Built to Command

[taoschild]

Built to Command: Dominance Was Always Her Nature is now out.
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Here is the copy cover:

She became stronger than her husband. Then she became stronger than their rules.

Now, as Dani rebuilds herself after motherhood, muscle returns thicker, stronger, and power hums through her. It reshapes her marriage, her identity, and the way the world responds to her presence. As her strength grows, she begins to taste the intoxicating freedom of becoming undeniable in every area of her life.

But when a louder, more aggressive, overtly masculine rival enters her gym, the tension between them ignites instantly.

Their rivalry escalates into a private confrontation that will test more than strength. It will test restraint, authority, and the difference between domination that consumes... and governing power.

Built to Command is a sensual, psychologically charged erotic love story about marriage, muscle, and embodied power—where desire and dominance collide.
A standalone novel and Book Three of The Reluctant Domme series.

[taoschild]

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[taoschild]

A scene from the book when she's in the car the day before the wrestling competition with the other big girl in the gym:

The gravel crunches under my sneakers like it's personally annoyed with me. Each step over potholes and puddles is a tiny reminder that the company still hasn't fixed this driveway even though we'll go public soon and then everything will change has been the company mantra for, oh, roughly forever. A year? Fourteen months? Time blurs when you're injecting experimental hormones and pretending your life is normal.

My phone buzzes in my hand. It's Jack.

<<Home early for a change. I'll make dinner and feed Rosie.>>

In another universe, my heart would do that stupid flutter thing. The one where I picture him in our kitchen, sleeves rolled up, stirring something that smells like comfort while our daughter babbles at him from her high chair. In theory, this is exactly what I wanted: a partner who shows up, who handles the domestic load without being asked, who makes me feel like I'm not carrying the entire world on my traps and delts.

This is what I wanted. This just isn't when I wanted it.

I'm not nervous about tomorrow night, but I want to make sure I did everything I can to prepare. Lift light tomorrow, eat well, hydrate, and take a shot of Noveregen tonight. The little glass vial is sitting in my lunchbox cooler in my hand like a secret grenade.

Doing the injection with Jack in the next room when the side effects have gotten... pronounced... since the pregnancy hormones decided to throw a permanent after-party in my bloodstream is a hard no.

I slide into the driver's seat of my SUV, the leather still warm from the afternoon sun, and lock the doors even though the parking lot is basically a ghost town. Three other cars, maybe. Everyone else has already fled to their normal lives.

Honestly, I hardly even think about it. I just know it's going to happen. I reach into the center console, fingers brushing the cool vial, the alcohol wipe, the pre-loaded syringe that's become as familiar as my wedding ring.

My pulse hammers like a war drum in my throat, already too loud, too fast, before the needle even touches skin. The anticipation isn't sweet. It's a low, vicious thrum coiled deep in my gut, black and patient, waiting to uncoil.

I shove my pants down past the heavy curve of my quads, the thick cords of muscle I've carved into something brutal over years of iron and rage. The skin there is smooth, taut, unyielding. I swab it with cold alcohol, the sting waking every nerve like a warning I ignore.

The needle slides in clean. No hesitation. I depress the plunger slow, deliberate, watching the clear liquid disappear into me like poison I invited.

Then it arrives.

It's nothing close to the gradual fluttering like the first few months. This is violence. A molten fist slamming through every vein, searing upward from the injection site, ripping through my core, flooding straight to my pussy in a single, merciless surge. I choke on air. My thighs snap shut so hard the muscles tremble, the obscene power in them suddenly alive, predatory, like the meat of them could crush bone if I let it. Every fiber screams the same command: more.
The syringe clatters into the cup holder. My hands shake from the sheer, animal force of what's waking inside me.

My breath comes short, ragged.

I shouldn't do this here. I know I shouldn't. I should get the fuck out of this empty lot before someone sees. But reason is ash. The need isn't asking. It's already tearing through me, claws sunk deep in my spine, dragging me under.

It's not a choice. My body demands it.

[taoschild]

I yank the waistband of my leggings lower, exposing the swollen, dripping mess between my legs. I'm drenched already. The slick runs down my inner thighs, obscene, undeniable proof of how badly my body has betrayed me.

My fingers plunge in without preamble, two at once, rough, curling hard against that spongy, greedy place inside. A guttural sound rips out of me. There's nothing human left in it. It's feral. I'm feral. I bite the inside of my cheek until copper blooms on my tongue, trying to cage the next one, but it escapes anyway: a broken, dangerous moan that fogs the window.

My other hand claws up under the sports bra, shoving it high. My tits spill free. They have to. They're heavy, aching, and my nipples already peaked into tight, painful points. I grip one breast hard enough to bruise, palms flaying over it until my thumb captures a nipple pinching in brutal circles. The jolt arrows straight to my clit. I grind the heel of my palm against it while my fingers fuck deeper, faster, the wet, obscene sounds filling the car like evidence.

God.

The muscle memory of my body takes over. My hips snap forward, riding my own hand with punishing rhythm. The powerful slabs of my quads flex and release, rocking the whole damn SUV on its shocks. I imagine Jack's face and his soft concern. I'm still the woman he married even when I feel like a science experiment, but the image cracks. He can't touch this. No one can. This is mine alone: raw, ugly, unstoppable.

Heat coils tighter, darker. My breath saws in and out, ragged, animal. Sweat beads between my breasts, trickles down the carved valley of my abs. My bicep bulges as I drive my fingers harder, curling, scissoring, chasing the edge with something close to violence.

When it hits, it isn't a wave. It's a rupture.

A silent scream tears through every muscle. My back arches off the seat so violently the headrest thumps the window. My pussy clamps down on my fingers like a trap, pulsing, gushing, slick coating my hand, my wrist, the leather beneath me. Black spots burst behind my eyes. For one endless second the world narrows to the brutal, pounding release ripping me apart from the inside.

Then silence.

Just my heaving chest. The metallic tang of blood in my mouth. The faint rock of the car settling. And the slow, creeping realization that I'm not alone.
One of the researchers Dr. Ellis, maybe? The nice one who always asks about Rosie. He pauses, squints toward my car, starts walking over.

Panic is instant, cold, sobering. I yank my bra down, wipe my hand on my pants, shove my hair back like that will somehow make me look composed. My face is on fire. I can feel the flush everywhere. My chest, my throat, my cheeks. Literally everywhere.

He taps on the window. Concern etched across his features.

I crack it an inch. The cool evening air rushes in like mercy.

"Hey," he says, voice gentle. "You okay? You looked... I don't know. Like you were in pain or something."

I force a smile. Casual. Breezy. Like I didn't just come undone in the company parking lot two seconds ago.

"Yeah, I'm good" I say, voice only a little hoarse. "Just... long day. Needed a minute before I go home and face the music so to speak."
He studies me for a beat, then nods. "Okay. Yeah, we all need those now and again."

You have no idea.