by Skylar Kade
Another email from Shawn iced her insides.
SUBJECT: Dumb slut mistakes. This time, he’d included a message. You know your rules. Don’t fucking break them or you will be starching and pressing every shirt and set of sheets I own.
His anger was terrifying and she pitied his current submissive, all while marveling at his lack of attention to detail. He still couldn’t be bothered to make sure he was sending it to the right person. Not surprising, considering the only thing in their relationship he’d been able to keep track of was her punishments—and, even then, he usually overestimated. Prick. She looked down at her hands, finally recovered from their dishpan state. If she never washed another plate in her life, she’d be content.
But they were also a stark reminder of why seeing Damien again was a horrible idea. He’d been useful in showing her that a submissive edge to sex wasn’t a disaster and his little party tricks that made her body sing hadn’t exactly been a hardship to endure. But starting any kind of relationship with a Dominant? Not. Happening. Even if Damien was looking for more than a service slave. If she found out who Shawn’s current submissive was, maybe she’d call her, check in. Those emails didn’t bode well.
Never again would she compromise herself for some man, thinking if she just showed her love enough that he’d become what she needed.
When she got home, she’d take a hot shower to rid herself of the dark, clinging emotions from Shawn’s misguided email, then curl up with her favorite book and brace herself for work in the morning—because unless Ian told her otherwise, she’d be there, head high. Bitches in the office would gossip, she knew that, but for Indigo’s manuscript they’d done everything by the book.
It was pride that had kept her from being Shawn’s Cinderella doormat. That pride would get her through this disaster too.
An hour later she dragged her suitcase up the steps to her building and into the elevator. Walking down the short, spare hall to her 3B apartment, she stopped cold at the bouquet of vibrant roses sitting outside her door. The roses’ heads were scattered around the vase, violently sliced from their stems.
She neared, as if drawn by the bright-green card tucked into the blood-red blooms, abandoning her luggage on the way. Cam’s heart swelled into her throat, drowning her in fear. She snatched the envelope, then ripped it open.
You will pay for your lies.
Her knees buckled and the hallway swam. Only her hand braced against her door to her apartment kept her from crashing to the gray, threadbare carpet. Throughout her short career in the literary world, she’d seen crazy writers, critics and readers, but this was a scary new level of obsession. Especially if this was the same person behind the note at work. Cam didn’t know which would be worse—one focused stalker or two stalkers with Chihuahua-like attention spans.
With shaking fingers, she reached into her back pocket for her phone, then called Ian. He answered on the second ring and she told him what happened.
“Don’t touch the flowers. I’ll be right over and I’ll call the police on the way. It’s time they got involved, if only so it’s on the record.”
Twenty minutes later Ian showed up. Thank God for the relatively light Sunday traffic. A lone cop, broad as a linebacker and about as intimidating, to boot, had arrived only minutes before. After a perfunctory introduction—“Officer Davis, ma’am.”—he kept Cam busy answering his questions. She was weaving on her feet, exhausted by the whole fucking affair, when Ian stepped off the elevator. He looked at the flowers in disgust, then swept her up in a hug.
Ian introduced himself to the officer, then stood by while Cam finished answering his questions. Davis took the flowers’ note after Ian had thoroughly examined it, then gave her his card. “Please let me know if anything else occurs.”
She doubted the overworked LAPD would be devoting time to her pathetic case, but she appreciated the gesture.
After he left, Ian chucked the bouquet, vase and all, down the trash chute, then made Cam wait in the hallway while he checked out her apartment.
“You seem to know a lot about all this,” she said once inside.
“Four years in the military police before getting into the lit world,” he replied, obviously distracted by taking in every detail of her place. She cringed at the mess she’d left, but figured Ian had seen her desk at its worst. He’d probably expected a little clutter and disorganization here.
“You’ll stay with me tonight,” he said over his shoulder.
