Due to popular demand, CD Reiss’s Complete Submission…
the complete eight book bundle of the Submission Series…
is NOW AVAILABLE on ALL RETAILERS.

As a bonus, the first three chapters of Coda are in the back,
and CD Reiss promises they’re hot as hell.

Amazon US:
Amazon UK:
Barnes & Noble:
Google Play:

Blurb

This bundle contains books 1-8 of the USA Today Bestselling Submission Series, and totals 1300 pages of intense, steamy romance that will leave you breathless.

***

Jonathan Drazen.
Gorgeous. Check.
Charming. Check.
Smart. Check.

Rich. Hey, I’m not gonna complain.

All the ingredients for a few nights of mind-blowing pleasure are right there. He’s made it perfectly clear he can’t love me, and I’m not out to fall in love either.

But I can’t stay away from him. He’s got this bossy way about him in bed. The word “Sir,” falls from my lips, and when he tells me to get on my knees…well, my knees have a mind of their own.

I got this. I can be his slave for a few nights and walk away unscathed.

We get in. Get it on. Get the hell out. Done.

He knows the line between love and lust. It’s right between my legs. Now, let’s see if that line blurs for me.

EXCERPTS

FROM CODA (RATED NC-17)

“You know what, Monica, you don’t even know yourself. Look at you. I haven’t seen you this relaxed in months. The only time you let your worry go is when you give me control. And your worry is what keeps you from being honest.”
I swallowed. Blinked. A torrent of wetness welled behind my eyes, “I don’t want to break the scene.”
“Stay still. Stay naked. Speak your mind.”
“I almost died with you a hundred times. That recovery room, they had you in this induced coma and you looked dead. There were bags of blood. Bags, hanging over you and you were all opened up. And, I’m sorry, I haven’t said this because you’re the one who went through it.” I swallowed a gallon of tears. “I don’t want to see you like that again. But I think about it all the time. I dream about it. I see it when I close my eyes. I want you to live, so I do what I think is going to make you happy and I always get it wrong. Stay or go. I give you attention or none. It’s always wrong.”
“What about your happiness?”
“It doesn’t matter. Not as much as yours. It’s not life or death.”
“It is, Monica. It is.”
I shook my head. “You can’t convince me of that. We can do this hurtful honesty thing all day. You’re the priority and I’m okay with that. Deal with it.”
He nodded, looking down for a blink, then up at me. He reached for my wrists.
“These go behind your back.”
I did as instructed.
“Now, get on your knees.”
I bent them. With my hands behind my back, it was hard to balance.
“Do you need some help?” he asked.
“Yes.”
I thought he’d take me gently by the elbow, but dragged me down. He was right. I was relaxed, totally submitting and trusting him, loving every bit of discomfort he dished out.
“Spread your knees apart.”
I did, too slowly for him. He kicked them wide.
“Do you remember your safeword?” He asked, unbuckling his belt.
“Yes.” A tingling rush went down my spine with the promise of his dominance and the way it made me forget how fragile he really was.
His cock was out in the next second. “Open. Your. Mouth.”

FROM THE SUBMISSION BUNDLE (RATED X)

