Sweet Submission

by Roxy Sloane

makes you think you’re strong enough to get by on your own?

  The whispers of insecurity flutter around me. But as I pull on a nightgown and slide into bed, I don’t feel afraid. Somehow, knowing that Cam is nearby, I finally feel safe.

  SIX: CAM

  I don’t sleep. I have black-out curtains, the latest in hi-tech white-noise machines, and a mattress imported from Italy and molded to my exact body shape, but all the expensive toys in the world can’t block out the thought of her sleeping just down the hall.

  I try to justify it with logic. She’s a beautiful woman, I’m a red-blooded man. This desire is perfectly normal.

  Except it’s not, not for me. I’m used to being in control: executing every scene with careful thought and planning. Last night, I wanted to throw her down and fuck her like a wild animal: no rules, no contract, no control. Demand her submission with my body instead of my mind.

  But she’s off-limits. It’s not just that she’s Ashcroft’s daughter, it’s that she needs me to protect her. She probably didn’t even know what she was doing, kissing me like that. She’s still recovering from her ordeal at the club—the last thing she really wants is another man.

  Besides, I saw the fear on her face when she was restrained. How she couldn’t get away from Brent fast enough. She thinks the scene is repulsive and wrong. If she knew what I wanted to do to her, she would never speak to me again.

  My alarm finally pulls me out of hours of restless thought. I go straight to my home gym and put in a few miles on the treadmill, running hard to chase the lustful thoughts from my mind. After my workout and a quick shower, I head downstairs. Usually I head straight to the office, but today I decide to fix some food. Isabelle felt alarmingly frail in my arms; she would probably live off coffee without my intervention.

  I rarely let my conquests stick around after the fun ends, and cooking breakfast for them is positively unheard of. But once again, I bend the rules for Isabelle.

  I’m scrambling eggs when she strolls into the kitchen. She’s barefoot, wrapped up in a bathrobe, and stunningly beautiful. Her tousled hair and sleepy pout just make me want to strip off that bulky robe, pin her against the cold steel refrigerator and—

  “Good morning,” I say. Cool, courteous and professional. “How did you sleep?”

  Her gaze flickers for a minute. Isabelle leans on the island, taking in the spread of fresh fruit, bacon, and toast.

  “Wow,” she smiles. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

  “Sometimes,” I say. “But I figured since you’ll be staying here, this would be a good opportunity to give you a tour of my kitchen.”

  She frowns. “What do you mean, staying here? I’m grateful for the place to sleep last night,” she says, “and for the rescue, but I do have a home of my own to get back to.”

  “Not right now.” I carefully stir the eggs and toss in a handful of fresh herbs. Isabelle is still looking pissed, so I add, “Look, it’s none of my business how you handle your personal life but I think your…boyfriend…could use a cooling off period.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Isabelle scowls.

  I feel a possessive surge of gladness, but I push it back. “Well, whomever he is, he needs to calm down.”

  He’s not the only one. If I laid eyes on Brent Ashcroft right now, I would break every bone in his fucking body. I’m still furious at him for hurting her. I turn my anger on my cappuccino machine instead, pouring Isabelle a cup and sliding it across the counter toward her.

  She blinks. “Thank you.” She takes a sip and sighs with satisfaction. “It’s perfect.”

  “See?” I try to lighten the mood. “There are some perks to staying here.”

  But Isabelle is being stubborn. “Cam, I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. I’ll handle things with Brent.”

  Over my dead body.

  I scowl. “I won’t hear of it, Isabelle. The decision’s made. You can’t be near him right now. Do you really think it’s safe?”

  Isabelle looks distraught, but doesn’t answer. We both know I’m right. She could go to a hotel, but I have to protect her and I can’t do that if she isn’t here with me.

  I soften. “I’ll have everything you need delivered to my apartment. You won’t want for anything.”

  Her lip trembles for a minute, but Isabelle keeps it together. She gives me a sharp nod. “Fine. For now. Thank you.”

  I fix her a plate of food and set it in front of her. She looks so lost, I feel sorry for her, but I push the emotion aside. I don’t want the complication of feelings to muddle up a simple arrangement. I’m doing a favor for Ashcroft, that’s all.

  “I’ll have my personal shopper pick out some things,” I add.

