Contemporary Erotic Romance/13,000 Words

Elite Doms of Washington Novella

When Yvette Sava takes a spill on the ice outside of her Washington, D.C hotel, she knows the handsome man that helps her up spells trouble.

Ryan Knightbridge is strong, passionate and demanding—and far too young for her. But Ryan has waited a year for his chance with the lovely submissive, who withdrew from society following her high-profile divorce. Unable to resist his charm, Yvette agrees to spend two days and two nights with him, allowing herself to indulge in desires shuttered long ago—but with a clear deadline.

Now, Ryan has one wintry weekend to prove to her she’s worthy of love—and he’s worthy of her submission. 

Other Books by Elizabeth


Yvette’s boots crunched across the snow that dusted the sidewalk. The weatherman had predicted Washington, D.C. would receive five inches of the white stuff by morning. The accumulation would shut down the city. Well, Yvette didn’t mind. She didn’t have anywhere to go.

In fact, she hadn’t expected to go out this evening at all. Then the snow began to fall, and Pennsylvania Avenue looked so pretty from her suite window. She’d needed some air and the snowy night offered a rare chance to be outside without the jostle of the famous avenue’s usual hordes of people.

She headed west on the city street, toward the White House. As she approached the corner of Fifteenth Street, more people joined her on the sidewalk, headed toward President’s Park. A large twittering crowd had formed in front of a stage where the First Lady stood amid men with earpieces that were attached to wires disappearing into their dark suits. Yvette crossed Executive Avenue toward the crowd just as white lights cascaded down the National Christmas Tree.

She’d forgotten all about the annual holiday lighting event. Days of the week had long ago slipped from her mind. Although she’d been seeking solitude, this was a D.C. tradition she usually enjoyed. Small children jumped up and down as the one hundred-foot tree, decorated in glass balls the size of their little heads, glistened with falling snow. Photographers’ flashbulbs joined the twinkling lights of the massive tree. Adults clapped politely, if not urgently. They had to be eager to head out before the snow made it impossible to travel.

A couple next to her kissed as if it were New Year’s Eve. She looked away only to have her eyes fall on yet another young couple closing the coat of a little boy with moppish brown hair now wet with snowflakes. Her heart flipped over in her chest.

She backed away from the horde—too full of people, too full of couples. The world revolved around the number two, while Yvette’s “plus one” tonight would be a bottle of champagne. Nothing set things right like a little Dom Perignon—even if drunk alone.

Yvette hurried back across the abandoned street, her breath hanging in the air. She paused at the intersection to take in the trees along Pennsylvania Avenue. They were dusted in a confectioner’s sugar coating of snow. She breathed in the crisp, clean air—an anomaly in the city usually choked with the smell of bus exhaust. She couldn’t recall a time when Washington was so quiet. Perhaps she’d sleep better tonight given the usual traffic sounds would be silenced.

She quickened her steps toward The Oak, the posh hotel where she’d been staying for the last month. The holidays stalled her condominium renovations, providing just another reason to dread the coming weeks. As if spending Christmas and New Year’s Eve alone wasn’t insult enough, she’d be stuck in a hotel.

The flakes fell faster and more thickly from the black sky. She’d had the foresight to wear a hat and boots, but she’d forgotten gloves. Her jacket pockets were a poor substitute for mittens. Cold crept into her bones.

The concierge at The Oak waved at her from the front door. She lifted her hand up to respond.

“Oh shit!” One second she stood, and the next she sat in a cold puddle of snow. Wet seeped through her thin trousers and snowflakes dropped onto her eyelashes. Great. The doorman will have an entertaining story to tell the staff.

Before she could push herself up, two large hands scooped under her armpits, and she was suddenly on her feet.

“Are you okay?” The male voice sounded genuinely concerned.

“Oh, thank you. I don’t know what—”

“Yvette DeCord?”Yvette turned to face her rescuer. The tall man dusted snow from his large overcoat. Drops of moisture clung to his dark hair. He clapped his hands together to shake more flakes from his gloves. He pulled his hand from one to extend a congenial, bare handshake.

She let his large, warm clasp engulf her own. “Yvette Sava… now.” She couldn’t assign a name to the man beaming down at her.

“Ryan Knightbridge. We met at the Correspondents’ Dinner last year.” He slipped his hand back into his glove.

Oh, great, a reporter. “Oh, yes, of course.” Not. She couldn’t recall the dinner, let alone anyone she’d met there. Of course, she’d sleepwalked through every function over the last twelve months. She could have met the President of the United States and not known. Divorce had that effect. It sucked all awareness from one’s body, leaving only distant memories and the most basic abilities, like how to sleep and walk—if you were lucky.

“That was quite a fall you took. You sure you’re okay?” His brows knit together, and he took her arm.

“Oh, I’m fine. The pavement is just really slick.” She tried to wrest free of his grasp, but his hold proved too strong.

“Let’s get you inside. Warm you up.”

Ryan had Yvette through The Oak’s revolving door in moments. He peeled her coat from her shoulders and handed it to James, the concierge, who didn’t look half as concerned as Ryan. Of course, the man had probably been watching people fall all night.

“James, please see Ms. Sava’s things are taken up to her room. We’ll be in the lounge.” He turned to Yvette, putting his gloves in his overcoat pocket. “An Irish coffee would do you some good.”

“Mr. Knightbridge—”

“Ryan.” He reclaimed her arm.

“I appreciate the assistance, but I really must get back to my room.”

“Oh, of course. You’re probably soaked. I’ll escort you upstairs.”

“I’m fine, really.” She stepped backward and winced. Her hip would be black and blue in the morning and the scrapes on the palms of her hands were beginning to throb.

“You’re hurt.”

“No. Thank you, Mr. Knightbridge, you’ve been most helpful.” Her eyes had adjusted to the indoor lighting and she finally got a good look at the man. She was momentarily mesmerized. His steel-gray eyes reflected the twinkly white lights of The Oak’s Christmas tree. His dark hair glistened with moisture from melting snow.

She took her coat from James and headed to the elevator bank. She wasn’t about to let the man near her suite. His looks spelled danger, and not the serial killer kind. The sex kind.

Yvette started at the warmth of Ryan’s hand on the small of her back. The touch jarred something inside her belly. She couldn’t recall the last time a gentleman had touched her in such a familiar fashion.