Raw

I wanted to kill him, but first I would have to allow myself in his presence again.

Brian Hughes had turned my life upside down in the short span of three weeks. I had believed him when he'd said our botched sexual relationship wouldn't affect his exclusive interview with my nom de plume, Drake Alexander. That he'd already submitted his article before picking me up that pivotal Saturday afternoon. But printed words did not lie.

The problem? I hadn't read them yet. I didn't have the guts. I just assumed the worst.

"Becca, take a deep breath. And another..." Malcolm's voice was soft in my ear, but it was far from calm. He struggled to keep control, evidenced by the tightening of his hands on my shoulders as he attempted to relax me.

It seemed odd to me that Malcolm—someone I'd only met twenty-one days ago—would be as tense as I was about what had been published. I mean, this was about me, my life, not his. If Brian had gone back on his word—his non-disclosure agreement about revealing my identity or even the fact that Drake Alexander was female—Malcolm wouldn't be affected. I, on the other hand, risked a raid from the paparazzi and the sudden scrutiny of every critic within the city of Chicago, not to mention the rest of the country.

"Becca. Relax your shoulders, dammit."

"Malcolm, I don't think a massage is going to solve—"

"It will if you let it. Getting anxious about what you don't know is definitely not going to help. You need a clear head."

I tried to stand up, but he held me to the chair at the kitchen island. "Leave me alone, and give me the damn phone."

"No."

"I'm not calling him, I'm calling Sue. I can't read it. She can tell me the truth. At least if it's bad or good."

"The answer is still no."

"Take your hands off me, Malcolm!"

"No. You are not yourself. Sit. Relax."

"Dammit! I don't want to relax!" I tried once more to stand. This time, he let me, but I gasped as he gripped my hand and tugged me towards the stairs leading up to his room.

I closed my eyes. As much as I struggled to grasp how close we'd become in such a short time, I couldn't imagine myself without him. If it weren't for Malcolm's presence in my life right now, I probably would have thought I was having a bad dream. I had grabbed my mail from the office on Friday after work and headed to Malcolm's house in Wheaton for the weekend. We'd spent most of the time in the basement on the solitary ladder-backed chair practicing how not to top from the bottom, or up in the bedroom having sex—both in and out of scenes—breaking only for food and sleep every few hours.

It wasn't until Sunday morning when I'd figured out how to check my voicemail on my new iPhone—too much confusing technology in one little glass box if you asked me—that I'd discovered the disaster that plagued me now. Sue, my agent and editor, was having a panic attack by the sound of her unusually rushed and high-pitched voice:

"Have you read the article? Call me as soon as you get this. I mean it!"

I had proceeded to dump my duffle bag out on the kitchen table to sift through the contents for the rubber-banded stack of mail. The "Lit Wild" magazine was sealed in a clear, plastic bag between a flyer from Target and an ad from a writing school on how to become a successful writer. I'd snorted at the latter and ripped open the bag.

But I hadn't gotten any further than staring at the front cover. One of the promos was titled, "The truth about the enigmatic author behind the Dex Knightly Mysteries."

Malcolm had stood back, not asking any questions despite not knowing what was going on. I'd shoved the unopened magazine across the counter and slowly stood to stare out the window. My brain had rushed in a million different directions like a computer circuit board on full capacity. Did I want to read the article? What if it had my real name listed? No one had my new cell number yet, and no one knew my landline number or home address, but that wouldn't stop people from trying to find out...or camping out at the office. Should I set up a press conference to come out to my readers?

I guess he'd tried to talk to me for five minutes, but I kept brushing his hand away. I couldn't think straight when he was touching me. He was all I could think about; what he was doing with his hands, what I wanted him to do with other body parts. I didn't want him distracting me. But he'd been insistent and eventually led me back to my chair at the counter where he proceeded to massage my shoulders.

But now? Now we were upstairs and he was pulling my clothes off me faster than I'd ever seen. That was saying a lot since Friday night had left a trail of clothes from the front door all the way up the stairs in less than a minute. We'd been separated a week, and our hormone levels had spiked the moment we'd seen each other. This was all moving so fast, and yet it seemed so natural, too.

