Submitting to Him: Book 1

By Ava Leigh Holden

Book 1 in the Submitting to Him dark romance serial. - 50 Shades of Grey meets House of Cards in this seductive, explosive thriller.

Washington DC isn’t Jenna Booker’s city. And crowds are definitely not her thing. But when her editor sends her to cover a fundraising gala, the journalism student finds herself unable to resist Adam Stone, the dark-hearted and driven billionaire who wants to tear his way through the entire political system – and who takes women as his pleasure and gives nothing in return.

And when this impossibly sexy, impossibly damaged man shows Jenna what really hides behind the picture-perfect lives and desperate ambitions in the world’s most powerful city, she finds herself falling into a world she never knew existed – just as she’s falling for Adam.

But Adam and Jenna are both haunted by their secrets... and a beautiful girl’s murder in the heart of Washington could expose them all.

This is a serial romance which features cliffhangers and mature content.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ava Leigh Holden
• Release date: Oct 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463788714

Book preview

Submitting to Him

Book One

Copyright 2018 Ava Leigh Holden

Published by Ava Leigh Holden at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

About Ava Leigh Holden

Other books by Ava Leigh Holden

Connect with Ava Leigh Holden

Acknowledgements

You know this is for you, and all our Saturday afternoons.

Chapter One - Adam

I don't know what George Washington had in mind for this city back in 1790 when he first signed the D.C. Residence bill into law, but it sure as hell wasn't a man like me.

But then, looking around the room… the Founding Fathers, with all their high hopes, hadn't exactly counted on just how much greed would come to infect the highest corridors of American power either.

For me it was just another Saturday night in D.C. Another black-tie fundraising gala, and by 8:30, I was bored.

Even for me, that was a new record.

But being here – right in the seething heart of the swamp - was a necessary sacrifice.

The ballroom of the Sapone Hotel was getting loud. A singer wrapped in a shimmering ruby dress and a band in fitted black tuxedos performed up on stage, playing jazzy lounge covers of classic pop hits.

Waiters and waitresses in white jackets and black bowties strode across the floor. They carried silver trays of expensive entrées out to tables and tried not to look too anxious. The singer was doing her best to work the crowd, but nobody was paying attention.

A few people, all men, were already drunk enough to embarrass themselves on the dancefloor. But most of the hundreds of guests crowded the sea of perfectly-set, gold-clothed tables, leaning in together in little packed huddles. None of them ever missed a chance to make a deal, and this was the perfect setting for it. The buzz of conversation was competing with the band for what could make the most noise.

The talking was winning.

I motioned to the bartender and he moved to mix me another Old-Fashioned. At least I could rely on the staff. It was more than I could say for the rest of the people here.

I leaned back on the bar and took them in. It was the usual crowd. Politicians, lobbyists, hangers-on.

Once you learned to see them for who they really were... it was impossible to see anything else. Behind their fake smiles, behind their glittering jewels. Behind their laughter. Their sophistication. Their picture-perfect presentation.

Greedy. Greedy and even though they had so much, always desperate to take even just a little more. Not for anyone else. Only for themselves.

It was an effort to keep the sneer off my face. These people had their uses.

Washington was a city where everyone wore a mask. To hide their past, to hide their stained souls, to hide what they truly wanted.

Myself included, of course.

But my mask was better than anyone else’s.

I recognized most of the faces here. I’d been at functions or fundraisers with at least half of them before. At the Hay-Adams Hotel, at the Willard Intercontinental. Mostly men, who liked to talk about foreign trade levels and overpriced Scotch and make D.C. decisions that shaped the rest of the world.

Sure, politicians loved talking about how they were going to clean up D.C. But behind closed doors they liked Washington just the way it was. A city where nothing ever changed, nobody with any real power was ever held accountable, and there was always another fat kickback just around the corner.

My drink arrived and I nodded my thanks to the bartender. When I passed him a fifty-dollar bill, he tried to give it back.

Sir, thank you. Again. But I keep telling you, your ticket covers the cost of your drinks for the evening.

So put it with the others. Split it with the other staff. Or don't. It's up to you.

He sighed. But he took it.

Thank you. I mean it. And please let me know if you need anything else.

There were three more fifties tucked in a glass behind the bar. All from me. Apparently I was the only one here who thought to tip the staff.

I’d set up two deals already tonight. Nothing to change the world, but both would lead to bigger and better things. And both would move the senators behind them further under my influence.

I took a swallow of my drink, mostly to hide my boredom.

I’d just escaped a pair of lobbyists from Ohio who were desperate to talk about subsidies for auto manufacturing. If they’d had connections at Ferrari I might have been interested. But that was the price of attending a D.C. function. For every conversation that was worth something, you had to get through twenty more desperate pleas for donations.

But I was getting closer. Every deal I struck, every night like this I forced myself to go to, was another step towards my ultimate goal. And then everything would be different.

Still, the familiar tension was rising in my muscles. A tightness in my back, a clench in my jaw. The old anger and rage, never far from the surface, was always more alive at times like this. When I was surrounded by people like these.

I needed to find release. A woman. Either here or… somewhere more private.

The club was always available. But I'd been trying to limit my time at the Masquerade recently. I controlled my vices, not the other way around.

It would also raise some eyebrows in the crowd if I left this early. But another hour here? Knowing it wouldn't be long before some wannabe, never-would-be, congressman plucked up the courage - or more likely, drank enough - to demand I fund their personal campaign for President? I didn't care who I offended.

On stage, the band finished playing their latest cover with a last jazzy burst of guitar and drums. And in the silence that followed, before they started up again, the room echoed to the anxious sound of one single, solitary person applauding.

I couldn’t help but grin. Typical D.C. Everyone thought they were too important, too above it all to clap for the band. Except for someone who obviously wasn't familiar with the Washington Rules of How To Act.

Then I saw the girl clapping. And I forgot every thought of leaving.

She stood by the back wall, wearing a deep blue dress that left her soft shoulders bare. It hugged her curves as if it had been painted on, and showed just enough of her pale skin to tease me. Her long brown hair fell in thick, dark waves to the top of her back. She was voluptuous, and obviously nervous, and perfect. Not like the blonde trophy zombies with bleached-white teeth and botoxed orange skin that packed the rest of the room.

And as I watched her, she looked around, completely out of place. A frightened deer that had stumbled into a clearing full of lions. Her claps slowed, and stopped, as she worked out she was the only person in the room applauding. I didn't even realize I was leaning forward until she met my gaze and blushed red and looked away.

I turned my back to her and faced the bar.

What the hell was that, Stone?

I never lost control. It was the first lesson I'd learned when I'd started on my new life, the life that had brought me here. And yet... when I saw her, when those eyes met mine, even for a heartbeat...

A furnace roared to life inside my chest, hot and furious. And hungry.

She could be my perfect release.

She could be my perfect distraction.

I couldn't let her see me again

Reviews for Submitting to Him

[Irene Villamor · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Waiting for book 2 and book 3, very interesting story.