“Get on your knees.”
Even through the phone, I could tell Jonathan was using his dominant voice. I got nervous that I would dampen the expensive panties so badly the protective paper at the crotch would curl and peel off. “Yes, sir.”
Facing the dressing room mirror, I got to my knees. The black garter and stocking I was trying on looked as though it had been taped on me. The black satin belt slung low on my hips held the straps that dropped down my thighs with silver rings.
“How does it look?” he asked.
“I think you’ll like it.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“You really want to know?” I asked.
“I’m sitting in the back of my car, thinking about you. It’s wall-to-wall traffic. So, yes, I want to know how it makes you feel.”
I heard women outside the dressing room door. Their soft conversations and laughter were muffled by the clothing draped around the room, lingerie with bows and clasps and metal rings set into lush satins and elastics. Every piece I’d tried on aroused me, and when he called, the addition of his voice to the mix brought me near tears.
“How do I feel?” I asked. The carpet dug into my knees, and I was goose bumped from the air conditioner, but that wasn’t what he meant. The black satin bra’s cups were made of two panels that could be moved for access. It felt so comfortable, I didn’t even know I had it on. The curves of the underwear accentuated the length of my pelvis. “I feel like fucking.”
I heard him take a breath. I did enjoy shocking him. “Tuck the phone under your left ear.”
“Done.”
“Done?”
“Done, sir.”
“Put your left hand on the mirror,” he said. “Lean on it.”
“Yes, sir.” My hand spread on the mirror like a starfish. It would leave a mark.
“Put your right hand between your legs.”
“Jonathan…”
“Do it.”
My cunt clenched with anticipation. I stroked lightly through the string of cloth, sucking air between my teeth from the tingle of the touch.
“Get under the fabric,” he said, as if he could see I hadn’t put my fingers on my skin.
“Yes, sir.” The word sir seemed to vibrate not just outward, to him, but inward, down a thick nerve connecting my vocal cords to my core. When I slipped my fingers under the panties, I shuddered.
“You wet?”
“So fucking wet,” I whispered.
“Your legs spread?”
“Yes.”
“Look at yourself in the mirror.”
I did, and I was greeted by a face slack with arousal, flushed with sex. “Yes, sir.” I watched myself submit to him, in that outfit, as if I needed to be more turned on. Outside the door, I heard a throat clear.
“How do you look?” he asked.
“I look like I can’t stay in here much longer without someone coming.”
“You got that right,” he mumbled. Papers shuffled on his side. He was working while telling me to finger myself. A true multitasker. “Stroke your clit and all the way down to that beautiful hole.” I groaned, my cheek caressing the phone. “Keep going. Work your clit. Go around it twice, then over the top.”
I did, and the heavenliness came as much from my own touch as the knowledge I obeyed him. “Oh, Jonathan.”
“Put two fingers in.”
My pussy clenched around my fingers, kissing them, sucking them in. The heel of my hand found my clit as I pushed my fingers in and out.
He whispered, “Tomorrow night, when I see you, I’m going to put my fingers in you and lick you until you beg me to stop. Then I’m going to squeeze your clit with my lips until you come again.”
“I want you.”
“You will have me.”
“May I come?” There was a distinct possibility he’d say no, and I was so far gone, holding off my orgasm would hurt. “Please let me come.” His silence tormented me. “Please, sir.” I smiled a little. I never thought I’d actually want to call a lover sir. But it felt good, and right, and fun.
I hears his smile as he said, “You may.”
I pressed my whole hand along my wet cleft, feeling everything from the tingle around my pussy to the powerful ache at my clit, back and forth, slowly. My breathing got hard and short. I had to keep it down. If I could hear myself, someone else could as well. I closed my eyes and buckled. My hand left the mirror as my back arched, encompassing me in heat from my knees to my waist. I bit my lip to keep from crying out. My hips pumped as pleasure washed over me in impossibly long waves. The phone dropped to the carpet.

Author Information  

CD Reiss is a USA Today and Amazon bestseller. She still has to chop wood and carry water, which was buried in the fine print. Her lawyer is working it out with God but in the meantime, if you call and she doesn’t pick up, she’s at the well, hauling buckets.
Born in New York City, she moved to Hollywood, California to get her master’s degree in screenwriting from USC. In case you want to know, that went nowhere, but it did embed TV story structure in her head well enough for her to take a big risk on a TV series structured erotic series called Songs of Submission. It’s about a kinky billionaire hung up on his ex-wife, an ingenue singer with a wisecracking mouth; art, music and sin in the city of Los Angeles.
Critics have dubbed the books “poetic,” “literary,” and “hauntingly atmospheric,” which is flattering enough for her to put it in a bio, but embarrassing enough for her not to tell her husband, or he might think she’s some sort of braggart who’s too good to give the toilets a once-over every couple of weeks or chop a cord of wood.
If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine.

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