Product Description
WARNING: Contains graphic language and explicit sex scenes (M/F, anal sex, mild bondage).
When she finds herself bound to a stranger's bed, former cat burglar Cleo Moran knows she should've stayed in retirement. However, the thought of ending the cursed dreams that plague her sleeping hours was simply too enticing to resist.
At first, Sasha Michaels wants only his captive's professional expertise and contacts to track down the man who crippled his sister. Then Cleo wakes up and, with words and action, stirs something much more primitive within him.
Cleo feels the strong pull too but knows better than to act upon it. Neither understanding nor willing to accept her resistance, Sasha attempts to bind Cleo to him with sexual ties. Their time together, however, is jeopardized by secrets on both sides and a common enemy who is escalating in violence.
LENGTH: Novella (31,000 words)
When she finds herself bound to a stranger's bed, former cat burglar Cleo Moran knows she should've stayed in retirement. However, the thought of ending the cursed dreams that plague her sleeping hours was simply too enticing to resist.
At first, Sasha Michaels wants only his captive's professional expertise and contacts to track down the man who crippled his sister. Then Cleo wakes up and, with words and action, stirs something much more primitive within him.
Cleo feels the strong pull too but knows better than to act upon it. Neither understanding nor willing to accept her resistance, Sasha attempts to bind Cleo to him with sexual ties. Their time together, however, is jeopardized by secrets on both sides and a common enemy who is escalating in violence.
EXCERPT
She liked bondage as much as the next girl.
Cleo, however, didn't think her current bound state was a prelude to more enjoyable things.
She yanked on the rope that secured her hands together and tethered them to something above her head. There was some give as the cloth-covered rope stretched, but not nearly enough. Stubbornness being a trait of all Moran women, she tried again. And again. And again.
A small noise of frustration escaped her throat.
Despite the dull, throbbing pain in her head, she decided more leverage was needed and twisted on the bed and sat up. And noticed the man seated in the armchair in the far corner of the room. He was immersed in the shadows that swathed the room so she saw nothing but a menacing outline blacker than the surrounding darkness. His silent regard felt like a thick blanket suffocating her senses.
Fear made her mouth go dry and her skin prickle with heat and sweat.
It was a full minute before she found her voice, a little hoarser than usual, but she lifted her chin to compensate. "Did you enjoy the show?"
No response. Not even so much as a muscle twitch. Her chest noticeably rose and fell with each shortened breath.
"Are the police on their way?"
More silence, and the lump in her throat grew.
"I need that statue more than you need another dust collector." She was babbling, knew it and couldn't stop herself. "It needs to be returned to its rightful home."
The silence continued and agitation flickered through her, slicing past the fear.
"Look, I tried the legal route, but you flatly refused all of my offers. I had no other choice."
A whisper of cloth on leather. He'd moved. Finally. She was beginning to think he was a statue himself. Then he rose, an imposing shadow that made her very aware of the pulse thrumming in her throat. He came toward the bed, stopping at the foot, and moonlight, stark and chilly, spilled over him.
He'd never be labeled handsome, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. Formidable frame, dark hair, deep-set eyes, broad face with rough-hewn features that looked as if they'd been carved of the same stone as the statue. Unlike the statue, his face was mask-like with its lack of expression. It took a concerted effort to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to cower against the headboard.
"Cleo Moran."
Expand "See all Editorial Reviews" or go to annbruce.net/books/DarkSideOfDreaming.php for complete excerpt.
She liked bondage as much as the next girl.
Cleo, however, didn't think her current bound state was a prelude to more enjoyable things.
She yanked on the rope that secured her hands together and tethered them to something above her head. There was some give as the cloth-covered rope stretched, but not nearly enough. Stubbornness being a trait of all Moran women, she tried again. And again. And again.
A small noise of frustration escaped her throat.
Despite the dull, throbbing pain in her head, she decided more leverage was needed and twisted on the bed and sat up. And noticed the man seated in the armchair in the far corner of the room. He was immersed in the shadows that swathed the room so she saw nothing but a menacing outline blacker than the surrounding darkness. His silent regard felt like a thick blanket suffocating her senses.
Fear made her mouth go dry and her skin prickle with heat and sweat.
It was a full minute before she found her voice, a little hoarser than usual, but she lifted her chin to compensate. "Did you enjoy the show?"
No response. Not even so much as a muscle twitch. Her chest noticeably rose and fell with each shortened breath.
"Are the police on their way?"
More silence, and the lump in her throat grew.
"I need that statue more than you need another dust collector." She was babbling, knew it and couldn't stop herself. "It needs to be returned to its rightful home."
The silence continued and agitation flickered through her, slicing past the fear.
"Look, I tried the legal route, but you flatly refused all of my offers. I had no other choice."
A whisper of cloth on leather. He'd moved. Finally. She was beginning to think he was a statue himself. Then he rose, an imposing shadow that made her very aware of the pulse thrumming in her throat. He came toward the bed, stopping at the foot, and moonlight, stark and chilly, spilled over him.
He'd never be labeled handsome, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. Formidable frame, dark hair, deep-set eyes, broad face with rough-hewn features that looked as if they'd been carved of the same stone as the statue. Unlike the statue, his face was mask-like with its lack of expression. It took a concerted effort to ignore the tiny voice that urged her to cower against the headboard.
"Cleo Moran."
Expand "See all Editorial Reviews" or go to annbruce.net/books/DarkSideOfDreaming.php for complete excerpt.
