Justine Elyot - Her World of Submission

Mischief

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

77–85 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.mischiefbooks.com

An eBook Original 2014

Copyright © Justine Elyot 2014

Justine Elyot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007579488

Version: 2014–08–21

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page Her World of Submission Justine Elyot

Copyright Copyright Mischief An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 77–85 Fulham Palace Road, Hammersmith, London W6 8JB www.mischiefbooks.com An eBook Original 2014 Copyright © Justine Elyot 2014 Justine Elyot asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © 2014 ISBN: 9780007579488 Version: 2014–08–21

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

More from Mischief

About Mischief

About the Publisher

There was snow on the lawn and on the window ledges. Looking out from the drawing room, I imagined myself standing in the driveway, looking up at the house. It must resemble an old-fashioned Christmas card: holly wreath on the bright red front door and all.

In the distance, I saw Jasper appear from the pine copse over to the left of the driveway. He dragged behind him a netted fir tree, pulling a trail through the snow, covering his tracks. The tree was easily as big as Jasper was, probably bigger. But nothing stopped Jasper when he put his mind to something. He’d drag a tree the size of Big Ben’s clock tower if the mood took him.

I put my hand to my throat, feeling again the delicate silver chain with its key lock. I’d repeated the gesture countless times since he’d given it to me, a few weeks before at his mother’s house. Collaring. It was a formal thing, he told me, a commitment – lacking the legal clout of marriage, but with every vestige of the emotional significance.

Now that I wore this elegant little version of a collar, I belonged to Jasper lock, stock and barrel. The lock bit was particularly appropriate, I thought, twisting a fingernail in the tiny keyhole.

He saw me at the window and stopped to take a rest. I could see the steam coming from his mouth as he took panting breaths. He lifted a gloved hand to wave and I waved back.

I moved away from the window, ran into the hall and pulled open the handsome, wide front door.

‘Do you want a hand?’ I called from the porch.

‘No, love,’ he called back. ‘Get back inside and keep warm. You’re not exactly dressed for backwoodsman duties.’

True enough. I had forgotten, until a blast of frigid north wind struck my thighs, that I was wearing nothing but a basque and stockings, a light silky robe covering my shoulders.

This was the way, when Jasper and I had no reason to leave the spacious environs of his house. Our house, I mentally corrected myself, still unable to accept my status as co-resident there.

The museum where I worked had closed for Christmas and Jasper had little to do but kick his heels and wait for a call about funding for his next feature film. There was a bit of online ordering for festive fare to do but, besides that, our time was our own. Consequently, I spent the days either dressing for sex, having sex or cleaning myself up after sex. I was as brightly lit as the festive displays around the village and in the town centre. I felt permanently charged up, ready to spill white heat from my skin the minute Jasper gave me one of his looks.

I skipped back inside the house, but kept the door open for Jasper to enter with the tree. High-heeled marabou mules weren’t the best footwear for finding a planter tub from the back yard, but I managed to drag one in from the cobbles and manhandle it up through the kitchen and into the hall. Where would the tree stand to its best advantage? By the staircase, I thought, and I put the tub there in readiness.

A few minutes later, Jasper was in the hall and the tree lay on its side on the black and white tiles, dripping melting snow into a puddle around it.

‘That’s a big one,’ I commented.

‘As the actress said to the bishop,’ he deadpanned, before meeting my eye with a familiar wicked glint.

‘Do you think this tub will be big enough to hold it?’

‘You know, I’m giving serious thought to that kinky Carry On film you mentioned that time. You’re practically writing the script now.’

‘You’ve just got filth on the brain.’

‘And in my bed.’ He winked and lunged over to scoop me into his arms for a long and icy-wet kiss.

The wool of his long dark coat was rimed with thin shards of ice that ran into my skin and the light silk of my underwear, making me shiver and squirm in his grasp. I knew he would have no intention of releasing me, though, especially when he wound his scarf around my shoulder blades, pulling me in even tighter. His tongue, shockingly warm after the chill of his lips, pushed into my mouth, signalling his possession of me. It was a possession I welcomed and I tried my best to show it, unbuttoning his coat and sliding my arms inside, my hands creeping up the back of his sweater and tugging the shirt beneath up out of his waistband. Now there was bare warm skin to be found and touched and caressed. I clung to it, pushing my body into his cold façade, knowing that heat lay behind the sodden wool.

This was the essence of Jasper. Contradiction. Heat and chill, playfulness and severity, boyishness and authoritativeness, all in one attractive package. I had known him half a year now and my fascination hadn’t abated one little bit.

‘Naughty fingers,’ he admonished, reaching behind him to remove my hands where they tried to push their way down inside his jeans. ‘I’m supposed to be seeing to this tree, not you. You’ll have to wait your turn.’