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Authors: Trent Evans

What She's Looking For

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What She’s Looking For

 

Trent Evans

About This Book

 

What if the very thing you crave is that which you most
fear?

 

Ashley is a woman running from her past -- and from herself.
Ten years of marriage to a man who took his dominance too far has left her scared,
but defiant ... determined, yet desperate.

 

Knowing what she doesn't want, but not knowing what she
really needs, she moves West, seeking to rebuild her life, for once in control
of herself. But inside she suspects it's that control itself that's the real
problem -- she doesn't want it. Any of it.

In a beautiful resort town in central Washington, she meets
two gorgeous men; the stern, dangerous Parker, and the dark, brawny Drake. Can
she risk herself again, surrender to the forbidden pleasure of being subject to
these men? Or is the possibility of having her heart broken yet again too much
to chance?

 

In the arms of not one, but two, strict Dominant men, can
she find the peace she's looked for all her life? The peace she's only found in
the bonds of utter submission, the taboo pleasure of being the property of two
men at once?

 

Or, as she learns more about these mysterious men, will she
realize that it's not only her heart at risk?

 

Word Count: 100,212

Page Count: approx 324 pages

 

Warning
: This novel contains the following acts or
themes:

 

MFM Menage (Maledom/femsub), explicit sex (including DP and
anal), D/s, TPE, sadomasochism, objectification, humiliation, spanking, caning,
tawse/strap, bondage, suspension.

 

This is a MFM menage erotic romance. There is no sexual
interaction between the males in this story.

* * * *

 

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Cover Design by
Michaela Strong (
www.sexybookcovers.com
)

 

This book is a work
of fiction, the characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the
author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

The book contains
content that is not suitable for readers aged 17 and under.

For mature readers
only.

 

Copyright © 2013
by Trent Evans

All rights
reserved.

Thank you for downloading this
e-book. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be
reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without express
written permission from the author, Trent Evans, at
[email protected]

Warning: The unauthorized
reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal
copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is
investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison
and a fine of $250,000. (See
http://www.fbi.gov/ipr
for more information about intellectual property rights.)

 

This book is a work of fiction and
any resemblance to persons-living or dead-or places, events, or locales is
purely accidental. The characters are reproductions of the author’s imagination
and used fictitiously
.

Acknowledgments

 

To my wonderful beta readers:
Alice, Anna, Kayla, Renee, Sadey and Sheri. Thank you so much for all that you do.

For Sheri

Prologue

 

T
here
was one serious drawback to being owned by two men. It was exhausting.

Morning sun poured over both of
them, warming her skin, her body entwined with, surrounded by Parker’s big
body. Still fast asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly, his arm draped
possessively over her, a strong hand holding the weight of her breast.

Loathe to deprive herself of the
heat of his body, the comfort of his embrace, Ashley knew what her instructions
were. She knew the rules. Sunny Sunday morning or not, she had duties to
perform, another Master to obey.

Saturdays were for Parker, but
Sundays were for Drake.

Extricating herself from Parker’s
heavy arm, she pressed her soft lips to his chest, marveling anew at the lean
musculature, the barely leashed power in that male body. Moving awakened the
pleasant ache of the stripes decorating the curves of her ass, her right hip
particularly sore from the way Parker had allowed his strap to “wrap” the night
before.

He liked the bruises that were the
aftermath of her regular Saturday appointment with his strap — and truth be
told, so did she. She took a moment to take in that tall, beautiful male body
tangled from the waist down in the white bed sheets, then slipped off the bed,
padding her way to the door and down the long, shadowed hallway that the
morning light could not reach.

The shower mustn’t be long, for she
knew Drake might awaken at any minute — and woe betide the slave girl who
wasn’t present when he did.

Fresh, long, dark hair still wet,
she put her cuffs on at ankle and wrist, the black leather a firm, comforting
reminder of their control of her. Easing the door to Drake’s bedroom open, she
found her usual spot; fortunately for her it was squarely within a rectangle of
brilliant morning sunshine across the carpet.

Remembering her routine had been
difficult at first, and punishments invariably followed when she’d failed,
punishments she’d relished and dreaded in equal measure. But now it was as
familiar as an old pair of shoes, her instructions, the roadmap for her life as
a slave.