What was it with domineering men in her life? Cam screamed through gritted teeth, “I will not!”
Shock slackened his jaw when he spun on her. “Excuse me?”
Okay, maybe that was an overreaction. She ducked her gaze, then said, “I’m sorry.” She bit off her sentence before she could add the Sir lingering on her tongue, then sighed. She wouldn’t sleep at all if she tried staying at her place and all she wanted was a little solitude to get over her weekend. “I’ll grab a hotel room—”
“Not necessary. Stay with me tonight.” He met her wary look with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, do what you want. The offer stands if you get tired of shelling out for a hotel for however long this lasts.” He ran a hand through his short, spiky brown hair.
This was the most casual she’d ever seen Ian, his normal suit replaced by jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt. They had a close relationship, as far as work went, and he was really bending over backwards to help her out now. “Thank you for the offer, and I might have to take you up on it.” Though, she hoped this would all blow over before it came to that. “But tonight I just want to go somewhere and crash until work.”
He made her promise to use both locks on her door after he left, which she promptly did. The empty apartment echoed around her. The normal creaks and groans that had taken her months to get used to once again had her on edge. Eager to get out, she pulled up an app on her phone and booked a last-minute stay at a hotel within walking distance of the office.
Once that was out of the way, she moved into hyperdrive, throwing all her weekend clothes into the hamper before packing two days of clothes into the empty suitcase. Within twenty minutes, she was out the door and driving away from her compromised home.
Chapter Nine
By Wednesday morning, Damien was crawling up the walls of his office. Yes, he’d been drowning in work for the new Kingman project—they’d gotten the offer Sunday night, right after he got home from his weekly family dinner—but he still froze every time his cell phone rang, hoping it would be Camille.
No dice. Since he had another demonstration on Friday at a club in San Diego, he needed an assistant, stat. Jax and Lara had offered him the names and numbers of some local subs who’d be more than happy to help, but he wanted Camille. He kept telling himself she was the perfect submissive to work with because of, and only because of, her expressive reactions. The audience at Maison Domine had been more effusive and engaged than any before.
It was for the sake of education. It had nothing to do with waking up every night from dreams of her, hand wrapped around his dick and two pulls from coming all over his stomach. In his dreams, he’d taken her every way he’d wanted to and in a few positions and settings so deviant they nearly fried his brain. He even caught himself daydreaming instead of focusing on his work. He’d stare out across the Los Angeles skyline until it blurred and he instead saw Camille’s silky, black hair fanning around her delicate elfin face.
That decided it. He needed closure on this if he had any hope of having a productive workday. He emailed Kat, explained the situation—though leaving out some sensitive details—and asked if she had Camille’s contact information. He didn’t think Kat would release anything to him, but it was better than sitting there with his thumb up his ass.
The hour between sending the email and getting her response was, like the rest of his morning, a total waste. After the first twenty minutes, Damien abandoned his desk completely, taking his phone and a stack of PA applications to the broad leather chair
in the corner. He weeded through the applicants, finding seven that required more follow-up attention than he could muster.
When Kat’s email pinged his inbox, he jumped up from the chair, scattering papers all over the plush navy carpet. He ignored them and pulled up her email, then sighed in resignation. She offered to call Camille on his behalf, but wouldn’t give out her information. He respected that, even if it didn’t suit his current needs. If only Maison Domine had an online Rolodex…
Fuck, he was an idiot! He dug through his work bag until he found the business card he’d stuffed there Saturday then promptly forgotten about. Before he’d left for Derek’s, he’d seen Camille’s purse spilled over on the counter, with its contents all over the countertop. A business card had been on the edge of the mess, just begging him to take it. He’d sworn not to call her. He wouldn’t pursue this relationship, business or otherwise. It set a bad precedent, but he was a desperate man.
Her phone number wasn’t listed, just her name and job title: Cam Verona, Junior Literary Agent, Finnick Literary Agency. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Still, it was a start. He hopped online, hoping her contact information would be listed…but it wasn’t. Not even her name was on the website, though those of other junior agents were.
