Madame X, an erotic romance by New York Times bestselling author Jasinda Wilder, releases on October 6th. Read an intense and incendiary sneak peek of Madame X and Caleb's dark and provocative world and click-here to pre-order a copy today. There's also a fabulous giveaway that will go live on release day so check back to win signed books and more.
Excerpt: Meet Madame X and Caleb
This night, insatiability comes in the form of my body being slowly unwrapped, inch by inch. The dress unzipped, lowered to bare my lingerie—nostrils flare and eyes go heavy-lidded and hands reach; evidence of my “Spanish beauty”—and then the lingerie is peeled off, tossed aside.
Naked, I wait.
“Undress me, X.”
To reveal that body is like unveiling a sculpture by Michelangelo. A study of masculine perfection done in unforgiving marble. Each angle carved with a deeply piercing chisel. My hands work and my eyes devour. My heart resists, twists, beats like a hammer on an anvil. My body, though. God, my body. It knows something my metaphysical heart and cerebral understanding do not: Caleb Indigo was created by an artist for the express purpose of ravishing women.
Specifically, in this moment, this woman.
And I hate my body for it. I tell it to remember the way of things. That this is expected of me. Required. Demanded. I must; my will does not enter this equation.
And my body? It has a response: I do not care about requirements . . . all I know is a singular desire: TOUCH ME.
Touch me.
Touch me.
My body says that, as does the body I have now laid bare.
So I obey. I obey my body and the tacit command within the two words so recently spoken: “Undress me.”
Touch me, that order implies.
So I touch.
Stroke into life the erection as large and perfect as the rest. Well, it was already fully alive and ready; I merely gave it the attention it was begging for by standing so tall and thick and straight.
Hands go to my shoulders, gently and implacably push me to my knees. I cast my eyes upward and obey. Mouth wide, taste flesh. Lips curled in to sheathe my teeth, hands plunging in a slow rhythm. Watch now. Quick breaths go ragged, hands clutch my hair, voice box utters guttural moans. Taste smokiness, essence leaking.
“Enough. Jesus, X.” A curse, more rare still than a smile.
Suddenly, I’m airborne, carried into my room and tossed unceremoniously onto my bed. I scramble backward, knock aside pillows, but I’m too slow. Lip curled in a snarl, eyes feral, hands reaching and gripping my hips. Tugging me roughly, and my heart leaps a mile from chest to throat as hips wedge my thighs apart. Face to face?
I dare not think, dare not even hope. Breathe, cling to broad hard shoulders . . . exhale sharply as I am pierced.
Movement, face to face.
I can’t breathe.
This is a night for firsts, it seems.
I dare to flutter my hips to the rhythm of our sex, dare to keep my eyes open and see. There is turmoil. Desire. Conflict. Heated need. Demand. Fire. Urgency.
And also in me?
I shy away from parsing and enumerating my own emotions. To do so would be to open Pandora’s box, and I dare not.
Desperate movement now. Eyes on mine. Unwavering, piercing directness. There is a world in those dark orbs, a whole galaxy a mere mortal such as I cannot fathom.
Close.
So close.
Breath leaves me. Neither of us looks away.
Oh God.
Hands claw and clutch, grip and tug and bruise.
“Fuck. Fuck!” And then total absence. Everything ripped away, heat, presence, breath, body.
The moment is gutted.
“Caleb? Did I do something wrong?”
That huge body stands at the window, silhouetted, erotic male sexuality in shadow, shoulders bowed, head bent, hands wide and high on the frame, hips narrow and trim, buttocks firm and clenched and bubble-round and taut looking, legs like Grecian pillars. Shoulders heaving.
“Over here, X.” A command, uttered so low as to be nearly inaudible.
I hear it, though, for I am painfully attuned to every whisper, every breath.
I rise, move tentatively to the window. Touch a shoulder with trembling fingers. “Are you okay? Was it me?”
“Shut up. Stand at the window.” So unexpectedly harsh. Almost angry.
At me?
I dare not question again. That tone brooks no argument.