  I make a quick mental note in my head, running through a list of what I’ll need to order for her. Clothes I’d like to see her wearing. The panties I’d like to slip my hand into…

  The tools you’d like to use on that fair skin.

  I take a swig of my own coffee, nearly burning my tongue. What’s gotten into me?

  Isabelle suddenly reaches across the kitchen island. Her fingers rest lightly on mine. We’re barely touching, but it’s electric.

  “About last night…” she murmurs. Our eyes lock.

  I pull my hand away. “Don’t think twice about it,” I say harshly. “You were obviously upset and confused. Let it go.”

  I think I see a flash of rejection in her eyes, but I know I’m right to stop this train of thought. “I’ll be at the office all day,” I tell her, turning for the door. “You have my number if you need anything.”

  “There is one thing.”

  I turn back to find her looking at me with a curious expression. “Last night,” she starts again, hesitant. “I know what brought me to the Underground, but what were you doing there?”

  My body stiffens. Images flash through my head. The girl. Riding crop. Isabelle in the bathtub. The images collide and blur into one. Her soft lips on mine, that hungry kiss lighting my body on fire.

  “That’s none of your business,” I snap. “And if you’re going to stay under my roof, you’ll never mention it again. Do you understand?”

  Isabelle’s eyes widen.

  “Do. You. Understand?” I ground out the words again.

  “I…yes,” she stammers.

  “Good. I have a meeting. I’ll see you tonight.”

  I grab my briefcase and walk out without another look. If I stay, I’ll give in to temptation, and that can’t happen again. I won’t allow it.

  SEVEN: ISABELLE

  He made breakfast.

  It’s just a small thing, I know, but still, it takes me by surprise. I sit at the marble kitchen counter after Cam has gone and stare at my plate in amazement. Eggs, toast, fruit, even a sprig of basil on the side: fresh and simple, expertly done.

  It smells so delicious that I allow myself to take a couple of bites, breaking the strict diet that keeps me thin. Brent would never do anything like this, I can’t help but think. It would never occur to him to lift a finger for me, do anything at all that I didn’t have to beg for. It’s all a big game with him: fluttering my eyelashes, playing the part just right, all to manipulate him into doing something he should be happy about all along.

  Cam isn’t like that. He’s more straightforward. Except…I know he’s hiding something from me. Like what he was doing at the Underground. When I asked him about it, he snapped so hard, I was shocked to see the flare of anger burning in his eyes.

  Shocked, but not at all scared.

  I sigh, pushing my plate aside. I take a sip of coffee, and try to make sense of all his mixed messages. Unless, maybe they’re not mixed at all. Maybe I’m imagining his response to me. After all, his words are crystal clear: back off.

  He doesn’t want me.

  At least he’s a good cook. And he’s got flawless taste. The spotless kitchen is bright and airy, decorated in marble and deep blue tile, and packed wit
h expensive stainless-steel appliances. I look around, checking the fridge and cabinets. They’re stocked with organic and imported delicacies: cheeses, truffles, and bottles of chilled champagne.

  My curiosity sparks to life. Now that I’m alone in the apartment, maybe I can find out more about him. Discover what’s hidden behind his smooth surface. What makes him tick.

  What turns him on.

  I start in the living room. Last night I didn’t get a chance to see much, but looking around now, I’m impressed. Sunlight pours in the tall windows, illuminating the rich, masculine décor. Vintage leather couches, a deep teal rug. There are large, abstract canvases on the pale gray walls, and I pause, looking closer. I’m not an expert, but I’ve spent years teaching myself about art and antiques—rich people topics—and I’m pretty sure all the pieces are real.

  The deeper I go into the apartment, the more curious I get. Cam is tidy, but there’s a lived-in comfort to his home. It’s a place of contradictions: neatness and disorder. The office is spotless, filled with the latest in hi-tech computing equipment, but the art on the wall is bold. Wild.

  I pause by the bedroom door and feel a tremor of guilt. I shouldn’t be snooping around like this, but I have a craving inside me to know more. Know Cam, inside and out.

  I push open the door.

  My heart falls. I hoped he’d reveal more here—his inner sanctuary—but the room is even less personal than the rest of the apartment. Just cool, slate grey walls, a sleek dresser, and a huge king-sized bed made up with crisp dark linens.

  I smooth my hand over the soft cover, and wonder