Re-Awakening Read online

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  A Totally Bound Publication

  Re-Awakening

  ISBN # 978-1-78184-938-5

  ©Copyright Ashe Barker 2014

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright January 2014

  Edited by Sarah Smeaton

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2014 by Totally Bound Publishing, Newland House, The Point, Weaver Road, Lincoln, LN6 3QN

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 3.

  This story contains 58 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 11 pages.

  Paramour

  RE-AWAKENING

  Ashe Barker

  Her Master gone, is she destined to spend the rest of her life alone? Or can she bring herself to surrender—again?

  Too busy trying to make a living out of her guest house in the Yorkshire Dales, Imogen hasn’t got time to be lonely, or even think about having fun. And surrendering to her innermost submissive desires is just a distant memory.

  A widow for six years, Imogen is not looking for another lover, let alone a Master. She had one of those once, and no-one could ever compare. Certainly not a handsome, cocky young man passing through the area and needing a room for the weekend.

  But when sexy Zack Lassiter turns up on her doorstep, he instantly recognises the underlying grief cocooning Imogen from the world outside. The intuitive young Dom makes himself at home in her house and quickly exposes her most private needs and fears. He sees straight through her façade of self-sufficiency to expose the yearning she tries so hard to stifle.

  Unable to deny or resist the intense attraction she feels for her sensual guest, Imogen is quickly drawn in as he invites her to rediscover her submissive nature. Can she surrender once more, perhaps even find happiness and fulfilment again with a new Master?

  And is Zack that Master, or will he also go for good?

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Google: Google, Inc.

  eBay: eBay Inc.

  BMW: BMW AG

  Co-op: Co-operative Group Limited

  The Dalesman: Dalesman Magazine

  Quantum of Solace: Eon Productions

  Bond: Ian Fleming

  Yorkshire.com: Welcome to Yorkshire

  Chapter One

  As the car pulled out of her driveway, Imogen flicked over the ‘Vacancies’ sign in her street-level window to indicate that she once again had space for a weary traveller or two. It was February, definitely the quiet season in the Yorkshire Dales, but there was always the possibility of passing trade. A stray hiker or maybe a die-hard Three Peaker who didn’t mind the rain and the fog and the probability of being cut off for days by sudden snow. And she had to face it, she needed the business. After Easter things would pick up, always did, but until then…

  Imogen’s little guest house was situated in the hamlet of Countersett, close to Bainbridge, in the heart of the Dales. The perfect getaway for intrepid outdoorsy souls or those seeking solitude and inspiration. All Imogen was seeking was a decent living, but every year that seemed more and more difficult to achieve. Foot and Mouth hadn’t helped, but that was years ago now. These days it was the recession, and ever more severe weather that reduced the once steady flow of hungry, tired tourists to a meagre trickle. The family whose tail lights were now disappearing around the bend in her lane had been her first customers this week, though between the five of them they’d occupied all three of her available guest rooms, so she’d been glad enough to see them. Imogen had a sinking suspicion they might be her last. She had no more bookings for ten days, and meanwhile she had electricity to pay for, she badly needed to order a new load of logs, and her washing machine was on its last legs.

  She saw no alternative if she wanted to carry on basking in such luxuries as light and heat. She needed a job. Anything would do, as long as it brought in a steady wage, and left her free in the mornings to dish up hearty breakfasts to any guests she might just manage to drag in off the fells. Sighing, reluctant to compromise on her dream of running a successful country guest house, but at heart a pragmatist, Imogen headed into her large kitchen to fire up her laptop. She Googled ‘temps in North Yorkshire’ and sat back to see what emerged.

  An hour and a half later, Imogen had managed to register with three temp agencies. She’d possibly been a little overenthusiastic regarding her range of skills, but needs must. She had to get in the door, get in front of some prospective employer at an interview, then, maybe, she could sell herself. She was personable enough, if unremarkable in her appearance. She would never see her forty-second birthday again, but Imogen knew she looked no older than thirty five. Small and slim, she was always on the move, always bustling around, always busy. She kept herself fit, loved walking and cycling and chose not to own a car. Well, she might choose to own one if business ever picked up enough. Pedal power was cheaper, though. Shoulder-length ash-blonde hair—these days helped along by regular visits to a salon in Skipton—and a deft hand with cosmetics meant she could look decent. Presentable even. Add to that honesty, trustworthiness, reliability, reasonably literate. And she was definitely good with money despite having none to speak of. She could do shop work for sure, and would probably manage okay in an office, at a pinch. She wasn’t going to win any prizes for accurate typing, but she could find her way around a spreadsheet. Oh yes, she was definitely employable. Now all she had to do was convince someone who could offer her a job.

