmy giggled. “So you’re telling me this is a reverse fairytale castle? What does that make Quinn? Or you for that matter?”
“I’m a handsome equine.”
“Oh, so you’re full of horseshit.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author of erotica, light BDSM erotica and paranormal erotica. Expert in the profundities of bad movies and awful literature. Armed with her Bachelors of English, Literature she has set her mind to writing erotic romances which are kinky, dirty, and fun. A lackadaisical laundry goddess, Katherine resides in Philadelphia with her husband, three cats and a betta named Fishtian Grey.