Point of Submission (Point Series Book 1) Read online

  POINT OF SUBMISSION

  Book 1 of the Point Series

  by

  Remy Rose

  Copyright © 2017 by Remy Rose

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system) without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference with no implied endorsement.

  Cover art by Reese Inman of Bookmark Design (https://ebookcoverdesign.net)

  To my husband who read, listened, suggested, edited, supported, praised, formatted, and who was...let’s just say, there for me after I’d write a steamy sex scene.

  Although now that I think about it, maybe he should be thanking me...

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  chapter one ~ Cassandra

  chapter two ~ Carlo

  chapter three ~ Cassandra

  chapter four ~ Carlo

  chapter five ~ Cassandra

  chapter six ~ Carlo

  chapter seven ~ Cassandra

  chapter eight ~ Carlo

  chapter nine ~ Cassandra

  chapter ten ~ Carlo

  chapter eleven ~ Cassandra

  chapter twelve ~ Carlo

  chapter thirteen ~ Cassandra

  chapter fourteen ~ Carlo

  chapter fifteen ~ Cassandra

  chapter sixteen ~ Carlo

  chapter seventeen ~ Cassandra

  chapter eighteen ~ Carlo

  chapter nineteen ~ Cassandra

  chapter twenty ~ Carlo

  chapter twenty-one ~ Cassandra

  chapter twenty-two ~ Carlo

  chapter twenty-three ~ Cassandra

  chapter twenty-four ~ Carlo

  chapter twenty-five ~ Cassandra

  chapter twenty-six ~ Carlo

  chapter twenty-seven ~ Cassandra

  chapter twenty-eight ~ Carlo

  chapter twenty-nine ~ Cassandra

  chapter thirty ~ Carlo

  chapter thirty-one ~ Cassandra

  chapter thirty-two ~ Carlo

  chapter thirty-three ~ Cassandra

  chapter thirty-four ~ Carlo

  chapter thirty-five ~ Cassandra

  chapter thirty-six ~ Carlo

  chapter thirty-seven ~ Cassandra

  chapter thirty-eight ~ Carlo

  chapter thirty-nine ~ Cassandra

  Other Books by Remy Rose

  Acknowledgments

  Contact

  Prologue

  I pull the cloth ties snugly around her wrists and tie them to the bedposts. They’re soft and a little stretchy, but they’ll do the job. I contemplated tying her legs, too, but decided against it—better to see if she can keep them spread just from my command. More of a true test.

  She’s doing very well so far, even taking the blindfold without any hesitation. This is all unfamiliar territory for Natalie. Recently divorced, has only been with four men in her life, typically very vanilla sexually. Until now.

  I met Natalie three weeks ago at the gym. Unlike some of the women, she looked like she was there for the sole purpose of working out instead of putting herself on display—which is ironic, seeing as that was going to be my purpose for her.

  She was wearing a loose-fitting navy t-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants, her dark hair held back with a wide pink headband. No makeup—the only thing on her face was a quiet, determined expression. I liked her unassuming manner and the way she kept to herself. Definitely similar to me in that respect. I liked her eyes—unexpectedly blue, given her chocolate-brown hair.

  The night after I first noticed her, we came out of the gym at the same time, both of us unwrapping protein bars as we walked to the parking lot. When she dropped her keys, I picked them up and gave them to her, my fingers grazing her palm. I knew, then, from her reaction. Got her number, took her to dinner that weekend, and learned that she was a French teacher at a private high school.

  Also that she trembles when you lift up her hair and put your lips on the back of her neck.

  I went slow. It paid off, because now, she’s right where I hoped—right where I need her, in my bed, waiting for me to tell her what to do.

  I climb carefully on the bed, the mattress giving slightly under my weight. I’m wearing only black silk boxers—but I won’t be for long. My cock’s standing at attention, ready to take this initially hesitant woman, who’s giving hints that she’s as turned on as I am. Her chest is lifting and falling, the dusty-rose skin pebbled around her erect nipples.

