My
name is Madame X.
I’m the best at what I do.
And you’d do well to follow my rules...
Hired to transform the uncultured, inept sons of the wealthy
and powerful into decisive, confident men, Madame X is a master of the art of
control. With a single glance she can cut you down to nothing, or make you feel
like a king.
But there is only one man who can claim her body—and her soul.
Undone time and again by his exquisite dominance, X craves and fears his desire
in equal measure. And while she longs for a different path, X has never known
anything or anyone else—until now...
How do you write a review for a book that was so messed up that it took your brain on a trip, twirled your inhibitions around, left you wondering what the hell you just read, and wanting more all at the same time? Because that would be exactly where I'm at this very moment. Complete and utter mesmerized by what Jasinda Wilder did in this first book of her new series.
Madame X is living off what she is told. From a man, Caleb, who "saved" her.
Six years. But the color Indigo proves to mean more to her then just his last name. And as the secrets start to unfold, Madame X is steered in a direction that leads her to the unknowns.
I have my suspicions about where this is going to go, but, I will not bank on those suspicions as I am quite sure there are bound to be total and complete mind trips to further leave me reeling and wondering where the next book came from.
Ode to live in the mind of the amazing Jasinda Wilder for a day...
A knock on the door, the silent swing of hinges, and then
heat and hardness behind me, a faint but intoxicating hint of cologne, the
creak of leather. Hands on my waist, lips at my neck. Breath on my skin.
I don’t dare tense, don’t dare suck in a sharp breath of
fear. I don’t dare pull away.
Strong, hard, powerful hands twist me in place, and an index
finger touches my chin, lifts my face, tilts my gaze. I cannot breathe, don’t
dare, haven’t been given permission.
“You are lovelier than ever, X.” A deep, smooth, cultured
voice, like the purr of a finely tuned engine.
“Thank you, Caleb.” My own voice is quiet, careful, my words
chosen and precise.
“Scotch.” The command is a murmur, barely audible.
I know how to prepare it: a cut-crystal tumbler, a single
ice cube, thick amber liquid an inch from the top. I offer the tumbler and
wait, keep my eyes downcast, hands behind my back.
“You were too harsh on Jonathan.”
“I must respectfully disagree.”
“His father expects results.”
I bristle, and it does not go unnoticed. “Have I ever failed
to produce results?”
“You sent him away after less than an hour.”
“He wasn’t ready. He needed to be shown his faults. He needs
to understand how much he has to learn.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Ice clinks, and I take the empty
tumbler, set it aside, and force myself to remain in place, force myself to
keep breathing and remind myself that I must obey. “I didn’t come here to
discuss Jonathan Cartwright, however.”
“I suppose not.” I shouldn’t have said that. I regret it as
soon as the words tumble free.
My wrist bones scrape together under a crushing grip. Hard
dark eyes find mine, piercing and frightening. “You suppose not?”
I should beg forgiveness, but I know better. I lift my chin
and meet those cold, cruel, intelligent dark eyes. “You know I will fulfill the
contract. That’s all I meant.”
“No, that isn’t all you meant.” A hand passes through
artfully messy black hair. “Tell me what you really meant, X.”
I swallow hard. “You’re here for what you always want when
you visit me.”
“Which is?” A warm finger touches my breastbone, slides into
the valley of my cleavage. “Tell me what I want.”
“Me.” I whisper it, so not even the walls can hear.
“All too true.” My skin burns where that strong finger with
its manicured nail traces a cutting line up to my shoulder. “You test my
patience, at times.”
I stand stock-still, not even breathing. Breath whispers
across my neck, huffs hot on my nape, and fingers toy with the zipper of my
dress.
“I know,” I say.
And then, just when I expect to feel the zipper slide down
my spine, body heat recedes and that hot breath now laced with hints of scotch
is gone, and a single word sears my soul:
“Strip.”
My tongue scrapes over dry lips, and my lungs constrict, protesting
my inability to breathe. My hands tremble. I know this is expected of me, and I
cannot, dare not resist, or protest. And . . . part of me doesn’t want to. But
I wish . . . I wish for the freedom to choose what I want.
I have hesitated too long.
“X. I said . . . strip.” The zipper slides down to between
my shoulder blades. “Show me your skin.”
Reaching behind my back, I lower the zipper to its nesting
place at the base of my spine. Hard, insistent hands assist me in brushing the
sleeves from my shoulders, down my arms, and then the dress is floating to the
floor at my feet. That’s all the help I’ll get. I know from long experience
that I must make a show of what comes next.
I turn my head, and see tanned skin and the perpetual
two-day stubble on a refined, powerful jawline, sharp cheekbones, firm, thin
lips, black eyes like voids, eyes that drip desire. My hair drapes over one
shoulder. I lift one knee so my now-bare toes touch the gleaming teak, curl my
shoulders in, let my gaze show my vulnerability. With a deep breath, I unhook
my bra, let the garment fall away.
I reach for my underwear.
“No,” comes the purr, “leave them. Let me.”
I let my fingers graze my thighs, wait. My underwear slides
down slowly, and where fingers touch, so too do lips, hot and damp, touching my
skin, and I cannot flinch, cannot pull away or express how badly I want only to
be alone, to even once have the right to want something else.
But I do not have that right.
Hands blaze over my bared skin and ignite my desire against
my will. I know all too well the heat of this touch, the fires of climax, the
moments of afterglow when dark eyes drowse and powerful hands are stilled and I
am allowed to let my guard down. I stand still, knees shaking, as lips scour
and slide over trembling skin. My thighs are nosed open, and lightning strikes
with the touch of a tongue to my slick skin.