How odd. Maybe it was out of date, but he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel yet. He called the general number he found online, then asked for Camille. The welcoming voice on the phone turned frigid. “And you are?”
What the hell? “I’m a friend from out of town,” he explained smoothly. “I’d just like to leave a message for her.”
“Oh.” The secretary mellowed. “Sure, Mr…”
“Damien Winter. I was hoping to take her to lunch while I was here, but her cell phone isn’t connecting.”
His answer passed muster. “I’ll give this to Ms. Verona. Thank you, Mr. Winter.”
Well, at least he knew she still worked there. Why wouldn’t she be on the site?
He emailed Kat, saying she didn’t need to call Camille and reconfirming his demonstration there for Saturday night.
It would be quite the enjoyable weekend, once things fell into place.
For three days Cam had jumped at every electronic noise coming from her phone. Text messages, email alerts, phone calls—they all kept her on edge. No more random emails from Shawn had appeared and no new threats had surfaced. She was ready to assume the pissed-off reader was over his or her little fit and would leave her alone. Media hype in general had calmed down once Finnick announced they were doing an internal inquiry and holding accountable any responsible parties, which seemed to be blood enough for the piranhas at Midnight Entertainment.
When Kathy, the sweet front-office receptionist, brought her a phone message, her whole body cramped. Once she reconciled Kathy’s smile with her gut instinct, Cam offered a wan smile in return.
“Some man called for you, Cam. Sounded pretty sexy too.” She fluttered the phone message in between two perfectly filed, shell-pink fingernails.
Cam extended her own woefully unmanicured hand for the note. “Thanks, lady. Here’s hoping it’s my Prince Charming—or Publishers Clearing House saying I’ve won a million dollars!” They cracked up, and Kathy headed back to her desk.
Cam braced herself for the worst, then looked at the note. Her heart tripped when Damien’s name popped off the page. Friend in town. Lunch date? was the whole message, penned in precise handwriting, followed by his phone number.
She hadn’t stopped thinking about Damien, though after reviewing their night together a hundred times, awake and asleep, she’d simply concluded that the note he’d left was a courtesy so that he wouldn’t be that guy sneaking out after a one-night stand. He seemed decent enough to make the gesture.
Before she could think about it too much, she called him. Out of pure curiosity, she insisted to herself, though that bullshit was thicker than Tolstoy’s oeuvre.
“Hello?” Sexy voice indeed! Something about the airwaves dimmed the intensity of Damien’s voice—as evidenced by her underwear that hadn’t gone completely damp—but there was no denying he’d be hell on a mic.
“Damien?” Her voice hit an embarrassingly high register and she rolled her eyes. Taking a sip from her now-cold coffee, she winced and continued. “It’s Cam…from the weekend. You left a message for me?” Smooth, Verona. Very smooth.
His laugh rumbled through her speaker and pulled at her nipples. “I know who it is, sweetheart.”
Aw fuck. There went her panties. “How can I help you?”
“You can start by taking that tone out of your voice.” His words belied his jovial tone.
She snuck a look around the office. No one was within hearing range, but she was still in her real life now. “We’re not at the club anymore!”
“Does that mean all your manners are gone?” She pictured the look on his face, the expectant arched eyebrow and quirked lip, waiting for her to dig herself in deeper.
Her heavy sigh ruffled the loose papers on her desk. “Sorry.” She’d been saying that far too often the past week. Maybe she needed to surround herself with men who were a little more beta.
“Good girl.”
His words sizzled through her, burning aside the crazy thought of eschewing Doms. She just couldn’t help herself.
“Now are you ready to listen?”
Cam nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”
“I’ll let that slide since you’re at work, sweetheart. But I’m Sir to you. Don’t forget it.”