  * * * *

  Her somewhat strained job prospects were still exercising Imogen’s thoughts as she cycled back along the lane to her house later that afternoon. She was wondering about maybe finding some way of working from home—four buses a day into Skipton would make commuting to work something of a tall order in any case. Perhaps she could become an internet entrepreneur. Ebay was created for the likes of her, surely. Except she’d need a reliable broadband connection and mobile phone signal for that, and Bainbridge was not exactly speeding up the fast lane of the information super-highway.

  Maybe she should think about marrying someone rich. That could be a good career move. She wasn’t even that fussed about the marrying bit, just the company would do. Well, except for the sex. Anyone of her age, single, and who was prepared to move out the back of beyond to live in her idyllic country retreat with her, would probably be into vanilla stuff. Too bland. Too—pr
edictable—for Imogen’s taste. Not that she’d tasted much of anything for years now. Not since Sean.

  She was amazed to feel tears pricking at her eyes. Christ, she’d thought she was past all that. Six years on, and she really, really should be past all that. Past sobbing at the sight of his picture tucked away in a drawer in her bedroom. Past gulping back her tears at a snatch of memory—a moment of remembered shared pleasure coming back to taunt her lonely present. Over the years she’d been alone, Imogen had trained herself never to glance in that rear-view mirror. She had to move on, had to keep on trying to move forward. She would get there.

  She supposed her problem lay in not really knowing where ‘there’ was. What was she looking for? If not a life with Sean, then what? There must be something else for her, but she hadn’t found it yet. Maybe she never would. She’d convinced herself that this guest house was her future, now she suspected it might be a millstone instead. She wondered if it had been a challenge to begin with, a huge responsibility that had the sole purpose of sucking up her attention, her energy and her drive. She needed to fill her days, and her nights with something. Anything. A distraction. And now she was failing at this, too.

  She reached her gate, dismounted and unlatched it. She pushed her bike through, brushing the tears from her face with her gloved hand. Angrily she sniffed, determined not to give in. Not to spend another evening gazing at the television and lecturing herself on the evils of pouring another glass of wine, only to eventually stumble off to bed with no idea what she’d watched for the last three hours, and an ever increasing row of empty bottles waiting to go to the bottle bank.

  She rounded the corner of her house and stopped dead. A car was in the driveway. A nice car, one of those large, smooth, purring things. As she came closer, she saw it was a BMW, its dark grey bonnet gleaming in sharp contrast against her brick-red gravel chippings. The car was empty, and as she stood admiring the sleek lines, Imogen balanced her bike against her front porch and glanced around for the occupants. They had to be here somewhere, there wasn’t another property for half a mile, nowhere else they might be. She reached out, laid a palm on the top of the bonnet and felt the warmth there. The car had not been standing idle long.

  The crunch of footsteps behind her settled the matter. She turned and saw him.

  Young. Ridiculously young to be let loose with a car like this. Her first impression was one of incredulity that this beautiful machine might be entrusted to the care of, well, someone like him. Someone with long, dark hair, brilliant blue eyes, full lips that smiled to reveal strong, straight, white teeth. And a tattoo of an angel on his tanned forearm. She had to admit, the artwork was impressive as he reached out to offer her his hand. Not to her taste, of course, but still…

  “What? Sorry, I…”

  He’d said something, but she hadn’t caught it. Too busy staring. And lusting after his car. And her eyes were still blurry, though that shouldn’t impair her hearing.

  “I saw your ‘Vacancies’ sign. Wondered if I could hire a room. For the weekend?”

  His hand was still outstretched, and belatedly Imogen took it. A brief shake, then, “Yes. Yes, that’ll be fine. The weekend? What’s that—three nights?”

  “Yes, if that’s okay. Till Monday.”

  “Monday. Right. Just bed and breakfast?”

  “And evening meal, if you do that? I can’t be bothered looking for restaurants if I don’t have to.”

  “No, of course. Evening meal’s fine.” Her head was busy totting up the tariff, and wondering if this unexpected windfall of a customer might stave off the evil day when she had to go out to work. Probably not. But it all helped. Maybe he’d recommend her to—someone. “Please, come inside. I’ll show you the room.”

  She unlocked the front door and automatically toed off her calf-high Wellington boots as she went inside. He noticed, made to remove his polished leather shoes too, but she stopped him. “No, no. It’s just that I’ve been on the moors. It’s muddy. You’re fine.”

  He nodded, murmured his thanks as he waited for Imogen to slip into her indoor pumps and lead the way upstairs.

  She decided to offer him her best room. A double really, en suite, with its own kettle. And a sofa. And the best view of the moors. She’d offer it to him at the normal single rate. She opened the door at the end of her upstairs landing, stepped back and gestured him inside. She watched nervously as he cast his gaze around the room. Imogen was proud of the traditional oak furniture and—she hoped—classy but understated décor. His brief nod seemed to indicate he liked what he saw.

