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Kinbaku isn't a club. It doesn't exist on a map. But, for me, it becomes a state of mind after I agree to an unusual fee set by the photographer I absolutely had to have for the launch of my fashion line. Somewhere between saying "yes" and arriving at the studio for my session, the deal shifts ever-so-slightly to include my body tied in silken ropes by unfamiliar hands.

Did I mention the blindfold? Or how intimately the ropes are tied, the unseen male manipulating my flesh, his body warming my skin as his scent and touch intoxicate my mind. My rope master pushes me beyond the limits of self-control until, bound and helpless, I surrender in a quivering mess. This is the fifth installment in the Training Her Curves series follows Dallas and is the first installment focusing on Riona Kehoe.

It's the best way to find out about the next installment in Training Her Curves and discover new book boyfriends to devour! Rough weather put me down in New York ninety minutes after the plane's estimated arrival time. My body shaking from the last side roll on our descent, I waited in my first-class seat for the aircraft to empty and tried not to think about how it was a bad day to be running late. My first appointment was with the photographer I had hired to shoot the premier catalog for the Wicked Thre line of luxury lingerie and fetish wear. While I had paid an astonishingly large fee to get him, Rick's time behind the camera was never about money.

Now I had to make good on the other half of my deal with him. He expected me in his studio in less than twenty minutes while he took reference photographs for the oil painting he would make of me. When I didn't arrive as scheduled, he would probably think I had lost my nerve. Unhooking the lap belt, I fished into my back pocket and pulled out my cell phone. With no reception showing, I browsed through my schedule for the three days I would be in the city. My first appointment after Rick's was dinner at seven at Le Bernardin with a fashion journalist to discuss the upcoming launch of the clothing line.

How long the interview lasted would depend on whether the journalist stuck to the agreed upon subject or decided to dig for confirmation on all the gossip about my brother Jake and Alexa Hunt, the company's spokesmodel. I had lost count of all the ridiculous rumors circulating in the press and online. One trashy magazine had Jake, Alexa and Dylan in a threesome.

Another claimed Alexa was pregnant. The stories devolved from there into even uglier lies. Stopping by my seat, the stewardess smiled at me and did one of those game show hostess gestures toward the exit door. Do you have a bag in one of the overhe? Could have used a smoother landing.

Her head bobbed, but her eyebrows lifted at the same time, letting me know she thought I was a wimp if that spot of turbulence had bothered me. Shouldering my bag, I brushed past her and into the terminal. The luggage carousels were chaos, the flight boards changing so fast I thought I was looking at the display on a slot machine while everyone screamed for triple sevens.

Mine wasn't the only plane arriving late. Air control had stacked us up on the runway like dominoes, another thing that had scraped my nerves raw. Or so I wanted to believe. Certainly I wasn't nervous about my trip to Rick's studio. I'd already been on the other end of his camera lens half a dozen times over the last month.

My cheeks heating, I re-focused my attention on the flight board with the hope that my carousel would soon appear. After five more minutes, it did. Another ten minutes passed before the conveyor belt spit my bag onto the carousel's tracks.

I shouldered my way through the other passengers and extended my arm. Someone stepped on my foot. Another genius grabbed my ass. I didn't bother looking around for the culprit. The contact had been brief, so I would give him or her the benefit of the doubt that the grope had been nothing more than accidental. A second grab and I'd find a face to punch. Snagging my bag, I squeezed and pushed through the labyrinth of tightly packed human flesh until I found clear space a few feet from the exit.

Pulling my cell phone out, I saw that I had gained two and a half bars since checking it on the plane. Knowing I didn't have a chance of hearing or being heard at the airport's noise level, I thumbed through my texts until I reached the last one from Rick. I wasn't even smiling. I had agreed to an extended photo session from which Rick would produce a painting for his private collection and then destroy any film and digital files.

Knowing Rick seldom used assistants, I hadn't expected an audience of any sort, let alone a "mystery guest. The three dots aling he was typing a reply appeared. I waited, my foot tapping impatiently against the worn carpet in the baggage claim area. I stabbed the power button on my phone and shoved it in my jeans pocket. Not only was Rick yanking my chain about having someone present at the shoot, he also knew I hated being called "Princess.

Growling, I popped the handle extender on my suitcase and headed for the taxi stand. Dressed in a plain black t-shirt and slate gray jeans, Rick opened the door to his studio after my second burst of knocking. He had his camera up and ready, the black body and lens of a Nikon F4 obscuring his face.

The click-whirr-click of the twenty-year-old film camera was my only invitation to enter. He walked me over to a table weighed down with a few more cameras and three times as many lenses. I moved around the table, stopping when a waft of hunger inducing cologne tickled my nose.

Definitively masculine, it started as fresh cut oranges punctuated with walnuts before mellowing to oakwood. I turned, ready to follow the scent because it smelled recent. But all I had behind me was a floor to ceiling panel of opaque glass that worked as some kind of light diffuser, its controls built into the wall next to it. With an eye roll, I shrugged his touch off and disappeared into the bathroom. Tension far worse than I experienced on the rough landing at the airport slammed against me once I was alone.

My hands shook as I drew the sweatshirt over my head. I kicked off my shoes then shimmied out of my jeans and underwear, leaving me in just the bra. Thankfully, I had selected one with a front-clasp that morning because my fingers were bouncing around like spiders on crack. Naked in front of the mirror, I looked first at my hair. I ran my nails through it to correct the minor damage from the gust of wind that had hit me between the taxi cab and the entrance to Rick's building.

My gaze landed next on my face. I hadn't put a single stroke of makeup on that morning, but Rick apparently wanted me fresh-faced anyway. Bad idea in my opinion because the stewardess had carded me on the flight when I asked for some vodka with my orange juice. She had even taken the ID to another member of the flight to inspect for evidence of fraud. But it was Rick's shoot and it wasn't as if any images would be published. I was just there to pose and pay my debt. I rinsed my face then patted it dry before taking a washcloth and running it under hot water.

My cheeks, already burning, flamed redder as I wiped between and beneath my breasts and then lower. I had showered thoroughly that morning but sweated my way through the turbulence during the flight and harrowing landing. The taxi ride to the studio hadn't been any drier as I imagined being naked in front of both Rick and this guest I hadn't yet seen, someone that might be a stranger to me or very familiar.

The moisture that built on the drive, however, wasn't sweat. Thick, translucent cream glistened against the washcloth before I shoved it under the faucet and rinsed away the evidence of my arousal. I dried my hands then shrugged the robe on, leaving my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor.

Opening the door, I scanned the room again, but it was just me and Rick. My heart thumped in my chest as he led me to a padded bench with lights set up around it. His hands skimmed the kimono's silken lapels and then the material was around my ankles. I sank down, marginally relieved that he had at least switched from "Princess" to the only nickname I could tolerate with good humor.

You picked a safe word? I wanted to scowl but kept my expression smooth. If Rick thought I was a virgin, he was ridiculously wrong. I had been with men, more than I cared to admit but not for the reason most people would assume. Instead of being promiscuous, I had spent the last four years trying to find a man that could make me climax. I'd faked it with the first two partners.

With the second two, I had gently hinted that nothing had happened for me. One of them redoubled his efforts before declaring me frigid -- on the Boston University student chat board. The other guy figured from the start the problem was totally with me.

I'd taken two more lovers in an effort to prove him wrong.

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