He remained clothed now, though. Without a word, he dragged me through the long shadowy room to the dresser and removed something from a drawer. He sat down on the edge of the mattress, pulling me with him, and promptly laid me face-first across his left knee. His right leg closed over the back of my calves, and his left arm leaned on my upper back, both pinning me in place. I could feel his chest moving rapidly against my side as he breathed.

I wiggled, trying to get loose. It didn't work. "Malcolm?"

"Say the safe word when you can't take any more."

My body went rigid. I trusted him, but for a moment...

"Start counting."

"Why?"

Something hard that wasn't his hand smacked my left butt cheek. I screeched and flinched.

"Shit, Malcolm! Can't we talk about this?"

"You had your chance to talk before. Count, Lady Becca. No other words, unless you want me to stop."

Something had irked him. I had not seen this side of him, and I wasn't sure if I liked it. The title he'd chosen to call me told me he had moved into a scene. He was in his element. He was—

"I'm waiting, Lady Becca."

I gulped. "One."

After ten more smacks on both butt cheeks with what I figured must be the back of a hairbrush—and me cringing and counting after each one—he spoke again.

"I was not trying to be mean." His breathing was slower now. In time with his spanking. "You needed to calm down. To think rationally."

"Fifteen." My ass stung. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth. I had to grip the sheets tighter and tighter with each new swat. I would hold out as long as I could. He'd spanked me one day last week. I'd only been able to take his hand, and I hadn't been able to sit for an hour afterwards. This time seemed different, though. As if it was a punishment.

"It was for your own good," he said. "You need to trust me on that, too. Not just in the bedroom or in a scene."

"Twenty." Tears streaked my cheeks now. "Twenty-one."

"I care for you, Lady Becca. More than just as a sexual, kinky partner. I hope you know that."

I let out a strangled cry as he laid another smack across my raw ass. I had hoped, but I hadn't wanted to assume he felt the same as I did. I tried to sit up to look at him, but I screamed as he hit me even harder.

He tightened his hold on me, ceasing my wiggling. "Keep counting."

"Um...twenty-two."

"I'm serious. I didn't have any expectations going into this."

"Twenty-three."

"Your brother asked me to help. He's a good, close friend. It was the least I could do. I was okay with us parting ways after that week of training. But after you'd left? I felt something was missing. And when Drake called me to say you needed backup for that meeting? That he trusted me enough to take his place? I didn't even hesitate. I know what it is now. You've gotten under my skin. In the best possible way, though. I want you. I need you. I have this unexplainable desire to protect you."

I buried my head in the sheet, our combined scent from our earlier lovemaking infiltrating my head. My chest felt tight. My ass burned from his attempt to relax and punish me at the same time. I could feel the fiery tingle. I didn't want to imagine what it looked like. I'd seen pictures online. The bruising some girls had as a result scared me a little.

"I know we rushed into this. I'm sorry if I'm pushing you too fast. It's just I've never felt like this before with a partner. It's all new for me. To want more than just to train you."

"Twenty-four." If I wasn't imagining it, he suddenly wasn't hitting as hard. "Twenty-five."

"I know you're confused, possibly mad at that man. I'm not sure I understand the situation, but I want you to explain it to me when you're ready."

"Twenty-eight." Oh! That was his hand now. It wasn't as firm, and it was warm.

"I need you to trust me, Lady Becca. Can you do that? Will you do that?"

"Thirty." It came out as a sob, because of his words and because his hand rested on my ass now after the last spank, gently rubbing.

"You can answer."

I gasped for breath as his hand slowly slid down and brushed against the inside of my thigh. On the outside of my thigh, I felt his arousal press against his jeans. "Yes, Sir Malcolm. I want to trust you."

"Am I moving too fast?" His fingers stroked up the crack of my ass, and for once, I did not flinch as he moved over the one area I forbade him to touch. Instead, I moaned.

"May I speak freely?"

"Of course." He stroked again, moving a little further down where I knew I was swollen and wet, and a shudder swept through my body as I stifled a moan against my arm.

He had accomplished his goal: he'd calmed me down. I was no longer as edgy, but a new frustration was setting in. And that would not do.

"I agree, we've moved quite quickly into this relationship. But I'm not complaining." I paused to swallow heavily. Then I heard some sort of sound that was a mix between a moan and a cry when his fingers played at my clit. Oh my! I was making that noise! "Except at the moment, Sir, you're not moving fast enough."

