So I had the pleasure of reading an advance copy of Hold Me Down. This book is incredibly important to me personally, and I think also in a much wider way. I’m going to write an essay about it. I will tell you about how this book shows a submissive masochistic woman grappling with internal and external anti-kink judgment in complex ways. I will write about how radical and important it is for a BDSM romance to deeply centers a submissive woman seeking to claim her kinky desires, ones she had long before meeting the dominant hero. How rare it is to see a romance character who is both kinky and embracing her desire and has a deep and abiding relationship to Judaism. How much I needed this book when I was a kinky teenager.
But that is not this post.
This post is about giving you a sneak peak
of the hotness in this story.
If you want your BDSM fiction to resemble the kink folks do in the world…
If you want to ride inside the head of a submissive masochist who knows exactly what she wants and asks for every bit of it…
If you have been aching to see a BDSM romance centering a Daddy/girl relationship…
If you are into stories that center kind of bondage that’s about fighting to get free and the sort of discipline a brat yearns for…
Hold Me Down is the book for you.
Talia Benson has always been independent, unafraid to go after what she wants, regardless of setback, injury, or failure. But between her father’s conditional tuition payments and her mother’s nagging concern over her emotional state, Talia’s suffocating.
So when Talia meets doctoral student Sean Poole, she can’t figure out why she wants him to control her. Why she wants him to boss her around. Why she wants him to hurt her.
Talia learns the hard way that not all control is created equal, and sometimes submitting is the most empowering thing in the world.
Hold Me Down comes out Tuesday, March 28, 2017.
Excerpt from Hold Me Down
As a heads up, this excerpt includes descriptions of D/s, Daddy play, consensual non-consent, punishment play, face slapping, light pain play, orgasm control, brat play, fucking, and restraint.
He licked my ear. “Talia,” he murmured. “Let me inside, baby.”
“Fuck,” I breathed. “Yes. Yes. Please.”
He growled, a low predatory sound that made my stomach drop like a roller coaster. He pushed me onto the bed, and I stayed, didn’t move. I watched him shamelessly, a black silhouette in the darkness, the bulge and swoop of his body exaggerated as he dug through a dresser drawer.
He returned to the bed and pushed me onto my back. His eyes found mine and he dragged the corner of the condom package down my torso, scratching a thin line splitting my sternum, the valley of my breasts, my twitching abdomen.
“Put this on,” he said. “I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to come on my cock.”
“I don’t know if I can.” I wanted to. Desperately. But I never had before, and I knew, statistically, the number of women with the ability to come from penetrative sex alone was pretty low, and I couldn’t figure out why the hell I was thinking about statistics instead of holy shit, the words that came out of his mouth, I mean, Jesus.
He lifted shadowed brows. “I wasn’t asking.”
I couldn’t hold his gaze when he talked like that. Goddamn it, why didn’t this infuriate me? Why was I squeezing my legs together to assuage the ache instead? What the fuck was wrong with me?
He must have sensed my unease, because he leaned down and put his lips to my ear. “Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured. “I take care of what’s mine, don’t I? Let Daddy take care of you. Okay?”
I nodded, trembling. My ass was actually throbbing. I couldn’t wait to see what pretty picture he’d painted on me.
He pulled back and lifted my chin with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes in the dark. “Do you trust me, Talia?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I trust you.”
He smiled at me, really smiled, his teeth so white in the dark, and kissed me. One hand slid up my neck to my jaw—the faintest pressure—and he said, “Let me inside.”
I couldn’t have kept my mouth closed if I’d wanted to. And when his tongue flicked against mine, something sparked between us, something desperate and combustible and I was suddenly aching to feel him move inside me, pressure and pulse between my legs. The bed depressed as he went to one knee, then swung the other up as he crouched over me. I sat up to meet him, my hands scrabbling at him, trying to bring us closer together.
He must have tired of it, because he grabbed my hands and pushed them behind my back, holding both wrists together in one hand. And he slapped me.
In the face. Not hard…but still. He slapped me in the face.
I had already drawn breath to tell him to go fuck himself, to ask him who the hell he thought he was, when I realized I wasn’t upset. I should be upset, I knew. But I wasn’t. I was flushed, and that ache in my cunt was grinding-hard. My hips were moving without my permission. My lips parted. Fuck. Fuck.
He hit me. He slapped me. Something dark and primal inside my brain bared its teeth, wanting to fight, wanting to fuck, even as I told myself to go, to run. To scream that ridiculous word Crookshanks and leave and never look back.
But we stared at each other, that word I wouldn’t mean on the tip of my tongue. I surged toward him, but he held on to my wrists and kept me steady.
“Do it again,” I hissed. I didn’t know if it was a challenge or a plea.
Sean knew. He slapped me again, then grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. I couldn’t catch my breath; my eyes wouldn’t focus. He waited until I met his gaze, then pulled me forward and kissed me.
His fingertips pressing into my skull. Into my wrists. Not enough. It wasn’t enough. I bit his lip. He cursed, letting go of me, and pushed me back onto the mattress. I tried to sit up. I wanted to fight. He pinned me down, one palm flat against my solar plexus, and slapped my cunt. The pain was sharp, unexpected, and I yelped, my body instinctively curling up, away from another blow. He held me against the bed, pushing my thighs apart, shoving his knee between them when I tried to twist away from him.
“Don’t pull away from me,” he snapped. “I’ll tell you when we’re done.”
I was molten. I could hear myself whimpering. Why wasn’t I furious? Why wasn’t I terrified?
“Are you always this uncooperative?” he asked, one hand on my chest, one fumbling in the covers for the dropped condom. He found it, stuck the corner in his mouth, and slapped my breast. I groaned, arched under his hand. My skin, my nerves, everything on fire.
“I asked you a question.” He tore open the condom package. “Are you always this uncooperative?”
I reached for him. “Let me help.”
He smacked my hands away, grabbing my wrists and wrestling them under my back. “No.” He rolled the condom on, his forearms pointing an exaggerated V down to his hips. His tattoos shifting like moon-shadows. I chewed on my lower lip. “You lost that privilege,” he said. “And your orgasm. You’re going to have to earn it back.”
I guess this is what orgasm control looked like.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll behave. I’m sorry.”
He snorted. “No, you won’t. Do you know why you won’t?”
“Because I’m crazy?”
“No.” He pinched my inner thigh when he said it, reinforcing the point. “Because you like the consequences of misbehaving too much.”
I rolled my eyes.
He pushed my face to the side, pinning it to the pillow, and his breath rushed hot over my ear, my throat. His fingertip kept one of my eyes from opening. He said, “I don’t know why you think you’ll be able to get away with shit like that.” His voice was all hard edges and sharp points, and it sent a chill down my spine. “Don’t pretend that little spanking was all I’m capable of, and don’t think I’m finished with you yet, little miss.”
About Sara Taylor Woods
Sara writes sophisticated erotic romance and dark contemporary fantasy. Her stories have been included in romance, erotica, and horror anthologies. When she’s not writing, she’s wrangling her two bouncing dogs, mainlining coffee, or working out. She lives in South Carolina with her husband.