 

You will be clean for your
Master.

 

You will be awake before your
Master.

 

You will be ready for whatever
he wants, whenever he wants.

 

You will obey.

 

Crouching on the carpet, she
waited. Her breasts brushed against her thighs, the cool morning air, and the
moisture evaporating on her skin rendering her long nipples into aching, hard
bullets. She adjusted her position, making sure her ass faced him exactly, the
twin moons of her buttocks and the slot of her wet, swollen sex the first thing
he’d see when he got up.

His breathing was still regular,
but she’d heard him stir. Not long now.

The silence made time slow, only
the sound of her Master’s breathing and the pounding of her own heart
dominating her consciousness. What would he demand? Would he spank her again,
even though she was already bruised?

Perhaps he’d work on her breasts,
currently unblemished. She imagined herself kneeling, looking up at him as
she’d been trained, her tears streaming down her cheeks, wetting her cleavage
as his huge hands slapped her breasts back and forth. The hot pain of the
smacks, the ache of the marks. She’d cry out as he paused to pinch her nipples,
to pull and twist them. His playthings.

If they let her come, it was always
a painful, drawn out affair, her pleasure earned at the price of long
endurance, abject obedience — and purely at their whim. Often she was deprived
of it, and it fired her need to serve, to submit, and to please. Perhaps if she
were that much more obedient, that much more pleasing, she’d be granted
release, that screaming climax which haunted her dreams.

How often had she tried to sleep,
bound, blindfolded, her hands unable to reach the dripping cunt seething
between her clenching thighs. How she’d pleaded for that release, that
deliverance, as they tormented her further, their hands, their cocks, their
words, drawing her down further into that inescapable vortex of lust, pain, and
surrender.

Drake, the dark Master of her
Sundays, stirred behind her, and as the trembling of her body began, she
smiled.

Soon, it would begin again.

Chapter One

 

“W
ho … is that?” Erik moved to stand
next to the hulking form of his friend Drake. They had seen the little Honda
come bumping up the dirt road of the drive, bottoming out repeatedly in the
world’s largest potholes.

Drake grunted something in
response, his gaze fixated on the woman talking to their friend Parker at the
edge of the drive.

Erik shoved Drake’s huge shoulder. “Dude.
Words.”

Drake turned his head, his gaze not
leaving the two figures at end of the driveway. “Parker seems to know her.” He
shrugged his massive shoulders. “Didn’t say anything to me, though.”

Erik watched the curious
conversation. He couldn’t make out a lot, but he could see enough. She was
slight, that much was obvious, Parker’s imposing height emphasizing her petite
form. She smiled at the always gesticulating Parker, his long-fingered hands
continually moving, emphasizing whatever point he was making.

“Tiny little thing,” Drake said,
his voice nearly a whisper.

“Everyone’s tiny compared to you,
Mack.”

Erik liked to call Drake ‘Mack’. As
in Mack truck. It perfectly summed up the hulking, unstoppable size of the man.
That and Drake hated it. A nice bonus.

“Shut it, dick,” Drake growled. But
Erik could see his heart wasn’t in it. The big man was distracted by something.

Her.

Not that Erik blamed him. There was
something about how she stood there, her eyes never leaving Parker, not looking
around, no impatient darting glances. Attentive.

It spoke to a man like Drake.
Though the evasive, affable Parker would be adept at hiding it, Erik was pretty
sure Parker could see it too.

The porch creaked as Drake shifted
his weight, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The white tee shirt he was
wearing stressed at the bulge of the muscles of his back and shoulders.

“You ever see her around? I don’t
recognize the car,” Erik said, shaking his head, his shoulder length blond hair
moving.

It was an older dark blue Honda
Accord, maybe seven or eight years old. The gray front wheel covers were darkened
with accumulated brake dust.

Not safe, girl.

She clasped her arms across her
black knit sweater. A self-protective gesture, belying her open, friendly
expression. Erik wanted to see what was behind those arms, what that sweater
hid from his gaze. He wanted to know what was making her uneasy.

“Parker seems to know her,” Drake
repeated. He turned and walked into the house, throwing one more glance at the
pair before disappearing through the front door.

