New York Times Bestseller CD Reiss goes back to her roots with a dark, intense tale that breaks boundaries and shatters expectations in Rough Edge.

Who do you love?

The decent man you married?

The surgeon shattered during the war?

The emotionless Dominant who appears in his eyes more and more often?

All of them?

Even when he breaks you?

Even when he makes you beg?

Is there no pain or pleasure he cannot deliver?

What will you sacrifice to heal him?

Will he sacrifice his sanity to protect you from the exquisite torture of his cruel hands?

This is more than a marriage.

It’s a crack at the edges of the mind and heart.

It’s a promise written in the heavens and a wound splitting the sky.

Love may be the death of both of you.


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My Review

I’ve learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to CD Reiss’ darker reads; I almost always go in blind, dispelling any and all theories right out of the gate, allowing Reiss to take me where she wants me to go, knowing that the journey is not straightforward and that it will push my boundaries when it comes to separating the world and characters she’s created from the conscious world outside.

But, I have to admit, even with a solid game plan like the one I initiated before I read page 1, I was not at all prepared for where Reiss took her characters and consequently took her readers in Rough Edge, and that’s because the dark erotic vibe that I’ve come to love when it comes to Reiss’ layered story lines is beyond anything I’ve seen, which means that for a lot of it, I was lost in the complications of the plot and confounded by the actions and reactions of two people who love each other with an emotion that is both obsessive and essential at the same time.

I don’t want to give any of the plot away because to truly appreciate how masterfully Reiss crafts readers’ introduction and initial interaction into this married couple and all that they must endure now that they are both no longer in the Armed Forces, it must be experienced without preconceived notions because once readers have been immersed in all the kinky fuckery that abounds in the story as well as the healthy doses of dark and twisty encounters, they’ll find they can’t let go of this addictive read even after the last page of the book is read.

Absolutely Mindfucked…that’s the only way I can describe how I felt after reading the beginning of Greyson and Caden’s story, and it’s not just from the boundaries that Caden pushes when it comes to his physical relationship with his wife; it’s also
the fact that it was extremely difficult to wrap my brain around the two sides of Caden’s personality that seem to co-exist – one dominating the other, at times, but neither ever fully gain control, which means that the man behind the monster and the monster behind the man are both actively responsible for the crazy ride Greyson and Caden experience.

I also have to say that as much as I attempted to delve further into both Greyson and Caden’s psyches to truly understand their perspectives and the reasons behind their words and actions, I could never quite grasp them, and while that’s frustrating for me as a reader who needs to understand the inner workings of the plot and its characters, the analytical literary nerd in me loves that I’m only getting small fragments of the characters’ reality, which means that as the series continues, those pieces will begin to create the big picture, which scares the hell out of me, but it also leaves me anxiously waiting to see all of their craziness out in the open.

4.5 Poison Apples


In the dark, during the fundraising video, she leaned into me, taking my hand. “What’s going on?”


“Caden.” My name was more than a statement. It was a comment on how well she knew the animal, and how well she loved it.

If eyes could listen, hers did, gazing at me in the darkness. I couldn’t lie to her for much longer.

The entire invite list was watching the video. The bar was empty. The hallway lights were dimmed. The kitchen staff moved constantly and quietly to set up the buffet.

I laced my fingers in hers. She had a gold band we’d gotten out of expediency. No big sparkling rock. No sign I’d ever courted her properly before marrying her.

My father always said a man didn’t skip steps if he wanted to do something once.

I slid my cheek to hers and whispered in her ear, “I want to destroy you.”

Her hand tightened in mine so tightly I could feel our bones. Her glands must have fired, because the apples and the perfume melded and became something so uniquely her my balls ached—but not for simple release. For something more. An agreement of ownership.

Waiting wasn’t an option.

Pulling her by the hand, I headed for the hallway.

“Caden,” she said when we were away from the event, “slow down.”

I didn’t. I couldn’t. I pulled her down the carpeted steps to the lower level, stepping over a velvet rope at the bottom. The lights were out in the hall. Three doors led to three empty event rooms.

“What’s with you lately?” she asked.

“Are you saying no?”

“I’m asking a question.”

I backed into one of the rooms and pulled her in. It was dark but for light coming from under the doorways on each side. I walked in deeper, eyes adjusting quickly enough to avoid the tables and stacks of chairs on wheeled dollies.

“So am I.” I faced her. “Are you saying no?”

“What are you hoping I’ll say yes to?”

“I’m going to pull that dress up until I can get to these hard nipples.” I pinched them through the dress and she gasped. “Then I’ll bend you over one of these tables and fuck you so hard walking’s going to hurt. Are you saying no?”

“I’m not. But I want to know what’s going on with you.”

“Pull your dress up before I shred it.”

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About the Author

CD Reiss is a New York Times 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 give her a big enough ego to write novels.

She’s frequently referred to as the Shakespeare of Smut which is flattering but hasn’t ever gotten her out of chopping that cord of wood.

If you meet her in person, you should call her Christine.


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