Tuesday Teaser: A Peek at a Work in Progress (WIP)

Author Krystal Shannan posted a wonderful snippet of a WIP on her blog today (her Tuesday Teaser) and she invited me to do the same. I liked the idea and I love sharing snippets of stories with other authors, so I guess sharing them with readers would be just as fun. It doesn't mean those snippets will actually be in the final version of the books, but I'd love to hear what readers think of the short scenes.

So, here's my first snippet (I'll try to keep this up as long as I have snippets. LOL) from Rogue Master (Diablo Blanco Club #4).

“You’re not supposed to be here, Boo.”

The soft voice whispered over Becka Swinfield’s shoulder. Tension zipped along every nerve, stilling the hand that held her drink half way to her lips. The need to lift her gaze to the broad mirror mounted behind the bar was difficult to deny, but she’d worked long and hard to keep her attraction to this man hidden behind a mask of disdain. As long as he didn’t see her eyes before she got a handle on her emotions, her secrets were safe. She knew exactly what he expected of her and, as much as she disliked suppressing the wants and desires thoughts of his mastery stirred, Becka played her role superbly.

Back stiff and shoulders straight, she drew a slow breath. She didn’t doubt Richard Bennett would do everything in his power to make her leave. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been warned. That meant she had to do everything in her power to fight the compulsion to give into his persuasion. When she turned to look up at the man behind her, adrenalin flooded her system. Every muscle twitched in preparation for flight and her heart thudded against her ribs.

The cold gray glare wasn’t foreign to her; she’d simply never been the recipient of it before. The normally open and friendly expression was absent, replaced with a harsher aspect and lean, angular lines. The neatly styled brown curls she’d dreamt of running her fingers through for the last ten years were gone, brutally shorn into a buzz-cut and dyed a golden blond. Even his eyebrows were shades lighter than she remembered. A long, slow look allowed her to catalogue the black leather pants, biker boots, and snug red tee-shirt he wore. She’d known he was in good shape, but somehow, in the six months he’d been away from San Diablo, any softness had disappeared. His shoulders seemed to have grown broader, his chest and abdomen more sculpted, and his arms, crossed menacingly over that massive chest, were thickly layered with muscle.

In the past, she’d never doubted his abilities as a Dominant, only studiously avoided giving in to the urge to kneel in submission before him. Becka couldn’t be sure of herself now. The quiver building deep in her belly warned her that the option to decide wasn’t going to be available to her much longer. Despite her unease, she ignored the aura of power emanating from his body and tilted her chin up. She forced her hand to lift the drink to her lips then sipped the fruity cocktail, all the while holding Richard’s furious gaze and squeezing her thighs tightly closed to temper the ache building between them. When she was sure her voice wouldn’t crack or her knees quake more than they were, she answered, “I’m on vacation.”

Heat crackled in his eyes as he took in the low-heeled pumps, staid white blouse, and knee-length tweed skirt she wore. The warmth never reached his voice as he ordered icily, “Leave.”

After another restorative sip on her drink Becka shook her head. “No.”

She didn’t need his appraisal to realize she was far too overdressed for the Dulce Oro, but she hadn’t expected to run into Richard here. Now. Not at one in the afternoon. She’d never known him to enter the Diablo Blanco Club before six or seven in the evening — after he finished work.

When she’d concocted her plan, an afternoon visit to the exclusive Mexican BDSM club hadn’t factored in. At least not before she’d found a shop and did a little adjusting to her wardrobe. Impulse had driven her to slip in and check the place out. To meet the man she’d been told to contact in order to gain admittance to the club and access to a certain AWOL executive. The impulse was rapidly morphing into regret the longer she kept from looking at Richard and took in the clothing, or decided lack of clothing, worn by many of the people around her. It was too soon for her to reveal her secret. The more time she spent around the environs of the Dulce Oro the harder it would be to keep Richard from finding out how comfortable she truly was with Dominant/submissive lifestyles.

The fingers of her free hand crept up toward the necklace around her throat, but she stopped. Instead she nervously plucked at the top button of her blouse and swiveled her barstool back around to face the mirror. He was still there at her back, more visible now in the antique glass than when she’d looked directly at him. And much, much larger.

Richard didn’t move away. He crowded closer, his arms uncrossing, his hands settling onto the polished teak of the bar on either side of her, trapping her back against his chest. “You don’t want to play this game with me, little girl.” His breath stirred the hair that had slipped loose from her chignon and warmed the side of her neck. It took everything she had to remain still, to not flinch.

His gaze held hers in the mirror as he moved his mouth closer to her left ear. “You won’t like the consequences.”

Becka saw a flash of white teeth then felt a hard nip at her earlobe. A gasp slipped free, her body trembled, fire pooled in parts of her that had no business getting turned on by his threats, but she held her ground. “I’m not little. And I’m not a girl, Richard.”

In the reflection, she watched his attention drop to her breasts then with slow deliberation rise back to her face. Before he could respond, another man intruded, his large, brown hand falling companionably on Richard’s shoulder as he grinned at them in the mirror. Becka knew she should be relieved at the distraction, but she wasn’t. It soothed the silly, romantic part of her that Richard looked annoyed at the intrusion.

Cat green eyes glittered with amusement in a handsome face of obvious Hispanic descent. The Brooks Brothers suit Dante Salvador Cruz wore looked as if it had been tailored to fit his lean frame while the black shirt matched the thin pin stripe of the charcoal suit. “Ahh, there you are, Ricardo. I have been looking for you.” The heavy Spanish accent held a hint of refinement Becka hadn’t heard in the voices of the locals when she’d arrived earlier that afternoon.

Richard shrugged the man’s hand off. “I’m occupied, Cruz.”

The jovial expression disappeared as the other man’s gaze held Richard’s in the mirror. Both men appeared equal in height — nearly four inches over six feet, and though Richard’s muscular build seemed to dwarf the other man, Dante didn’t hesitate to warn Richard away. “Not with this one, mi amigo.”

The temperature in the room dropped at least twenty degrees as Richard stiffened against her and slowly turned his head to face the newcomer. “No collar means she’s free for the taking. Isn’t that your rule?”

Dante grinned, but the amusement never entered his eyes. “Special circumstances means special rules.” He reached around Richard’s arm and took Becka’s hand. “Come, mija, I am sorry I had to leave you for so long, but —”

Richard’s arm barred her escape for a moment before he dropped it and stepped back. She slid off the barstool and allowed the other man to lead her away. They hadn’t gone more than two steps when Richard’s voice stilled them.

Soft, but lethal, his words didn’t reach beyond the three of them. “Dante, friend or not, you fuck her and you’re a dead man. Comprendé?”