Title: Masquerade
Author: Georgia Le Carre
Release Date: October 9, 2014
Love is deceptive...
Fiery Billie Black thought she knew all she needed to know about her own sexuality, but that was before one night of animalistic passion with the ultra gorgeous and mysterious Jaron Rose. Tall, blond, charming and wealthy, he was the epitome of an Alpha male.
In the morning he promised he would call. He didn't.
Six months later, just as Billie finally manages to free herself from the memories of that night, he arrives on the scene again. Suddenly, all the feelings that burned so intensely are reignited and she finds herself becoming quickly entangled with her enigmatic lover. The passion is incredible, unforgettable, unbelievable, but Jaron Rose is not all that he seems—he wears more than one disguise…and he is hiding a big secret.
Billie is about to find out what that is…
‘First let me tell you what you’re going to be doing tomorrow. At sharp three thirty p.m. you will bend over this table, your elbows and hands and cheek pressed against the glass, your ass in the air barely covered by lace and some transparent material that rips easily. Baby doll nighties and thongs are my favorite at the moment. What you are doing is waiting for me to come and fuck you like the little bitch you are.’
My mouth drops open.
‘The rims of the thong will become soaked very quickly and you will consider using your sweating hands to masturbate to relieve the ache, but you will not. Instead you will keep that position, nipples and cunt tingling, and wait. The high heels you’ll be wearing—I like black— will make your calves cramp, but you will ignore it.’
My pussy clenches like a boxers fists, but I pretend to snort.
He ignores it. ‘At four I will turn up. You will not turn around to look at me or speak to me. No matter how wide your legs are I will have to correct the position by kicking apart your legs and flipping the last bit of covering over your back, so your ass is totally exposed to me. I will roughly rub your panties, find the jellied part, and dig my fingers into it. You will immediately raise your hips higher to try to catch more of my flesh, and moan the way you would if you were begging for it.
‘I’ll tell you to be quiet. That you are not to make a sound until I allow it. I will flick your clit through the material and your body will start bucking and squirming. At that moment I will swat you on the fleshiest part of your buttocks just once, but hard. My fingers might strike your clit. It will make your head spin and you are bound to cry out from the surprise. But if you do I will spank you again. Just to hear you cry out and see the blush spread. And again, until you are panting and dripping onto my hand. Excitement, shame, joy, desire.
‘Then I will back off, make myself a cup of tea and drink it while I stare at your reddened ass, ripe for the picking. Once I have had my tea I will undress. Slowly. You will strain to hear buttons, material scraping my skin, shoes sliding away, socks pulling, zip tearing. I will grasp the reddened, burning skin in my palms and feel its weight in my bare hands.’
I try not to show it but his dick is slowly growing inside me and I am starting to want him to fuck me all over again.
‘Then I will pull the warm red cheeks apart and holding them apart with one hand I will slide my finger into you, first one, then two and eventually three—the way you like it, the way I did the first night we met. You will moan, and shiver and maybe even grunt like an animal. Your head will start to lift off the table—you are about to come. That is the moment I’ll stop and will ask you to touch yourself. You will take your hand off the table and press it between your legs, turning your head to look at me while starting to masturbate.
‘“Do you want my cock in your pussy?” I will ask. “Yes,” you will whisper. I will ask you again. “Yes, yes,” you will plead.
‘And that is when I will ram so hard into you, you will shudder and scream and arch and quiver and come in a screaming rush.’
‘I won’t be in at three thirty p.m. or four p.m. tomorrow,’ I say coldly.
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.