  “Yes, thanks. This is really nice. It’ll do fine. Do you accept credit cards?”

  Ah, awkward. Imogen really preferred cash. She didn’t have a terminal for accepting credit card payments, and cheques too often bounced. She hated asking her guests for cash up front, but she had to be realistic. She was searching for a tactful way to explain, and was relieved when he seemed to pick up on her concern. He was quick to offer reassurance.

  “No? Not a problem. I’ll nip down into—where? Where’s the nearest cash machine?”

  “Er, Bainbridge. In the co-op. I’m sorry, it’s just that we don’t have much call for… Most of my customers pay in cash. Or a cheque would do.” He really didn’t look the bouncy type.

  “Cash works fine. How much?”

  “With evening meal, it’s forty-five pounds a night.”

  He nodded, smiled briefly. “A bargain. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  And he was gone, clattering down the stairs and out of the door. Imogen heard his engine roar into life, and the crunch of gravel as he reversed out into the lane

  Well, he won’t be back, she thought to herself. Wonder if I need to drop my prices? And I really should have got his name before I chased him out.

  * * * *

  But he was back. Twenty-seven minutes later, in fact. Imogen heard his car, twitched her curtains to make sure and went to let him in.

  “Hi.” He smiled at her, dumping a holdall on her hall carpet, at the same time reaching into his pocket to pull out a wad of crisp twenty-pound notes. “Got the readies. Let’s settle up now, shall we?”

  “Well, yes, if that’s all right. And I need to fill in your booking form, too. Monday morning, did you say?”

  “Yes, but I’ll need to be away early. Got an interview. A job interview. At seven-thirty in the morning.”

  “Strange time…” Imogen generally made it a point not to quiz her guests regarding their plans. A few tourism leaflets in her entrance hall were about as much as she felt was necessary. Most were here for the scenery anyway and she hardly needed to point that out. Clearly he was not of her usual type, though, not about to go tramping off up the hillsides, and she found herself a little curious about why he was here. Only a little, mind.

  He shrugged, smiled lightly, conversationally. “Yeah. Farming hours. Should have been today, but the boss went down with food poisoning so they asked me to come back on Monday. I live in Nottingham, no point going home again just to drive all the way back. So I thought I’d make a weekend of it.”

  “I see. So, how did you find me, then?” As she made the usual polite conversation, Imogen was fumbling around in the small desk she kept in her hallway for her guest paperwork. She seated herself, found a pen that worked and started to fill in the necessary forms.

  “What name is it, please?”

  “Zack. Zack Lassiter.”

  “Right. Is that short for Zachary? I need to put your full name, you see. Tourist Board regulations.”

  “Isaac, actually.” He smiled, shrugged. “My mum liked biblical names. My brother’s Noah and I have a sister called Ruth.”

  “I see.” Too much information. Imogen duly completed the top line of the form before pushing it across the desk to him. She caught his vivid blue gaze as she handed him her pen. “Could you fill in your usual address, date of birth, all that stuff, please? Do you have proof of identity with you? A passport is best…” Not
that people usually brought a passport with them on a trip to the Dales. Yorkshire might seem like foreign parts to many of her visitors, but still.

  “No problem. It’s in my bag. Employment regulations…” He crouched to unzip the side pocket and pulled out the burgundy British passport, handed it to her. As she copied the number onto her form, Imogen couldn’t help thinking he looked much nicer in the flesh than his passport photo suggested. She supposed most people did.

  “I asked at the pub in the village. The landlady there said you take in tourists and such like, so I drove up here.”

  “What?” Imogen glanced up at him, noted that he seemed particularly tall, towering over her small French style writing desk. And she wondered what the hell he was talking about.

  “You were asking how I found you. Just now. I drove up here and saw your sign, and thought I’d give you a knock. I was just about to give up when you appeared.”

  Uncharacteristically slow to follow the conversation, which was in fairness leaping about rather, Imogen turned her attention back to the form, watching as he filled in the empty spaces. He had nice hands, she noted. Long fingers. And her pussy clenched suddenly as out of nowhere she conjured up a powerful and crystal-clear mental image of those fingers parting her folds and sinking deep into her.

  Christ! She sat up straight, her eyes riveted on his face as, oblivious to her bizarre and wholly inappropriate imaginings, he calmly read and answered the questions on the sheet. Mercifully his attention was not on her. Still she felt herself blushing, and was even more keenly aware of the moisture gathering between her thighs, evidence of her sudden and wholly unwarranted arousal.

  The form completed, he pushed it back in her direction. Wordlessly, making a conscious effort not to raise her face and allow him to see how flushed she’d become for no apparent reason, Imogen handed him her company business card. His room number and details of his stay handwritten on the back. He glanced at it then turned it over to read the front.