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Informationen zum Autor J. Kenner is the author of Release Me . She spent more than ten years as a litigator in Southern California and central Texas, using her rare free time to indulge in her passion of writing. She lives in Texas with her husband and daughters, where she is at work on her next novel, Complete Me . Klappentext NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From J. Kenner comes the second novel in the fast-paced trilogy that started with Release Me. This sexy, emotionally charged romance continues the story of Damien Stark, the powerful multimillionaire who's never had to take "no" for an answer, and Nikki Fairchild, the Southern belle who only says "yes" on her own terms. For Damien, our obsession is a game. For me, it is fiercely, blindingly, real. Damien Stark's need is palpable-his need for pleasure, his need for control, his need for me. Beautiful and brilliant yet tortured at his core, he is in every way my match. I have agreed to be his alone, and now I want him to be fully mine. I want us to possess each other beyond the sweetest edge of our ecstasy, into the deepest desires of our souls. To let the fire that burns between us consume us both. But there are dark places within Damien that not even our wildest passion can touch. I yearn to know his secrets, yearn for him to surrender to me as I have surrendered to him. But our troubled pasts will either bind us close . . . or shatter us completely. Claim Me is intended for mature audiences.1 “Almost done?” I ask. “The sun’s been down for at least five minutes.” Several yards away, Blaine tilts sideways, partially emerging from behind the canvas. I don’t move, but in my peripheral vision, I can see his shoulders, bald head, and shocking red goatee. “In my mind, you’re still bathed in light. Now stand still and be quiet.” “No problem,” I say, and hear his growl of irritation at my blatant flaunting of his rules. Despite the fact that I am standing naked in a doorway, our exchange seems perfectly normal. I am used to this now. Used to the way the chilled ocean breeze causes my nipples to peak. The way the sunset stirs something so deep and passionate in me that I long to close my eyes and abandon myself to the violent tapestry of light and color. I’ve become blasé about the way Blaine’s eye sweeps critically over me, and I no longer flinch when he leans in so close that he almost brushes my breast or my hip as he adjusts my stance to the proper angle. Even his murmurings of, “Perfect. Shit, Nikki, you look perfect,” no longer make my stomach tighten, and I’ve stopped imagining my hands closing into tight fists in protest, my nails digging into the soft skin of my palms. I am not perfect—not by a long shot. But it no longer makes me crazy to hear those simple words. Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that I could feel so at ease despite being so fully on display. True, I’d spent most of my life parading around on a stage, but during my pageant days I was always clothed, and even during the bathing suit competitions, my girl parts were modestly covered. I can imagine my mother’s mortification if she saw me now, chin lifted, back arched, a red silk cord binding my wrists behind me and then trailing between my legs to twine gently around one thigh. I have not seen Blaine’s canvas for days, but I know his style and I can imagine how I look captured in pigment and brushstrokes. Ephemeral. Sensual. Submissive. A goddess bound. No doubt about it—my mother would have a cow. I, however, am enjoying it. Hell, maybe that’s why I’m enjoying it. I’ve shaken off Proper Princess Nikki for Rebel Nikki, and it feels pretty damn good. I hear footsteps on the stairs, and I force myself to remain in my pose even though I want nothing more than to turn and look at him. Damien. Damien Stark is the one thing about which I’ve not b...
