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Master Me (Dante’s Purgatory, Book 3)

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Master Me (Dante’s Purgatory, Book 3)

Trixie Meier, a club submissive who’s tired of being pushed around, has decided she’d rather be on the other end of the whip. She’s set her sights on Xavier Adams—the most enigmatic and unapproachable man in the club. Xavier’s a regular Mr. Darcy. If Mr. Darcy was covered in tattoos, wore black leather, and was built like a Sherman tank.

Xavier has skeletons in his closet. He’s done bad, bad things. And though Trixie might be feisty and off-the-wall, she’s way too sweet for the likes of him. That’s what he tells himself just before he starts stalking her.

When Xavier finds out Trixie doesn’t want to submit to him, but wants to master him instead, he thinks it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. Because a big, scary guy like him, submitting to that tiny, crazy-ass woman is just ludicrous. Right?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Conversing with Xavier Adams is as about as effective as talking to a brick wall. A sexy wall, that smells really good and makes you want to rub yourself up against in a completely inappropriate and pervy manner.

Not that there are many ways to rub yourself against a wall that aren’t inappropriate and pervy.”

—Trixie Meier

“Trixie Meier is a kind, generous soul. She helps people, is a vegetarian because she can’t stand the thought of animals being hurt, and she hugs puppies in her spare time. She’s as sweet as they come—way too good for a guy like me.”

—Xavier Adams

“I love rock climbing, skydiving and anything that gives me an adrenaline rush. Now I want to dominate Xavier. Wonder if I’m taking this “I love a challenge” attitude a little too far.”

—Trixie Meier

“Trixie wants to dominate me?

She’s the craziest bloody woman on the face of this earth!”

—Xavier Adams


“Ungh, ungh, ungh,” grunted the big blond Dom who was balls-deep inside of Trixie, and didn’t seem entirely happy to be making those I’m-gonna-come sounds.

Trixie was pretty sure he was pissed off, but since she was bent over and tied down, with her face smooshed into the padding of the table she was currently being fucked against, she couldn’t be one hundred percent certain.

But ninety-nine percent sounded about right.

“Come now, you little slut,” he ordered. His ragged words were punctuated by a vigorous slap to her ass and a series of involuntary pulses of his cock. “If you don’t come before I do, I’m going to punish you, you little brat.”

Good Christ, spare me the drama. “Yes, Sir.” I’ll magically come just because you say so, Sir.

But Trixie supposed she should thank God for small favors. This guy had been cycling through every implement he could get his hands on and fucking her like a pneumatic machine for way too long—trying to get her to orgasm from his domly skills and rough fucking. Instead, all that was happening was her vagina was getting dry.

Speaking of dry, her mouth was quite parched, too. What she really needed was a long drink of water, followed by a hit of coffee. Some food would be nice. And a smear of Bepanthen for her vag wouldn’t go amiss, either. Oh, and most of all, she needed this Viagra-munching Viking to get the hell out of her body.

Cue the ordered orgasm.

Trixie panted and then grunted in synch with the slapping of Viking’s balls against her clit. She clenched her inner walls spasmodically and finally cried out nice and loud, stiffening her legs for added effect. She slumped against the table, then twitched and jerked her legs every few seconds as if she was riding out the aftershocks.

“Fuck you,” snarled Viking, as he gave her a few particularly violent thrusts.

Ouch! Hello? Dry vagina over here. Not that she could admit it, since she’d just gone and faked a big O and all. And then—thank you, baby Jesus—the Dom was coming, gripping her hips in a vicious hold and blowing his load in a series of short, sharp pumps, and one long, fairly intense groan.

He pulled out abruptly—again, ouch—and disposed of the condom.

As he unstrapped her from the table, he swore under his breath. “I should punish you for that. But you don’t even deserve my punishment.”

Blah, blah, whatevs.

Trixie hadn’t even levered herself up from the table before she heard the door slam shut. Man, she’d taken all that spanking, cropping, caning and fucking, was now totally dehydrated, starving to death, and had a sore hole to boot. And he couldn’t even spare her one measly “thank you.” Honestly, there was no pleasing some asshats.

Trixie made a beeline for the staff locker room via the water cooler. After downing what felt like about a gallon of water, she hit the showers, washed off all evidence of her session with Viking, a.k.a. Carl Gustafsson, and hurriedly got dressed. Since her skin was still feeling hot, prickly and throbbing from the working over she’d received, she forwent panties and bra and pulled on loose-fitting yoga pants and a long sweater that hit her at mid-thigh. Having the soft fabric against her naked skin was about the closest thing to aftercare that she’d be getting.