I gasp, but a single look silences me.
“Don’t breathe, don’t speak, don’t make a sound.” I feel the
whisper on my hip, feel the vibrations in my bones, and I nod my assent. “Don’t
come until I tell you.”
I have no choice but to stand and accept silently the
assault on my senses: down-soft hair against my belly, stubble on my thighs,
hands cupping my backside, fury blooming within me. I hold it back, keep it
tamped down, bite my tongue to silence the moans, fist my hands at my sides,
because I haven’t been given permission to touch.
“Good. Let go now, X. Give me your voice.” A finger pierces
me, curls, finds my need and sets it free, and I loose my voice, let moans and
whimpers escape. “Good, very good. So beautiful, so sexy. Now show me your
room.”
I lead the way to my bedroom, push open the door to reveal
the white bedspread, plumped black pillows, all tucked and arranged, as required.
I lie down, setting aside pillows, and wait. Eyes rake over my nude form,
examine me, assess me.
“I think an extra twenty minutes in the gym would do you
well.” This criticism is delivered clinically, meant to remind me of my place.
“Trim down, just a touch.”
I hide the clutch in my gut, the ache in my heart, the burn
in my eyes. Hide it, bury it, because it is not allowed. I blink, nod. “Of
course, Caleb.”
“You are lovely, X. Don’t mistake me.”
“I know. And thank you.”
“It’s just that our clients expect perfection.” A lifted
eyebrow indicates that I should finish the statement.
“And so do you.”
“Exactly. And you, X, I know you can deliver. You are
perfect, or very nearly, at least.” A smile now, blazing and brilliant and
blinding, excruciatingly beautiful, meant to soothe. A finger touches my lips
and then traces favorite locations on my anatomy: lips, throat, breasts, hips.
“Roll over.”
I move to my stomach.
“On your knees.”
I draw my knees beneath my stomach.
“Give me your hands.”
I reach back with both hands, and my wrists are pinioned in
one large, brutally powerful hand. My shoulder blades touch each other as my
arms are drawn together, and my face is pressed into the mattress. I swallow
hard, brace, breathe.
Oh, the ache, the fierce throb as I’m penetrated. I’m rocked
forward and my shoulders twinge and the grip on my wrists holds me in place.
I have no choice but to feel the burgeoning blaze, no choice
but let it push through me and make me breathless, and I want to cry, want to
cry, want to cry.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I let myself go when I’m told to do so: “Come for me, X.”
And then it’s over, and I’m turned to lie on my back,
gasping, and whispers bathe over me. “So good, X. So beautiful.” A finger to my
chin, lifting my gaze. “Did you enjoy that?”
“Yes.” It’s not a lie. Not entirely, at least.
Physically, I am rocked to trembling. Physically,
aftershocks still seize me and touch makes me shiver and I am breathless.
Physically, yes, I enjoyed it. I cannot help but enjoy it.
Yet . . . there is a space within me, a deep, deep, deep
well where truths I do not even dare think live hidden and always buried. Down
there, where those truths reside, I know I crave . . . absolution, freedom, a
breath taken in privacy, a word spoken without ulterior motive.
But I cannot let those thoughts bubble up. Cannot, and do
not. I am a master of self-control, after all. I could hold off orgasm
indefinitely. I could go without breathing until told to breathe or pass out. I
could remain sitting motionless for hours, until told to move. I know I can do
these things, because I have. I learned total control in the harshest of
schools.
And so it is child’s play to let my body drape loosely in
the guise of intimacy on a hard, taut, muscular body until a chime from
discarded slacks demands attention.
“I have to take this.” A pause, a breath, a tap of finger on
a cell phone screen. “This is Caleb. Yes. Yes. Sure, give me twenty minutes. Of
course. No, don’t let him in until I get there.”
A kiss to my temple, a finger tracing my body from shoulder
to hip to foot. “I have to go.”
“All right.” I don’t ask when to expect a return, because I
don’t want to know, and because I wouldn’t get an answer.
“Will you miss me?”
“Of course.” This is a lie, and we both know it.
“Good. Your next client is in two hours, so you have time to
shower, dress, and prepare. His name is William Colin Drake, and he’s the heir
to a technology development company worth fifty billion. Usual terms and
conditions apply. The file on William will arrive in the usual manner.”
“Should I expect as much trouble with William as with
Jonathan?”
A quirk of a smile, amusement. “No, I should think not.
William is a much different animal, from what I’ve observed.” A pause, and a
speculative glance at me. “But, X?”
“Yes, Caleb?”
“Watch yourself with William. He’s got a mean streak.”
“Thank you for the warning.”
“He needs to learn to control it, so you’ll have to draw it
out of him and make him aware of it. But be careful.”
Draw out his mean streak. Poke a snake, prod a sleeping
bear. Risk injury. It won’t be the first time, and it won’t be the last.
Hopefully I won’t need medical attention like I did last time. That’s not
covered in the contract, of course, but it’s understood: Never, ever harm the
property of Caleb Indigo; it’s just not smart business.
When the door closes behind a broad, suit-swathed back, I
shower the sex-stink off. I scrub harder and longer than I have to and fight
the boil of forbidden emotions. When my skin is rubbed raw, I force myself out
of the shower and dress, apply makeup, remake the bed, prepare tea.
And then I seat myself on the couch and breathe, compose
myself, push down the vulnerability, put away the fear and the desire. Once
again, I am Madame X.
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.
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