New York Times bestselling author Jasinda Wilder presents the second darkly seductive novel starring the mysterious Madame X.
Everything Madame X has ever known is contained within the four walls of the penthouse owned by her lover, her keeper, the man who controls her every move and dominates her desires. While Caleb owns her body, someone else has touched her soul. X’s awakening at the hands of Logan’s raw, honest masculinity has led her down a new path, one that is as exciting as it is terrifying.
But Caleb’s need to own her completely knows no bounds, and he isn’t about to let her go. Not without a fight that could destroy them all…
I am naked; you are clothed.
The way it always is, it seems. Do you keep me naked merely because you enjoy the sight of my nude body? Or is it another form of control, of manipulation? A way of keeping me contained, keeping me captive? Some of both, I think. When I am naked—which is often, now that I live with you in your cavernous tower-top home—your eyes flit and float to me, rake over me, absorb my dusky flesh and athletic curves. Your eyes are always on me, even when you are working. Your eyes move from your laptop to me, pause on the elegant column of my throat, slip and slide down to the valley between my heavy breasts, to the flat plain of my belly, the juncture between my thighs, and then you, somewhat reluctantly, it sometimes seems, force your gaze back to your work.
Life with Caleb Indigo: a concerto of keyboard keys clicking and clacking, an overture of gazes and glances. You are always working. Always. I wake at midnight in the morning to the sound of your phone ringing—your ringer is a plain, old-fashioned bleating of a rotary-style phone—and you answer it with a curt “Indigo,” and you listen carefully, intently, and then respond in as few syllables as possible, end the call, toss the phone onto the nightstand close to hand, and tug me roughly up against your chest. Four a.m.: you jab your legs into slacks, shrug into a button-down, fingers nimble on the buttons, announce that you have business to see to, and then you do not return till three in the morning or four or even six, when you appear looking haggard and unshaven with dark circles under your eyes. But then, I, anticipating your return, am awake. And you know this.
And you stand at my side of the bed, staring down at me, waiting. I roll over, gaze up at you. Slowly, you divest yourself of your clothing. Your gaze will not leave me, and perhaps you slide the flat sheet away to bare my form. I cannot help but notice the way the zipper of your slacks tents and tautens as you gaze at me. And I am, in that moment, flushed with desire.
I cannot help it.
And I do try. Just to see if I have found some new source of self-control where you are concerned.
But the result is always the same: I see you, watch you peel the shirt off, unbutton it quickly, swing your arms back to pinch your shoulder blades together, and the shirt falls away. Your torso is bare, magnificent, a sculpture of tanned, muscled perfection. My throat will tighten and I am compelled to swallow again and again, as if I could swallow down my need for you. And then my gaze will rake down your furrowed eight-pack abdomen to your groin, to your bulging zipper, and my thighs clench around the gush of heated need. My breath comes in panting gasps.
I don’t need to say anything.
You unhook the clasp of your trousers, pinch the zipper tab in your big thumb and long forefinger, slowly draw it down. Free your erection. It will sway in front of my face, tall and hard and perfect.
And I am undone.
Any will I possess is eradicated.
Your hands will be rough on my flesh, scraping, teasing, possessing. And I will revel in that roughness, in the clutch of hard hands on my buttocks, tugging me to the end of the bed and holding me aloft as you plunge into me, eliciting a whimper.
And I will come apart for you, watching the tendons in your neck pulse and tighten, watching your abdomen flex, watching your hips drive, watching your biceps ripple as you keep me held effortlessly where you want me.
And you will come, too, but never quickly. Never until I have reached my own climax. And sometimes not until I have reached it twice. If I do not find that release with the driving and thrust of your body, you press that big thumb to my clitoris and force me to it with gentle, skillful, insistent circles as if you somehow just know precisely how to pleasure me.
When you do find your own release, it is quiet, an intense groan, perhaps a bead of sweat trickling down your temple, as if even your sweat obeys the rule of artfulness that seems to dictate your existence.
And then, done with me, you will brush a thumb over my temple, sweep flyaway locks of raven-black hair aside, grant me a moment of eye contact, a moment of personal connection. Just a moment, only a fragment of time. But something, at least. As if you know I need those moments to continue this . . . game.
This faux-domestic relationship.
Without those moments of intimacy granted in that postcoital gaze, I would combust. Detonate.
And even with them, I am discontent. Disturbed.
You know it.
I know it.
But we do not speak of it. I try, and you brush it aside, sweep the conversation away like so much dust from a corner. Answer a phone call, claim to have a meeting to scurry off to, an e-mail to answer, a deal to broker.
Ok, so I went into this one knowing that it would end on a cliffy… I mean, it’s the second book in a trilogy for fuck sake… but I’m still reeling from it! Damn it Jasinda! I want more! I need more! I grieve for X, I pine for Logan, and I plot for Caleb’s demise. This story is unusual and profound. You won’t want to miss it!
At the end of the first installment, Madame X, I have to admit I still kind of had hope for Caleb. I wanted to see him become the man I knew he could be. He teetered on the brink of evil, but always seemed to redeem himself at every turn. I’m not so sure he’s redeemable anymore. He has fallen down too many times to get back to where he needs to be. I guess anyone can change, but at this point, in my heart Caleb is dead to me! DEAD I TELL YOU!!!
Logan is still a breath of fresh air. He seems genuine and kind at the moment, but we all know shit can get pretty hairy in just the matter of a chapter or two. So far so good though. I know he means well where X is concerned, but sometimes I think he may be laying it on a little thick at times. I, myself would have been awfully overwhelmed by his presence and his need to fix everything. He does still make me swoon though!
X is still finding things out about herself. Good things, shocking things, and things she can’t explain. Caleb is still a lying sack of shit when it comes to what really happened to her and Logan seems to be an open book divulging anything and everything he can get his hands on that pertains to her. Now that she’s knows one of the most basic things about herself, she wants to transform to that person she now knows and not be X anymore. Who can blame her? My heart still breaks for her and I can’t wait to read the last installment, Exiled so that maybe reading her parts will make my heart sore instead of wilt.
It’s a well written book. The dialogue flows perfectly and the storyline is wonderful. The characters, good or bad were exceedingly powerful and kept me on the edge of my seat though most of it. From cover to cover you’ll be offered tons of excitement, loads of angst, and some of the longest sex scenes I think you’ll ever read. Oh. So. Hot. I loved it with my whole heart and can’t wait to see how this all plays out. Bravo Jasinda. You rocked it!
ARC Provided by publisher and Author for an honest review
READING ORDER – Exiled coming 8.2.2016
About the author:
Jasinda Wilder is a New York Times, USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and international bestselling author. She is a Michigan native and currently lives there with her family. Visit her official website at jasindawilder.com.