Read In His Wake: His #6 (A Billionaire Domination Serial) for Free Online

IN HIS WAKE: HIS #6
    (A BILLIONAIRE DOMINATION SERIAL)
     
    by
    Erika Masten
     
    KINDLE EDITION
    Copyright © 2012 Erika Masten
    ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
     
    Erika Masten
    [email protected]
    http://erikamasten.com
    http://erikamasten.blogspot.com
     
    Published by Sticky Sweet Books. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored on, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
     
    This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons or events are purely coincidental.
     
    Warning: Explicit content. Intended for mature readers only. All characters depicted herein are 18 years or older, and all sexual activities are of a consensual nature.
     
    This is a work of erotic fantasy. In real life, please protect yourself and your lover by always practicing safe sex.
     
    TABLE OF CONTENTS
     
    In His Wake: His #6
     
    Excerpt From
    Domination Sex: Conditioned Response
     
    Excerpt From
    Room Service: Dominated #3
     
    IN HIS WAKE: HIS #6
     
    There was no leaving Adrian Knight.
    Physically, perhaps, but not emotionally. The discontent, the sense of debilitating disequilibrium that overtook me in the absence of the comforting routine I’d fallen into as Knight’s sexual submissive, interrupted the rhythm of my thoughts and my breath as I hurried from meeting to meeting, back at work at the environmental law firm where I was supposed to be the most promising of the junior partners. It manifested as a clumsy catch of my designer heels along the sink-down carpet, a wince at the constant burble of digital ringtones in a busy office, a nagging dissatisfaction with every detail of my surroundings.
    It was a creeping panic.
    A month on, I was barely sleeping, hardly eating, and still swinging wildly between sobbing into my pillow at night at the thought of Adrian and punching it with the force of thirty years of pent up outrage.
    For the first time, I found the earthy smell of leather and aged paper from the extensive reference collection in the bookshelves lining two walls of my much-envied corner office almost intolerably oppressive. The stifling atmosphere had me short of breath, with a heavy weight mounting little by little in the middle of my chest. It irritated me like a scratching along the inside of my skull, the inside of my skin, that the pristine sets of law books were all the same colors and size with identical, pretentious gold stripes along their flawless cobalt blue or ruby red binding.
    I longed for the irregular outline and mismatched covers of the used books that had shared shelf space with my mother’s record collection in the corner of the living room in our shabby little apartment, when it had been just the two of us. Before I’d gone off to college to better myself, to ascend the career ladder and climb above my station. To earn the money and respect and position I believed, not entirely consciously, would insulate me from the hardship and rejection that had characterized my childhood. The thought of dog-eared, thrift store paperbacks, in no way uniform, had me waxing nostalgic for the late nights when my mother would cuddle up on the secondhand sofa to read to her little Chloeblossom while Beethoven or Bach or Pachelbel played low and distant on the radio from the gloomy recesses of the dimly lit room.
    This morning, my high sheen, dark wood office was quiet and still with my own inactivity and inattention. I was ten floors up, far removed from the chaos of the traffic and bustling crowds on the street below me.
    Below me …
    I snickered at myself and rose from behind my