I stand at the window, shaking all over. Turn my head, look over my shoulder. Oh. That face, cast into shadow now, but not the shadows of absent light, rather the shadows of veiled emotion, features smoothed into unfeeling stone. Only the lips slightly pursed and tightened betray the tumult within.
I shake with cold, goose bumps pebbling on my skin.
A foot nudges mine apart, and then arms like boa constrictors snake around my chest, clutch my breast, another around my waist to clutch my hip. Behind me, bent at the knee, a moment to fit that hot thick erection to my opening, and then a hard upward, inward thrust. I gasp, a shrieking exhale of surprise and pain. So hard, so sudden, so rough.
No gentility here, no tenderness. None of the eroticism of only moments ago. This is what I’ve always known. Roughly thrusting, roughly using. Grunts in my ear.
I stand straight upright and cling to the arms gripping me, slippery with sweat and corded with muscle. Mad, wild thrusts from behind, straight up and down, legs bent wide and far apart.
Finally, when I think surely the moment of climax must be close, I find myself shoved forward so I’m bent double at the waist, hair fisted and jerked so my head snaps backward, a hand gripping my hip crease with bruising force.
Pound, pound, pound.
I whimper, shriek, and then— “Caleb!”
Slow now. Still just as rough and harsh and wild, but slowly.
Uttering that name, it was a plea. A protestation. All I could manage.
I feel the release, the hot gush.
The hands release me, suddenly, and I fall forward, bump up against the window. Opening my eyes, I look out the window and see across the street, an office tower black in the night, all the windows darkened save one, the window opposite my own. A figure in the light, watching.
What a show.
Hands, gentle now, lift me, cradle me, set me on my bed. I fight tears. I ache. My heart aches, my soul. What did I do to deserve so rough and thoughtless a fucking? There was no mutuality in that. No thought for my pleasure.
I let myself drowse, escape into sleep.
But a sound buzzes in my ear, slips through the curtain of unconsciousness. A voice. “I’m sorry, X. You’re mine, and only mine. You can’t know. I wish you could, but you can’t know. You can’t know, or you’d—no. You’re mine. And I don’t share.”
Nonsensical words. I know who owns me; that is one mistake I shall not make again.
An apology?
Gods do not offer apologies.
Naked, I wait.
“Undress me, X.”
To reveal that body is like unveiling a sculpture by Michelangelo. A study of masculine perfection done in unforgiving marble. Each angle carved with a deeply piercing chisel. My hands work and my eyes devour. My heart resists, twists, beats like a hammer on an anvil. My body, though. God, my body. It knows something my metaphysical heart and cerebral understanding do not: Caleb Indigo was created by an artist for the express purpose of ravishing women.
Specifically, in this moment, this woman.
And I hate my body for it. I tell it to remember the way of things. That this is expected of me. Required. Demanded. I must; my will does not enter this equation.
And my body? It has a response: I do not care about requirements . . . all I know is a singular desire: TOUCH ME.
Touch me.
Touch me.
My body says that, as does the body I have now laid bare.
So I obey. I obey my body and the tacit command within the two words so recently spoken: “Undress me.”
Touch me, that order implies.
So I touch.
Stroke into life the erection as large and perfect as the rest. Well, it was already fully alive and ready; I merely gave it the attention it was begging for by standing so tall and thick and straight.
Hands go to my shoulders, gently and implacably push me to my knees. I cast my eyes upward and obey. Mouth wide, taste flesh. Lips curled in to sheathe my teeth, hands plunging in a slow rhythm. Watch now. Quick breaths go ragged, hands clutch my hair, voice box utters guttural moans. Taste smokiness, essence leaking.
“Enough. Jesus, X.” A curse, more rare still than a smile.
Suddenly, I’m airborne, carried into my room and tossed unceremoniously onto my bed. I scramble backward, knock aside pillows, but I’m too slow. Lip curled in a snarl, eyes feral, hands reaching and gripping my hips. Tugging me roughly, and my heart leaps a mile from chest to throat as hips wedge my thighs apart. Face to face?
