Audrey Simone is a thirty-something divorced mom looking for adventure when she accompanies her new friend, Kate, to a local dungeon.
What she doesn’t expect to find is Gavin…
His arms are the size of her thighs.
His eyes the color of Van Gogh’s sky.
And his tolerance for BS is minimal.
Playing becomes an addiction. Her desire to submit an innate need. And it doesn’t take long for Audrey to realize this world has surpassed her wildest imaginations.
But she lives in two worlds, straddling day and night, reality and kink — one foot has found its way into Gavin’s heart while the other rests on the outside.
And her Master — the man who chains her, ties her, binds her, frees her — doesn’t just want her submission … Gavin has decided he needs both feet.
Bodhi is a 63,000 word standalone novel.
“Come here, Audrey.”
She stepped inside the modest bathroom. It was warm and still a little steamy, and it smelled like the shower and whatever Gavin used for shampoo.
“Closer, baby girl. I want you to shave me.”
“What?” She shook her head and felt her cheeks heat. “I can’t. I might cut you.”
He pressed his palms against the countertop, dropped his chin, and stared at the sink full of water. “You’ve already sheared me.” He looked up, peered into her eyes, and placed the razor in her hand. “I trust you … and I will guide you. It’s not difficult.”
Her eyes closed, then opened. Everything with him sometimes felt like slo-mo. His arms were so close, threatening to tear his shirt to shreds with a sudden movement. His leather and cedar permeated her nose. Her flesh broke out in goose pimples as her nipples turned to stone.
“Concentrate. You’ll shave me, and I’ll tell you a story. Start with the sides. Top to bottom. Go ahead.”
“Gavin,” she whispered with a smile.
Taking her hand, he placed it where he wanted her to begin. “Care for me as you do yourself.”
Their eyes met and locked for several heartbeats, seconds in which she couldn’t breathe properly. Caring for herself had become something she did last, not foremost. He could surely see things in her gaze: hesitation and insecurities. He’d seen them the day he’d fed her the potato soup.
“Top to bottom.” He dragged her palm with his toward his ear. “Good girl.”
Her hand seemed to trip on the compliment, and he caught it and smiled. “I trust you, Audrey. Now listen to me.”
A.R. Hadley writes imperfectly perfect sentences by the light of her iPhone.
She loves her husband.
And Cary Grant.
She annoys those darling little children by quoting lines from Back to the Future, but despite her knowledge of eighties and nineties pop culture, she was actually meant to live alongside the Lost Generation after the Great War and write a mediocre novel while drinking absinthe with Hemingway. Instead, find her sipping sweet tea with extra lemons on her porch as she weaves fictional tales of love and angst amid reality.