  I want to touch her. Tongue her. Fuck her.

  “Spread your legs, sweetheart.”

  She obeys. Her legs are long, athletic, and I’m looking forward to having them wrapped around me.

  “I’m going to put my mouth on you for a bit before I fuck you. But I want you to keep completely still, unless I tell you to move.”

  —stay—

  “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “Good.”

  I take a few seconds to look at her, feeling a surge of arousal rushing to my cock. Seeing her blindfolded like this, knowing she’s nervous but turned on and willing to be submissive to me is an aphrodisiac like no other.

  I put my fingers gently between her legs, parting her swollen pink lips. Glancing up, I see that she’s curled her hands into fists, undoubtedly to help her stay still.

  “You’re so wet, Natalie. I’ve got to taste you.”

  Holding her pussy lips apart, I bend over her and lick the length of her slit, hesitating for a second on her clit. She’ll have a difficult time not moving, so I’ll go easy on her—although then again, most women find this a sweet torture they’ll gladly endure.

  She’s slippery—very ready for me. I slide off my boxers and straddle her, holding my hard shaft at her opening.

  “Beg me, Natalie. I want to hear you beg me.” This girl is reserved—not one to talk dirty, but I’ve gotten her to the point where she’ll do it.

  A slight hesitation, her lips drawing together beneath the blindfold, and then a whisper. “Please, Carlo.”

  I ease just the tip in. Christ, she’s so hot. “Please what?”

  “Please—please fuck me.”

  “Again. Louder. Say my name.”

  She complies. “Please...fuck me, Carlo.”

  I put my fingers on her nipples, pinching them gently as I jerk my hips forward, groaning as she arches her back and spreads her legs wider to take my cock.

  It’s hard for me to speak because I’m fucking her hard. “Wrap your legs around me,” I grunt. “Pull me in. Don’t make a sound until I say you can. And don’t come. Not until I tell you.”

  She’s digging her heels into my ass. I watch as she bites her lower lip, trying not to moan, holding back. The feeling is incomparable—a woman beneath me, waiting for my commands.

  I pound into her as color blooms on her chest, a delicate pink. She’s close, and I’m on the edge.

  Just before I explode inside her, I give her one last order, the one she’s been waiting for. “Come for me, Natalie. Come hard, and say my name.”

  “Carlo...oh, God, Carlo!”

  Her pussy is squeezing my cock as I give a few final thrusts, and as go
od as coming inside her feels, it is nothing, nothing compared to knowing that I have this woman right where I want her.

  Under me. Under my control, so that everything goes exactly as I want and exactly as I expect.

  And for a brief moment, I can make myself believe that it’s never been any other way.

  chapter one ~ Cassandra

  “Move over, big sexy, so I can take care of business.” I put my hand on his muscle-rippled flank and give a gentle push.

  He steps sideways in his stall, contentedly munching hay. Ohh, this boy...I pause to take in his beauty as I do about a hundred times a day. British Drummer, nicknamed Brownie, is a massive, sixteen-hand bay Warmblood gelding with a sweet disposition, a woefully-thin forelock and a major fondness for peppermints. Ingrid, the stable manager, isn’t into the horses getting treats (and definitely not by hand), but I pretty much ignore this and sneak them on occasion, especially now that Brownie’s on stall rest and bored out of his mind. He’s a comedian out of the ring—he likes to twist his huge head sideways and let his tongue hang out to get attention. But enter him in competition, and he’s a force to be reckoned with. I love both sides of him, the goofiness and the grace. I have crushes on all twenty horses here at Windswept Stable, but I’ve got to admit Brownie’s my secret favorite.

  I balance my pitchfork on top of the wheelbarrow as I head for the manure pile to dump. I always appreciate that Brownie is a neat stall keeper, which balances out the hot mess that is Rafsi in the next stall.