His hand stilled, and I heard his sharp intake of breath. I held my own breath, waiting for the smack of his hand or the hairbrush for being so bold.

Suddenly, he released me so I was laying flat on my stomach, my legs dangling off the side of the mattress. He gripped my hips, yanking me back and up so my knees were on the bed now. I resisted the urge to glance back as I heard the soft clank as he unbuckled his belt; the metallic scrape as he lowered his zipper; and the soft swish and plop as his jeans fell the floor.

His cock pressed at my entrance. He paused for just a moment before he penetrated in a hard thrust. I bit my lip to silence my scream and tasted blood. His fingers wrapped around my wrists, pulling my arms behind my back. He adjusted to hold both wrists in one large hand, and then he gripped my hair.

"Is that better, Lady Becca?" His voice was a deep growl in my ear.

"Oh, God, yes!" I cringed as he pumped his hips once against my ass. Then I screamed at the sudden jolt of pain as his belly rubbed against my overly-sensitized buttocks.

His cock jerked deep inside of me. It felt so good, and the pain receded as he stroked twice, slower, more gently. I moaned, long and deep, relaxing beneath him.

"Good girl."

He said no more, but he was far from silent. His groans combined with my cries. He sped up, hitting hard and deep, and despite the lingering uncomfortable feeling in my nether region, I was enjoying the moment. It was a much-needed respite from what had thrown our morning into a whirlwind.

I concentrated on breathing. On feeling him move inside of me. On his grip on my hands and hair, the latter which he pulled occasionally. I closed my eyes and rode the gentle waves of an orgasm, wishing for more but thankful I'd received something.

Eventually, he withdrew, and I felt the hot stream of his ejaculation on my lower back. He released my hands but not my hair, reached around with his free hand, and proceeded to stroke me—inside and out—with his fingers. I came hard, screaming his name.

I lay still for several minutes, my knees pulled up under me now, my face buried in my arms and the sheets. Malcolm disappeared but returned a moment later with a warm washcloth and cleaned my back. Then he turned me onto my side and climbed into bed behind me, pulling the covers over us.

"Sleep, Lady Becca." Malcolm's warm breath brushed my neck as he planted a kiss there. "We can talk more when you wake."

I mumbled something and snuggled back against him, flinching when his softening cock touched my tender ass. Then I slipped into a dreamless sleep.

###

"Read it to me."

I raised my eyebrows and stared at Malcolm over my glass of wine Sunday evening as we lounged in the Star Wars den. "Is that a question or a command?"

"Will you please read the article to me?"

I hesitated, merely because I didn't really want to ruin the tranquil mood that had set in since this morning's session.

I'd slept most of the afternoon, which had partly to do with my own exhaustion and partly because a thunderstorm had rolled in while he, Master Malcolm, was making me, Lady Becca, relax. The day had been useless outside of bed after that. Now, I had a full belly from take out Thai food, and I didn't want to think about my real life I had to go back to tomorrow. I needed to start cranking out a couple of chapters of my new book before Sue wrote me off as a has-been author. And bringing up the sore subject of the interview and the resulting article just reminded me of what was waiting for me outside this house. Not to mention the fact that I had yet to read said article.

But I obliged and went to retrieve the magazine that had been forgotten in the kitchen. When I returned and sat down again, I clutched it to my chest. "Are you sure about this?"

Malcolm stared at me, his eyes warm and his smile soft. Both were comforting, although they did little to ease the tension in my shoulders now. "I'm serious. Or don't you want me to read it? I can leave you alone to read it first, if you want."

"It's not that..."

"I want to be here for you. To support you. But I can't help you if you don't trust me."

"I do trust you. And I do want you here. But what if it's, you know, bad?"

"Becca, sweetie, surely you've had negative reviews before. You've been a best-selling author for over a decade. Not everyone is going to like your books. He's just a critic."

I frowned. "Not anymore."

"Just read it to me."

"Fine."

I checked the table of contents then flipped through the glossy pages of adult-themed advertisements and articles to page forty-two. I snorted softly. Apparently I wasn't that important or popular to be bestowed a location near the front of the magazine. Would there be a metaphorical knife buried just as deeply in my back from his words?

