Marriage Games
by CD Reiss
by CD Reiss
Series: Games # 1
Release Date: October 25th
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: October 25th
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Praise for Marriage Games:
"Marriage Games is
a gorgeously intense story! Adam is my favorite kind of dominant...he lives and
breathes absolute control." — Annabel Joseph, NYT Bestselling Author
Synopsis
THIRTY DAYS
That’s all Adam Steinbeck demands of
his wife.
Thirty days in a remote cottage,
doing everything he demands. After that, he’ll sign her divorce papers and give
her complete ownership of their company.
THIRTY DAYS
That’s how long he has to rediscover
the man he once was. The Dominant Master he hid when he fell in love with her
five years ago.
THIRTY DAYS
She wants the business they built
badly enough to go to the cottage for a month. Cut off ties to the world and do
his bidding. She can submit to him with her body, but her heart will never
yield.
She thinks this is his pathetic
attempt to repair their marriage.
She’s wrong.
Excerpt
“Pull
your skirt up.” I said it without acknowledging the possibility that she’d
disobey. It felt good to use those words and that tone. To watch her eyes go to
the floor.
“Trust
me.” I said it so low she was just within range to hear it. “Five minutes. Then
we don’t have to fight over the car.”
I stepped
back and set my watch with a beep. It wasn’t about the car for her. The Jag was
the least of her worries, but it was a tangible justification.
For the
downcast eyes. For the way her breathing changed. Maybe every bone in her body
was vanilla. Maybe not.
“Quit any
time,” I said. “Just say the word.”
She laid
her hands on her hips.
Curled
her fingers.
Gripped
fabric.
Pulled up
her skirt.
The tops
of her thighs came into view then met at the crotch. I was hard already and
made no move to hide it. She noticed and stopped moving the skirt.
“Higher,”
I said as if telling her how to center a picture over the couch. Higher was
where it had to be. It wasn’t a request.
Up it
went, revealing cotton underwear in a pink so pale they were almost white.
“Now what?”
she asked.
“How do
you feel?”
“Weird,
Adam. Really weird.”
“Why?”
“Because
I’m standing here with my skirt around my waist? Because you told me to? For a
car, no less, which is creepy.”
She was
so honest. I ached for her honesty.
“You’re
not obeying me for an object. You’re obeying me so I do something. Take an
action or don’t.”
“You
think that’s not weird?”
“No, I
don’t. And we have four minutes.” I stepped forward. Part of her discomfort was
in the physical distance between us. I’d stepped away so she didn’t feel
threatened, but my gaze was keeping her from relaxing. I kept my eyes on hers.
I could smell her perfume and feel the shortness of her breath. “Are you turned
on?”
“Sex
isn’t going to get me back. I’m sorry—”
“Touch
yourself.”
Her
initial shock and offense lasted only a second before she pressed her lips
together and reached down, shoulders angling, hand thrusting as if checking to
make sure her cunt was still there.
We have
hundreds of bones in our bodies, and sometimes we won’t acknowledge the
preferences of the ones that scare us.
“Are you
wet?”
“A
little.”
I gripped
the edge of the vanity and put my lips near her cheek, millimeters from
touching her.
“You
don’t love me anymore,” I whispered. “But I could always make you wet, and you
always came for me. Like our Italy vacation. In Florence. Coming back from that
club, in the little alley. Against the wall. I ripped through your underwear.”
Her
breathing got shallow and fast.
“I fucked
you in the dark, and when you came, you screamed my name so loud all the lights
in the apartments went on.”
“That was
good.” She turned her face toward mine.
When her
lips nearly touched me, I pulled away just enough. “I said I wouldn’t touch
you.”
“I
changed my mind.”
I wasn’t
fooled. Her arousal was talking. I owned her. She’d do whatever I told her. But
I wanted something very simple. I wanted her pleasure. “Take the juice from
your cunt and rub it on your clit. Make it wet.”
“Adam.”
“What?”
“What’s
come over you?”
“Do it.”
I felt her arm move against me. “Rub back and forth. Be consistent.
One-two-one-two.”
When I
felt that she had it, I stepped back. She stopped. Her knees were bent slightly
and her fingers had taken her cunt from the side of the crotch, not the
waistband. She never ceased to surprise me.
“One-two-one-two,
huntress.”
“Is this
your way of getting back at me?”
“One-two-one-two.
Let me see you come. You’re so beautiful when you come. You’ve gone this far.”
Her body
must have been able to override her mind, because she moved her finger again,
closing her eyes. Her cheeks reddened and her knees bent more deeply.
“In
Florence. An hour after we got to the hotel. I came so deep in you that night.
I fucked you from behind with your leg up on the dresser. I wanted to thrust my
whole body inside you. I loved you that much. And I gave up who I was. Last
night, at the club, I remembered what I was. I was a man who was obeyed. I
dominated women, and they submitted to me. The result was what you’re about to
feel. Complete pleasure.”
She let
out a long, low groan, leaning on the vanity, twisting. I could have fucked her
right then. I could have bent her over the counter and pounded her. But that
wasn’t the point. No. Watching her hand move under her clothes because I
commanded it. That was the point.
An uh escaped her throat. Years of marriage
had taught me that meant she was about to come.
My watch
beeped.
“Time’s
up,” I said.
Her eyes
went wide. Her hand stopped.
“Thank
you,” I said. “We’re done. I’ll send you the title to the car. You might want
to pull your skirt down, since I can’t lock the door from the outside.”
It was
hard to walk away from her panting, bent frame without tasting her cunt or even
seeing more of her reaction, but I turned the corner, unlocked the door, and
left the bathroom.
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About CD Reiss
CD Reiss is a USA Today and Amazon
bestseller. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the
fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you
call and she doesn't pick up, she's at the well, hauling buckets.
Born in New York City, she moved to
Hollywood, California to get her master's degree in screenwriting from USC. In
case you want to know, that went nowhere, but it did give her a big enough ego
to write novels.
Critics have dubbed the books
"poetic," "literary," and "hauntingly
atmospheric," which is flattering enough for her to put it in a bio, but
embarrassing enough for her not to tell her husband, or he might think she's
some sort of braggart who's too good to chop a cord of wood.
If you meet her in person, you should
call her Christine.
Stalk CD Here
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