  I check my watch. 4:15. I agreed to cover the bring-in chore tonight for Sonya, the other barn hand, who’s yet again MIA. But since Sonya is Ingrid's stepsister, she's excused. At least I have the night off from waitressing and can pick up Sonya's slack. She's basically a good person, just kind of immature and flighty at times—always seems to be thinking about what she's going to say next rather than listening to you. And she’s not even really into horses.

  I'm finished the stalls and drag the hose along the concrete floor. Fill water buckets, get bales from the hay barn, bring in the horses, grain them, sweep...one side benefit of this job is definitely how it keeps you in shape. When I started three months ago, I'd been surprised by how sore my muscles were the first few nights. But I quickly got stronger and toned. It's honestly like getting paid to work out. And I much prefer exercise that's purposeful. I've never been a runner or a gym princess—one of those girls whose primary concern is how good her ass looks in Spandex. Totally not me. Give me a cool, cotton tank top, some well-worn, faded jeans and a pair of Dansko clogs bought used on eBay, and that's how I roll.

  Being vertically challenged at five feet three, I need to stand on my tiptoes to fill the buckets in the stalls. I flip the valve on the hose nozzle, leaning over the stall wall so the fine mist can kiss my face. It feels good. July in Pennsylvania is always hot, but this week has been super humid, even at night. I'm slicking the moisture over my cheeks and forehead when out of the corner of my eye, I see someone walking toward me, down the middle of the barn aisle.

  The late-day sunlight is blazing in from the open door at the end of the barn so the visitor is enveloped in a brilliant glow, and I have to narrow my eyes against the glare.

  It's a man. As he comes closer, I can see that he's attractive. Correction: very, very attractive. Perfectly tousled, thick black hair and a broad-shouldered build tapering to a fit waist. His clothes are completely inappropriate for a barn: a pristine white dress shirt, dark pants with a crisp seam and most likely tailored, expensive-looking, shiny shoes. A pair of aviator sunglasses hangs in the V at the top of his shirt.

  He's walking toward me with confidence and purpose and style. The words masculine elegance unexpectedly come to me as color rushes to my cheeks. I'm feeling a twinge of excitement edged with uneasiness as he approaches. Random men just don't visit Windswept, unless they're accompanied by a horse-crazy young daughter or seeking riding lessons for said daughter.

  This guy definitely does not look like a dad.

  I shift my attention to filling the pail, but I realize it would be rude not to at least acknowledge him, so I adjust the valve to slow the stream of water and turn toward him. He’s looking at the empty stalls with a serious, almost brooding expression. I'm not sure what this is all about.

  Anxiety bubbles up inside me with each step he takes. Don't be an idiot over some random guy, I chide myself. You should know better by now.

  I'm pretty convinced he's lost and in need of directions. When he's two stalls away, I speak in what I hope is a clear, strong voice. “Hello. Can I help you?”

  He stops. His expression seems to brighten, his lips parting slightly. He takes a few steps closer until he's standing just a few feet away.

  I can't help but draw in my breath. Oh, God. He has a beautiful mouth, a classic Grecian nose, smoky blue-gray eyes, and thick but neatly-trimmed black eyebrows. His face is very tanned, a major contrast to the crisp white shirt he's wearing. Even though I'm not usually a fan of facial hair, the shadow of a mustache and goatee gives him an aura that hints at rebellion—and it's really working for him.

  A slow, lazy grin plays with his lips. “What makes you think I need help?”

  How the hell am I supposed to answer that? I take my hands from the hose to quickly smooth the damp tendrils of hair away from my face. I’m suddenly feeling very awkward, sweaty and grubby. “It's just...we don't get many visitors here. It's a private stable.”

  “Is it?”

  Another question that throws me off balance. I'm contemplating how to respond when he speaks again.

  “You seem to be overflowing.”

