Today I have a special guest joining me for an enticing peek at her latest release... Raven McAllan is talented author; her words never cease to paint amazing pictures in my mind. I could go on, but I'll let her own words speak for themselves. Welcome, Raven!
The Dommes of
Ballingal: Kristin
Ballingal. An Island
in the middle of a Loch. Where women rule, and hearts are saved—or broken.
I love the sound of
the ladies of the loch. There are six of them. Kristin's is the first story to
be told.
Kristin McCrory would
never in a million years have thought her ex-husband would show up on Ballingal
and profess his need to sub for her. Flynn is the ultimate stubborn Alpha male,
and his refusal to even discuss her need to be in charge had already cost them
their marriage. That, and his apparent need to seek out the most dangerous
place to report on in his work as a television documentary reporter.
However, the Flynn she
knew is not the Flynn who stands before her now. This Flynn is a broken man and
she can’t just turn him away. As an Empath and mind reader, Kristin can sense
his emotional and physical pain. It means Kristin feels even more drawn to the
man she loves, and their connection is as strong as ever.
Love is worth fighting
for after all, and Flynn finds new strength in his submission.
Excerpt
“Bring those, please.” She
didn’t wait to see if he would do as she said, but turned her back on him and
began to walk like a ship in full sail back up the path toward the cluster of
stone buildings a few hundred yards up the hill. The dozen or so other visitors
scattered in various directions as Flynn slung his bag over his shoulders,
picked up the boxes, and walked three strides behind her.
Is this
welcome to a sub’s paradise? Fuck that for a game of soldiers, or subs. I might
say I’ll sub, but there’s subbing and subbing.
“There isn’t, you know.”
Kristin had stopped and turned toward him. Flynn missed bumping into her by
inches.
“Eh?” He rocked back on his
heels and held on to the boxes for grim death. It wouldn’t be a very auspicious
start to drop them.
“There’s just subbing where I’m
concerned. One way.” She paused and ran one long pillar-box-red fingernail over
his cheek. “My way.” She turned and carried on walking.
Flynn shook his head. Either
he’d been talking out loud or she was a mind reader. Hadn’t he discovered in
his research that really there were as many ways of kink as there were people?
“Mind reader,” Kristin called
over her shoulder. “And I’m not other people.”
Fuck,
and if you’re reading this be warned, Mrs. McCrory. Sub to you I may be,
doormat I won’t.
There was no answer. So it
was selective thought reading then?
“No, I chose not to answer.”
Kristin stopped outside a bright yellow door, with baskets of spring flowers on
either side of the porch. “You’ll submit to me and in my way, or you won’t,
Flynn. The choice is yours. We’ll discuss it later. Here’s Nicole’s place.”
He blinked and raised his
eyebrows. What was he supposed to say to that? “Very nice.”
Kristin dropped the post sack
a few inches from his toes. He was glad he had sturdy shoes on, and he didn’t flinch.
“I hope you think so. It’s
the bed and breakfast—guest house. Where, I assume you have a booking?”
Flynn shook his head. He
loved the way her eyes glittered, and her fingers twitched. Green eyes, red
hair, and a temper to match. Oh so stereotypical, and great fun to light the
flare and watch the sparks fly. He was adept, or he amended to himself, had
been, adept at ducking.
“A very nice lady called
Justine told me it was full and I’d be stopping with you.”
Her mouth dropped open and
Flynn grinned. It wasn’t often he had ever been able to surprise her. “Didn’t
you know?” he asked in as innocent a voice as he could muster.
“No I did not.”
If she could conjure up
frost, he reckoned he’d have frostbite, or icicles on his dick.
“And you are not stopping
with me.”
Flynn put the boxes down,
very carefully. He felt as if he was about to walk on eggshells. “I’ve paid my
dues, surely? Three years I’ve given us. Now I’m ready.”
“You’ve given us?” Her tone
was incredulous and her dark eyebrows disappeared under the carroty red fringe
of her hair. The two colors should have seemed incongruous, but Flynn hardly
noticed. She’d dyed her eyebrows and eyelashes ever since he’d met her.
“Given us?” Her voice rose. “Get real and open your tight little
mind, Flynn. You’ve given me fuck all, except heartache. I vowed when you
walked away I wouldn’t cry one single sodding tear. And you know?” She poked
him in the chest. The look in her eyes made it clear she would have preferred
to use a knife, not her finger. “I didn’t. Not one.”
A lump wedged in Flynn’s
throat. She hadn’t been upset? He’d gone on a misery-fest for a month, and
eventually been dragged out of his bed by his Director. Was it all a mistake?
Should he turn round and sit on the jetty until the boat came back? No, no not that. I need her.
“You know why, Flynn?” She
poked him once more, and the pain hit his heart and shattered it into tiny
pieces of guilt.
He shook his head, scared if
he spoke his voice would break as well as his heart.
“I’ll tell you then, shall I?
Because I shed fucking millions, that’s why. I was a mess, and if it hadn’t
been for Justine, god knows where I’d be now.”
It might be horrible news,
and he did feel awful, but deep inside, Flynn had a tiny glimmer of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, something could rise out of the ashes of their relationship?
Flynn swallowed. “You’re—” He
cleared his throat to try and make his cotton wool tongue work. “You’re too
strong to do anything silly.”
She curtsied mockingly. “I’m
glad you realize that, Flynn. Because if you’re serious about subbing to me, we’ve
got a lot to talk about.”
Raven Bio…
Well what can I say?
I'm growing old disgracefully and loving
it.
Dh and I live on the edge of a Scottish
forest, and rattle around in a house much too big for us.
Our kids have grown up and flown the nest, but
roll back up when they want to take a deep breath and smell the daisies so to
speak.
I write in my study, which overlooks the
garden and the lane. I'm often seen procrastinating, by checking out the wild
life, looking—only looking—at the ironing basket and assuring tourists that
indeed, I'm not the bed and breakfast. That would mean cooking fried eggs
without breaking the yolks, and disturbing the dust bunnies as they procreate
under the beds. Not to be thought of.
Being able to do what I love, and knowing
people get pleasure from my writing is fantastic. Long may it last.