Not that she wanted aftercare. From him. He was a new member of the club, and apart from what they’d just learned about each other during that epic Ben-Hur of a session, he didn’t really know her and she didn’t really know him. It would just be annoying, having to sit there while he wrapped her in a blanket and fed her water and chocolate and patted her head or something equally inane, while pretending he gave a damn about her well-being.

She’d rather just piss off and get her own water and chocolate. Plus, she was fully capable of patting her own head. Or banging it against a wall, which strangely didn’t sound unappealing at the moment.

But first things first: food. Her head could have a chat with the wall later. Wait, second would be food. First…

She delved into her locker and located a tube of Bepanthen. Squeezing a dollop onto her finger, she pulled at her waistband, stuck her hand down the front of her pants and swiped the cream over her chafed bits.

A hand wash later and she was ready to go. Break time! Thank the gods.

Trixie poked her head out of the locker-room door, took a quick look around, saw the coast was clear and then darted out. With her head down, she navigated the corridor, burst out the rear exit door, scurried down the side alleyway, around the corner, and into the café a few doors down, all without being seen by anyone from the club. Although it was unlikely she would have been recognized anyway, since she was missing her usual slutwear-war-paint ensemble.

She sighed, thinking about having to don her leather-hot-pants-and-bra combo when she returned to the club to finish off her shift. If only they were having a toga-themed night. If only!

Or if it was Halloween, she could just put a sheet over her head and call herself Casper.

Holy burning backsides, she was so tired. So, so tired. Of everything. She mustered up a smile for the girl behind the counter—because it was so not the girl’s fault that Trixie was having a bad day slash month slash year—and ordered a tofu and roast-veggie burger plus an extra-large soy latte.

While she sat at a little two-seater table against the wall, waiting for her food to arrive, she watched a group of girls over in the corner taking selfies, sucking in their cheeks and pursing their lips so tight, it was as if they were training their mouths to suck cock.

Speaking of sucking cock—that was another thing Trixie was getting tired of. And these days, the taste of latex had her gagging more than the overeager or sometimes cruel Doms who liked to jam their dicks in the back of her throat.

In spite of the topic, she couldn’t help smiling to herself. Those dudes who thought she was gagging on their huge manly cocks had no idea she could deep-throat like a champion at the porn-star Olympics, and it was the fake-fruit-flavored latex that was punishing her, not their puny pricks.

Trixie touched a fingertip to her lips and rubbed back and forth. Her lips were chapped; it was one of the hazards of her job. She pulled a ChapStick out of her purse and gave her lips a good once-over, musing on how her job affected other areas of her life. It was plain, unflavored lip balm for her now, no more cherry (barf), strawberry (barf), or any other flavor they made rubbers in.

She couldn’t even stomach her favorite drinks (fruit-flavored soy milkshakes) anymore, and she’d had to give away her precious collection of syrups.

Now that she thought about it, she really should get compensation. Electricians got hazard pay. Expats got paid more to hang out in less-developed countries. She should get…BJ pay? For the fact that her taste buds were ruined and she could no longer enjoy her fave foods.

She’d try hitting up the boss next time she saw him. She could just imagine Dante’s reaction when she explained her situation. She pictured him rolling his eyes to the ceiling and silently praying for Santa Maria (the Virgin Mary) to give him strength. It might be worth telling him for that alone.

Although, these days, the guy was way less serious. Now he was floating on cloud nine, obscenely happy because he’d finally gotten together with Erica—the love of his life. Come to think of it, the way he’d been acting lately, it’d be more likely he’d do something thoughtful, like order everyone who played with Trixie to wear tofu-flavored condoms.

Then Trixie would be fucked, because after about a month she wouldn’t be able to eat tofu anymore. And then she’d starve and die.

She looked over to see the group of girls had struck some new poses, but were still sucking in those mouths like a bunch of guppies. Man, someone should warn them they were going to get premature wrinkle lines.

She supposed no one yelled “say cheese” anymore before taking a photo. Because God forbid someone actually smiled or flashed their teeth. It was probably more appropriate to instruct them to say “mmmm” with a tight, mincy mouth, so everyone could pout furiously on cue.

By some unknown signal that Trixie couldn’t identify, selfie time was suddenly over and all the guppies subsided into their chairs, where they promptly buried their noses in their phones, presumably Facebooking or Instagramming or Twittering their last batch of cock-sucking pics.

As Trixie tore into her burger, she realized that in her own head, she sounded like a grumpy old cow.

How and when had this happened?

She was fun-loving and fucking high on life.

Was. But she wasn’t right now. Damn it all! If she continued to walk around with a bee in her bonnet and a stick up her ass, no good would come of it.

Especially since a whole bunch of other fuckers constantly wanted to stick things in her ass. She really didn’t need to do it to herself.

