Friday, May 6, 2016

Release Blitz, Excerpt : You Don't Own Me 2 by Georgia Le Carre


(18+ due to mature themes and sexual content)



The conclusion to Zane and Dahlia's story. 

The sexy Russian, Zane, has taken my heart, but kept his intact.
I never knew a man like him existed, let alone that I would become part of his life. A man who can make a girl's heart pound like a freaking drum by his presence alone. He's the reason for the madness my life has become.
The more we are together the more my heart and soul cries out for him.
Olga says I am the one for him if I can learn to fly.
Now I wake up each day with only one thought.
Fly Dahlia, Fly ...

Dahlia Fury was the perfect toy. Beautiful, sassy, sexy.
I thought I could immerse myself in her flesh. I didn't expect the taste of her sweet nectar to become a drug in my veins. 
Now I'm fighting hard to keep control. 
She has no idea that there's nothing more I want than to be with her. She carries a lamp into my darkness and makes me feel alive in ways I've never felt. 
I can leave the life of crime and be anything I want to be, she tells me. Maybe she's right. Maybe all I need is a reason. 
Maybe the reason is her ...




The steam room is made entirely from some highly polished black stone. There is a bench carved out of the same material pushed up against the opposite wall. I close the door and go to sit on it. The seat is full of cool water droplets. I lean back against the wet wall, close my eyes, and breathe in the hot damp air. Minutes pass and my body begins to bead with sweat.
My eyes fly open when I hear a sound. I see a hulking shape through the frosted glass door. Someone is outside hanging up his towel. It can only be Zane. I straighten my spine and touch my hair self-consciously. It is impossible to look good in a steam room. The door opens and Zane walks in.
For a few seconds he towers over me, naked, his thick cock standing proud between his thighs. Then he walks over and kneels in front of me. Tiny droplets of steam billow between us. His black hair is plastered to his head and for some inexplicable reason he seems … dangerous.
Heart in mouth, I stare at him. I can’t look away or speak. I feel like a freaking rabbit, huddled, small and helpless. From the very first night he has had this ability to completely immobilize me purely by his presence. My lips feel hot and swollen, and I lick them nervously.
Without saying a word he unclasps my bikini top, and when it falls off, he bends forwards and takes a nipple in his mouth.
‘I’m all sweaty,’ I protest.
He sucks.
A warm gush of excitement spreads through my veins. My body arches. My hands rise up to curl on the hard, shiny muscles of his shoulders. His skin is feverishly hot, but my hands are so wet they slip on his skin. I look down at him and his piercing eyes are watching me intently. He holds my nipple between his teeth and not taking his eyes off me me bites down. The deliberate cruelty sends a jolt of sensation right down to my groin.
I cry out.
‘Real lust is like this,’ he whispers thickly, and licks the throbbing tip. Soothing it. Coaxing it into arching again into his mouth. He rewards it by sucking it gently. I fidget and moan restlessly.
He moves to the other nipple and I snuggle closer to his powerful body, my hips rocking, rubbing, wanting.  Wrapping his arm around my waist, he lifts me off the bench, and lays me on the damp floor. My mouth parts in invitation as he drags my bikini bottom down my legs and flings it behind him.
‘Yes,’ I whimper.
He crouches like wolf over my naked body and hungrily sucks and licks every inch of me. Finally he eases my swollen lips apart and slips a finger into me. I gasp loudly and arch my back, involuntarily making his hand shove deeper into my wet heat.
‘Your pussy is so fucking hot and tight,’ he says and finger fucks me roughly while I writhe and twist on the floor.
I almost scream when I feel his warm mouth suddenly latch on my distended clit. He sucks it hard and my body starts shaking uncontrollably. Waves of pleasure explode out of my core and ricochet inside me as I come hard and long. He laps at my folds, greedily drinking my juices.
‘Your turn,’ I whisper, my body still tingling.
‘My turn,’ he agrees, and reaches under the bench for a little black object. About five inches long and smooth, it has the thickness of a frankfurter sausage, but narrows down to a blunt tip no bigger than my little finger. The other end looks like a plunger.
‘What is that?’ I ask intrigued.
He smiles slowly. ‘It’s to hold you in place.’
I rise up to my elbows. ‘What do you mean?’ 




Georgia Le Carre lives in England, in an old 19th century romantic cottage surrounded by a magical garden filled with fruit and walnut trees. 
When she is not feeding words into her laptop, she is either curled up in bed with a box of chocolates and a good read, or lost in a long walk in the woods. Especially on moonlit nights.  And often with the man of her dreams.


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