  “What? Oh, shit—” I hastily flip the nozzle as water begins to splash on the stall floor, staining the wood shavings. I can feel my face burning as he takes a step closer. It occurs to me in the dark part of my mind that I should maybe consider this stranger a possible threat, and this realization sends fresh apprehension skittering up my spine.

  “My apologies for distracting you.”

  I'm noticing that his eyes are fringed with thick, dark lashes. It totally figures.

  “No apology necessary.” I pull the hose over to the next stall. “Are you looking for someone?”

  Another smile, this time broader. And with a dimple, which makes him look boyish and hot at the same time—a lethal combination. “Always.”

  Okay, so now I'm more irritated than apprehensive. So he's a player—that’s now totally obvious. No matter how hot he is, I don't have time for his games, or his cryptic responses. And the way he's staring at me...way too intense. I definitely don't need intense. I need to bring in the other horses, finish my chores, go home to shower and maybe meet Teal at Rudy's for a beer. She’d love hearing about this guy.

  He seems to sense my shift in attitude. “I haven't introduced myself. I'm Carlo Leone.”

  “Cassandra Larsen.”

  “You're most likely wondering what I'm doing here.”

  I find myself looking again at his mouth. It seems to have some sort of magnetic pull. Shrugging, I hastily switch my gaze to his eyes. Which are equally magnetic.

  “I'm actually wondering that myself. Frustrations at work, left early and found myself driving here on the way home. I used to ride when I was younger. Haven't been here in months, so I thought I'd stop in. Check things out.” He turns and walks down the aisle toward Brownie, who’s tossing his head in anticipation of receiving attention. “Is this one in time-out for bad behavior? Not playing well with others?”

  Witty as well as gorgeous. “He’s on stall rest. For a stone bruise. He should be running around the playground in a few more days.”

  “I see. Hanoverian?”

  And he knows horses. “Yes.”

  “Stallion?”

  “He'd like to think so.” I smile. “But he shoots blanks.”

  Brownie stretches out his neck, his nostrils flaring. I turn off the water, watching as Carlo Leone runs his hand down Brownie's white blaze. Suddenly, Brownie snorts, spr
aying Carlo's shirt with droplets.

  “God damn!” Carlo jumps back, and it's so hard not to laugh. Around horses, you just don't wear white, because it ends up becoming quickly not. Trying to hide my grin, I drop the hose and go into the stable bathroom for paper towels. When I return, I see Carlo standing at a safer distance from Brownie.

  “Here,” I say, handing him the paper towels. “I dampened one of them.”

  “Thanks.” His cool blue eyes linger on my mouth. Jesus.

  He dabs at his shirt, shaking his head in mock admonition. “I'm being nice to him, and this is what I get.”

  “It's nothing personal. He does it to me all the time.”

  “Occupational hazard, I suppose.”

  “Yes. One of many. But it's all worth it.”

  “You find this work rewarding?”

  “Very.” I feel myself bristle a little at his question. So many people, especially professional people like him in the white collar world, look down on barn employees. Even Ingrid does, which is really ironic, seeing as she's one of them.

  “What are you, Cassandra...nineteen? Twenty?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “So still at the age where you don't really like being told you look younger.” He grins, his dimple deepening. “You're in college?”

  “No. Used to be.” What the hell is this, twenty questions? Why is he so interested in my life? And why is he even here?

  He is studying me carefully, his eyes sweeping down the front of me, hesitating at my breasts, then back up to my mouth, my eyes, the top of my head. He crumples the paper towel and slides it in his pocket as he takes a step toward me.

  My heart begins to pound.

  “You have something in your hair.”

  I feel his fingers brush my cheek as he gently works them through the strands at the side of my face and brings forth a piece of hay. “Another occupational hazard. But you wear it well.”

  “I—um—thank you.” I'm feeling more and more like a total moron. Best to get back to doing chores. I pull the hose to the next stall, hoping Carlo Leone will get the hint that I’m busy and go along his way.