Hi! I’m Katerina Ross, and here is an excerpt from my M/M novel “Tenderly Wicked”. Max, an American expat in Russia, has always been interested in the wicked ways of BDSM, but his unusual tastes haven’t always been well received. Now he’s planning to go to a very dubious BDSM club in Moscow”¦

Max didn’t normally behave like a truly dominant person, the one to be obeyed and worshiped. In his fantasies, he managed to be stern, calm, and always in control, but not in his everyday life. He was sure everyone, everyone in the club would take one look in his direction and recognize him for what he was: a pathetic wannabe Dom, edgy and insecure.
He wasn’t bad looking, but he wasn’t strikingly handsome either, and had no commanding quality about his appearance that a Dom, in his opinion, ought to possess. Could he present himself as someone else tonight””as a tough guy? Could he fake it? Perhaps he should have added some unmistakably dominant cues to his appearance: leather trousers, boots of the Doc Martin type, or a pair of handcuffs dangling from his belt loop. Or maybe not. Most likely, he would have not only felt, but also looked ridiculous.
His black jeans and matching dark t-shirt would have to do. Luckily, there was no dress code in the club. Visitors were encouraged to enter into the spirit of the evening by wearing fetish gear, but some clearly preferred something less noticeable. For the last ten minutes, Max had been contemplating a quite ordinarily dressed guy who stood near the club door, chain-smoking. Well, some people didn’t need special clothes to look attractive. In this case, faded jeans, tight and low on the hips, and an equally tight white t-shirt were enough.
He was lean and wiry, probably a few years younger than Max, with unruly auburn hair””the kind you’d want to put your hands in and tug or pet or smooth””and milky-white skin redheads often had. His every movement was perfection, full of quicksilver grace. Max was mesmerized by the way a jumble of thin leather bracelets slid back and forth along his slender arm as he brought a cigarette to his mouth and then let his hand fall. He also wore a sort of charm, a miniature bunch of keys attached to a belt loop on his jeans, on the right hip. Too small to be car or apartment keys””just dangling there for decoration. Max had read about it: in the BDSM community, keys worn on the right hip indicated the wearer was submissive. Oh how good it could be to pin this pretty boy to the bed, hold him down, slip handcuffs on his narrow wrists”¦ But Max instantly laughed at himself. Hey, don’t be ridiculous. You’re never going to get such a gorgeous creature. Miracles don’t happen, not with an amateur sadist like you.
You can find my novel here: Amazon and Evernight Publishing