***** His words have the ability to create a mental picture of the epitome of Mr. Tall-Dark-And-Handsome. To make you feel like you are there beside his characters, experiencing every word, every action. To have you reliving scenes in your head long after the last page has been turned.

Who is this magician who has invaded the cars, bedrooms, and locked bathrooms of women across the country without actually stepping foot inside? He is of course Drake Alexander, author of the seven best-selling novels in the "Dex Knightly Mysteries" series. While his stories aren't on the scale of the widely popular "Fifty Shades" trilogy that has infected the minds of more adult women than teenage girls who have swooned over Edward and Jacob in the "Twilight" saga, Mr. Alexander has carved his own niche into the world of erotic literature while still remaining on the safe side of mainstream writing.

Dex Knightly may be every woman's dream come true, but ladies, hold onto to your corsets, handcuffs, and whips: Drake Alexander is far from who you might imagine him to be.

He is most definitely not a superhuman savior for damsels in distress. Your Dashing Drake is anything but. In fact, I would say he is more...strikingly beautiful. Which, yes, is an odd choice to describe a man. But that is because is he no mere man. In fact, you may have passed him on the street, sat beside him in a restaurant, or stood behind him in line for coffee yesterday morning and never known it.

Some may say that's quite brash for me to say in a magazine such as this where we review and discuss every kinky book known to the underground and even to those vanilla wannabe folks above. Every fictional manuscript—whether a short story or a novel—is full of exaggerated characters and storylines. But what does one do when it is the author who is just as fictional as his hero is?

I have had the exclusive privilege of meeting and interviewing the author behind the illustrious "Dex Knightly Mysteries." If I had to describe him in one word? Enigmatic. As if he was ripped right out of the pages of one of Mr. Knightly's escapades. He is one of those clients with a private past who remains in the shadows for the duration of the novel, never quite revealing his identity and yet never drawing attention to himself.

Fluent in writing style and creative in thought process, Drake Alexander embodies what a successful author should be. He ceases to amaze his readers, as the best-seller lists continue to prove. But do we ever really know our favorite authors? Don't we just assume the picture on the jacket is the true representation of the genius mind cranking out pages upon pages of words that instill excitement, fear, hope, desperation, lust, and a hunger for more in each reader?

Just as covert as his protagonist—depicted as a faceless silhouette in a leather jacket, fedora, and sunglasses on the front cover—Drake Alexander fails to provide an actual picture of himself on the back of his books. Instead, we are treated to an equally elusive side-profile of a shadowy figure in a high-back chair by a blazing fire holding a book. A picture that —regardless of what he looks like—imparts the desire to, "Come sit with me. I'll tell you a story."

No, Drake Alexander does not actually exist. He is in fact, the alter ego of another widely known author. Whom that author is, I am not at liberty to say as I've been sworn to secrecy. But not knowing the truth can be just as arousing as that first experience with a new toy or the first step into the world of BDSM with a trusted partner. The lack of knowledge can be quite the aphrodisiac.

It is my pleasure to share with you my question and answer session with Drake Alexander. Quite possibly, it will only make you more curious about his identity. Hopefully, though, you will be enlightened and will thoroughly enjoy the brief but profound journey into the mind of a writer I can only be left in awe of and give my highest praise to. *****

I admit it; I got choked up a couple of times while reading. When I was done, I heard Malcolm let out a long, deep breath. Yeah. That had not been what I'd been expecting, either. I'd been prepared for Brian to have outted me to the public...and to have to call my lawyer to sue for breach of contract.

I was pleasantly surprised. The fan mail would be flowing again soon, and I'd have to figure out if and how to answer it. I half wondered if Brian had contacted Sue to try to reach me for a comment.

"Becca?" Malcolm's hand on mine made me look up.

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

I lowered the magazine and closed my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch. "Yes."

"But?"

"There is no 'but.' I'm fine."

"Trust me. I may have only known you for three weeks, but I can tell when you're hesitating. I'm attuned to you. It's my nature as a Dom, but with you it's even stronger. I can't explain it. But I know there's something you're not saying."

I felt a shiver slither up my back. I had noticed the same thing the last few days, especially when we weren't in a scene. A little touch here, a simple word there. We clicked as I never had with another guy.