Holy hairy ball sacs, I’m turning into such an angry little bitch.

Trixie realized it might be time for some serious self-evaluation.

She quickly finished off her food, made herself smile at the gu— Girls—girls, not guppies—as she left the café, and headed back to the club. By the time she waved her Dante’s Purgatory staff ID card over the electronic back-door lock, she’d come up with a most excellent plan.

  1. Alleviate restless, antsy feelings via an adrenaline-inducing activity such as skydiving.
  2. Find a change of environment to avoid day-to-day stresses and to facilitate clear thinking: wilderness hike and camping.
  3. Empty mind of clutter and achieve spiritual peace and inner calm through meditation. Note: borrow Aunt Rozlyn’s Tibetan bells and ring those little fuckers until clarity is gained.
  4. Identify who slash what is causing angry feelings.
  5. Fix the fucking situation.


Trixie entered the building, mentally patting herself on the back for coming up with such a great plan, when she came face to nipples with someone standing in her way. She looked up to find an angry Viking scowling down at her.

She scowled right back at him. Fucker gave me a sore hole!

As he loomed over her, he continued glaring in an intimidating way. She had to admit he did intimidating well; it was in his blood. Bet he had a real interesting ancient family history. She’d bet her spanked ass there was lots of stuff of the rape-y, pillage-y variety.

But if he thought he could turn her into a gibbering mess just from the look in his eyes and his looming, he was sorely mistaken.

What people are saying about the Dante’s Purgatory Series:

“St. Clair writes in a way that is deeply alluring and keeps her audience thoroughly engaged and anticipating what could come next. I highly recommend this story and author to not only readers of erotica but all lovers of drama, and impeccably written stories. This was an easy five stars. A brilliantly crafted story!” –Author Angel Strong

“While I imagine many will read the book for the sex scenes, it’s the emotional aspects that hook me (and the prose. Ms St. Clair knows how to write—and write well).” –Author Anna Belfrage

“It’s the kind of story-telling that marks a first-rate writer. I can say with absolute certainty that it made me a fan of Sayara St. Clair.” –Author Ken Stark

“A dazzling story of love and desire.” –Author David Lucero

“It’s breathtaking and heartbreaking. It’s all-consuming. It’s everything any one of us could ask for in a novel, and so much more.” —Bloggers From Down Under


Release date: 23rd of January.

About The Author

If someone told a young Sayara St. Clair that one day she would be an erotic/paranormal-romance-writing Aussie expat living in Thailand, she would have snort laughed and yelled, “You. Be. Crazy!”

If someone told her the same thing now, she would not yell, only nod solemnly. Because that actually happened.

Sayara has a science degree, with majors in both microbiology and biochemistry. Working in the fields of serology and tissue banking, she got to do lots of cool and sometimes slightly weird stuff. She was employed as the manager/buyer for furniture retail stores, where she had a chance to unleash her inner interior decorator. (Interior design is one of her great passions.) And for a time, she taught English to students in Asia. (Hanging about in a roomful of extremely loud, pint-sized humans is not one of her great passions.) She has written: ads for TV, print and radio; real estate brochures; website copy; and a screenplay. Now she’s writing fiction and has discovered it’s her favorite thing to do. She’s also learned that writing sultry romances is so much more fun than writing dry old scientific journal articles. No one has sex in scientific journal articles. Not the ones she wrote anyway.

When not writing, she may be most commonly found in a horizontal position reading, in the kitchen baking, in the garden planting, or somewhere else singing at the top of her lungs. She loves music and is prone to spontaneous bouts of dancing.

With regards to vampires and chocolate: she bites one on a daily basis and has had a lifelong obsession with the other. And she’s not telling which one’s which.

Note from the author: I laughed like a loon while writing this book. I also cried. And fell a little in love with the characters. I really hope you enjoy reading Trixie and Xavier’s story.

x Sayara



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Sayara St. Clair is an erotic romance author who writes intense, emotionally charged tales, featuring dominant alpha males who practice (and love) BDSM. Sayara has a Science Degree, majoring in Microbiology and Biochemistry. Working in both the fields of Serology and Tissue Banking, she got to do lots of cool and sometimes slightly weird stuff. She was employed as the Manager/ Buyer for Furniture Retail stores, where she had a chance to unleash her inner Interior Decorator. And for a time, she taught English to students in Asia. Now she’s a writer and has discovered it’s her favorite thing to do. She’s also learned that writing sultry, romantic fiction, is so much more fun than writing dry, old scientific journal articles. When she’s not writing, she may be most commonly found on the sofa reading, in the kitchen baking or in the garden planting. She loves eighties music and is prone to spontaneous bouts of dancing.


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