Erik was surprised at his friend’s
reaction. Drake was an observer, noticing everything, but rarely remarking on
it. When he did say something though, it was usually something important. It
was a quality Erik appreciated — most of the time (it didn’t make Drake much of
a conversationalist). Not that it mattered with Parker around, though. He
talked enough for both of them.

But this had the taciturn Drake
watching. Intently.

* * *

Jesus, this place.

Ashley ran her fingers through the
blond-streaked sable of her hair. She craned her head up to look in the
rearview mirror.

Shit. Her roots were showing again.

“Why do you even care, Ash?” she
said to herself, pulling the car onto Hwy 97. It was a bit of a drive still to
get to Wenatchee, and her thoughts always wandered as the road followed the
meandering of the Columbia River on the drive south.

That man. Parker McCready was shown
as the owner on the listing. He’d been the one who’d placed the ad for the
guest house. She’d first seen the listing as a sale, but had noticed the “open
to the right renter” clause too. You didn’t miss those little, potentially
deal-breaking, details in real estate. Not if you wanted to stay in real estate
— especially in this shit economy.

‘Open to the right renter’. Well,
she was pretty sure she fit the bill there. No friends, no money, brand new to
the area. She’d practically be a shut-in. The perfect renter, right?

She barked a harsh laugh. Trying
too hard.

The house was fine — it would be
the perfect place for her, really.
He
was the problem.

She would admit to reading her fair
share of trashy romance novels. Okay, fine, it was mostly smut. She was a big
girl, so she could do what she wanted.

But he had them.

Sure he was tall, well-dressed — at
least by North Central Washington standards — and charming. Yes, he was all of
that. But normally that didn’t matter to her. One thing mattered.

Oh damn, he had them.

He smiled, he joked, he grinned.
But those surface emotions were a façade, an affectation. Those emotions didn’t
reach those eyes. No sir, they didn’t.

Cruel eyes. The kind that watched
you as you cried, took in your pain. Eager to watch.

Ruthless.

The kind of eyes that made her soak
her panties.

She’d stood there as Parker
explained to her what the house offered. How he’d be around to help any time
she needed something. Any time at all, he’d said. He’d motioned to the two men
standing on the porch of the large, low slung ranch that was on the same land
as the advertised guest house.

One of the men was lanky, athletic,
with a long shock of blond hair. A younger guy — too young for her, at least
from what she could see at a distance. The other man, was … huge. A mountain.
All dark glowering looks and bulging biceps.

Parker’s grip as he’d shaken her
hand was sure, a little harder than most men shook hands nowadays. She loved a
man who wasn’t afraid he’d hurt a woman. She liked men who realized that a
woman was tougher than she looked, that he wasn’t going to break her. Well,
maybe not quite.

Ahem. Been reading too many of
those books.

An eighteen-wheeler rocketed past
in the oncoming lane, its turbulence buffeting her little Honda.

“Dammit.” She grabbed the steering
wheel with both hands, keeping the car from going squirrelly on her. She’d been
daydreaming, and the highway was not the best place to be doing that unless you
were planning on becoming a hood ornament for a Peterbilt.

She’d moved to the Chelan area to
get away. Away from him. She’d needed something, anything new. She’d remembered
visited the area once right after college, and thought it breathtaking. The Chelan
— Stehekin ferry cutting through the mirrored surface of Lake Chelan. The
mountains rising sharply from either shore resembling the look of a Norwegian
fjord. Gorgeous.

There were practical reasons, too.
She worked as a realtor, but specialized in high-end properties. North central Washington was one of the few areas that seemed to have largely weathered the storm of the
housing collapse (those rich folks still loved their real estate). From the
awe-inspiring grandeur of the Methow valley, the untouched Cascades that
surrounded Winthrop, to the trendy (and very touristy) Leavenworth, the region
was still going strong — and managing to stay under the radar for the most
part. Staying under the radar suited her just fine.

So here she was.

Then he — they — had to be at that
house.

Ashley just wanted a quiet place to
retreat to. Somewhere she could go to peel off the realtor’s manufactured
confidence and charm. Somewhere she could go to cry, to sob out the jagged pain
and hurt. To just be … her. No complications. A place to recover and pick up
the pieces. To start over.

“Well, shit. That’s out the door.”

She didn’t realize her lips were
curved into the tiniest of smiles as she said it.

BOOK: What She's Looking For
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