I dare not think, dare not even hope. Breathe, cling to broad hard shoulders . . . exhale sharply as I am pierced.
Movement, face to face.
I can’t breathe.
This is a night for firsts, it seems.
I dare to flutter my hips to the rhythm of our sex, dare to keep my eyes open and see. There is turmoil. Desire. Conflict. Heated need. Demand. Fire. Urgency.
And also in me?
I shy away from parsing and enumerating my own emotions. To do so would be to open Pandora’s box, and I dare not.
Desperate movement now. Eyes on mine. Unwavering, piercing directness. There is a world in those dark orbs, a whole galaxy a mere mortal such as I cannot fathom.
Close.
So close.
Breath leaves me. Neither of us looks away.
Oh God.
Hands claw and clutch, grip and tug and bruise.
“Fuck. Fuck!” And then total absence. Everything ripped away, heat, presence, breath, body.
The moment is gutted.
“Caleb? Did I do something wrong?”
That huge body stands at the window, silhouetted, erotic male sexuality in shadow, shoulders bowed, head bent, hands wide and high on the frame, hips narrow and trim, buttocks firm and clenched and bubble-round and taut looking, legs like Grecian pillars. Shoulders heaving.
“Over here, X.” A command, uttered so low as to be nearly inaudible.
I hear it, though, for I am painfully attuned to every whisper, every breath.
I rise, move tentatively to the window. Touch a shoulder with trembling fingers. “Are you okay? Was it me?”
“Shut up. Stand at the window.” So unexpectedly harsh. Almost angry.
At me?
I dare not question again. That tone brooks no argument.
I stand at the window, shaking all over. Turn my head, look over my shoulder. Oh. That face, cast into shadow now, but not the shadows of absent light, rather the shadows of veiled emotion, features smoothed into unfeeling stone. Only the lips slightly pursed and tightened betray the tumult within.
I shake with cold, goose bumps pebbling on my skin.
A foot nudges mine apart, and then arms like boa constrictors snake around my chest, clutch my breast, another around my waist to clutch my hip. Behind me, bent at the knee, a moment to fit that hot thick erection to my opening, and then a hard upward, inward thrust. I gasp, a shrieking exhale of surprise and pain. So hard, so sudden, so rough.
No gentility here, no tenderness. None of the eroticism of only moments ago. This is what I’ve always known. Roughly thrusting, roughly using. Grunts in my ear.
I stand straight upright and cling to the arms gripping me, slippery with sweat and corded with muscle. Mad, wild thrusts from behind, straight up and down, legs bent wide and far apart.
Finally, when I think surely the moment of climax must be close, I find myself shoved forward so I’m bent double at the waist, hair fisted and jerked so my head snaps backward, a hand gripping my hip crease with bruising force.
Pound, pound, pound.
I whimper, shriek, and then— “Caleb!”
Slow now. Still just as rough and harsh and wild, but slowly.
Uttering that name, it was a plea. A protestation. All I could manage.
I feel the release, the hot gush.
The hands release me, suddenly, and I fall forward, bump up against the window. Opening my eyes, I look out the window and see across the street, an office tower black in the night, all the windows darkened save one, the window opposite my own. A figure in the light, watching.
What a show.
Hands, gentle now, lift me, cradle me, set me on my bed. I fight tears. I ache. My heart aches, my soul. What did I do to deserve so rough and thoughtless a fucking? There was no mutuality in that. No thought for my pleasure.
I let myself drowse, escape into sleep.
But a sound buzzes in my ear, slips through the curtain of unconsciousness. A voice. “I’m sorry, X. You’re mine, and only mine. You can’t know. I wish you could, but you can’t know. You can’t know, or you’d—no. You’re mine. And I don’t share.”
Nonsensical words. I know who owns me; that is one mistake I shall not make again.
An apology?
Gods do not offer apologies.
Madame X Synopsis and Purchase Button
Madame X invites you to test the limits of control in this provocative new novel from New York Times bestselling author Jasinda Wilder.
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...
About the author:
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.
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...
About the author:
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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