The knot of lust kinking up her stomach flooded south. She stayed silent, hoping he’d finish their conversation before he talked her into an orgasm.
“I seem to be in a situation and I could use your help.”
“What, you need a literary agent?” Her dull nails tapped out an anxious rhythm on her keyboard.
“I’ll add that to your punishment. As I was saying, I have two events this weekend and my demo partner is still ill. I would be much obliged if you would help me out.”
“Another demo?” There was her Minnie Mouse voice again. But since her two settings seemed to be Bitchy and Squeaky with him, she stuck with the safer option.
“One Friday night in San Diego, one Saturday evening, again at Maison. Give me your address and I’ll pick you up.”
She’d dreamed about the wicked tortures his toy bag held, whether he could make pain as pleasurable as heat or ice. Between the orgasms in her sleep, the embarrassing number of times she’d buried her fingers inside herself and imagined him fucking her and the stress from her week so far, she couldn’t bring herself to say no. She needed the release. “Okay,” she replied, then rattled off her address. In any other situation, maybe she would have hedged, but the promise of having Damien scene with her again overcame her most rabbit-cautious instincts.
He sounded surprised, even upbeat. “How about I take you to dinner tomorrow and we can go over the details. I imagine you don’t want to discuss it at work.”
The blush that crept across her cheeks burned, another reminder of the devious ways he’d played her Saturday. “Good point.”
“I’ll text you the details. Don’t be late, sweetheart.” He hung up on her, the dead air throbbing in her ear.
Hell. The next thirty-odd hours were going to drag on forever.
Thursday afternoon, her first day back in her apartment, Cam received a text from Damien telling her when and where to meet for dinner. After a little research into the restaurant, one she’d never heard of, she realized why—it was so far outside her budget that it never even hit her radar. She was half-tempted to counter his offer with How about In-N-Out? or maybe Dinner at my place instead? I’ll be dessert… But the former would only get her a punishment and the latter was too…honest.
Yep, she had it bad. When she got home, she’d primped and tried to soothe her ragged nerves. He’d presented this weekend as a business arrangement, after all, so she tried to reign in her expectations.
It wouldn’t suit to show up expecting a repeat of Saturday and getting nothing but contract negotiations.
Dressed in a conservative black dress and high black heels, her one nod to the possibility of having the evening heat up, she opened her door to go wait for Damien in the lobby and ran into a hard chest on the other side. Strong hands steadied her as her head swam with his scent—Damien.
“What are you doing here so early?”
His hazel eyes twinkled at her when he smiled. “Having beautiful submissives run into me, evidently.”
Cam blushed. Why couldn’t she make it through one encounter with him, dignity intact? “I’m not a subm—” At his look, she bit off her protest. She hadn’t even been able to sell herself on that lie lately. “Fine. But I’m a very particular, picky, demanding submissive,” she groused.
He laughed and the sound rumbled through her chest where they still touched. “No argument from me.” He plucked the keys from her hand, pulled her door closed and locked it before pocketing the key ring and locking their fingers together. Damien led her down the hall like this was a date. Butterflies hatched in her stomach.
While they waited for the elevator, he studied her, his eyes stroking up and down her body with the look of a man who’d seen that body naked and lost in ecstasy. “I’m glad you were ready early. I dislike being tardy.”
She tapped her heel on the dull-gray carpet. “Control freak much?”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. He guided her inside, then said, “That will be two.”
“Two what?” She glared at him through narrowed eyes, trying to ignore the breadth of his shoulders leaning against the metal-paneled car.
“Two good spanks.”
The hand not held by him tightened into a fist. The man was infuriating but, as arousal coated her pussy lips, undeniably hot. The doors of the elevator slid open and they entered.
Big mistake. The lifts in her building were older, smaller. Having Damien contained in that kind of space was hell on her control. She’d decided that she’d do these two scenes with him—God knew she needed the quick-fix release of a good scene—but no more. No fucking, no kissing, no—
