by Skylar Kade
He drew mental boundaries around this relationship with Camille—provided she even agreed to one—and fortified them with the staunch resolution he’d developed over the past months of being alone. He cemented the walls with the pain his brother had experienced after being abandoned and the frustration he’d felt when his ex betrayed his trust. No, he had settled for getting his rocks off during his demos, maybe the occasional one-night play session with a willing submissive. After Camille, he’d do the same.
She moved, lifting one shaking hand toward his face. He froze, bracing for her gentle rejection of his offer.
“You look so sad,” she said as she traced his lips with her finger.
Her concern shocked him. “For you.” Her finger brushed across his mouth as he spoke. Her skin tasted sweet. He nipped at the pad of her finger, loving the spark of surprise and arousal, the way her teeth bit into her supple lower lip. He grabbed her hand, curling their fingers together. He didn’t need the distraction of her touch. “No submissive should go through what you did.”
Her shrug jostled her breasts beneath her sleeved black dress. He wanted to free them, watch them bounce up and down while she rode him. Maybe bind them with silky rope while he dripped wax onto her sensitized nipples until he made her come. His unruly cock hardened and bit into the zipper of his slacks. He didn’t move, letting the pain wash up his spine and clear his head.
“I don’t want to be defined by one stupid decision. I’m in.” Her decisive nod seemed to be more for her benefit than his.
His cock throbbed, begging to consummate their new professional relationship in unprofessional ways. They had more to deal with first, however. “I will not go easy on you, Camille,” he said.
“I don’t care.” Her bravado was betrayed by the quiver in her lower lip. “I need this.”
That was new. “Oh? Tell me.” Camille tugged at her hand, but he held it tight. “No running, sweetheart.”
She rolled her eyes.
“One,” he said, looking forward to disciplining her later in the evening.
Her thighs pressed together and he knew she was as turned on as he was. When she didn’t start talking, he grabbed both wrists and hauled them onto the middle console, squeezing them. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to remind her who was in charge. She gasped and her eyes started to glaze over. She was such a perfect little submissive. Her ex was an idiot of massive proportions. Camille was no more a service submissive than he was a bottom. “Why do you need this?”
Her moan ended in, “Because it’s been a shitty week! I’m so tense I’m going to break and you’re not helping!”
To reward her honesty, he tugged her forward and laid a deep kiss on her lips. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
Her lips looked swollen, wet from his tongue. The vision of them wrapped around his cock, his hands tangled in her hair, almost broke his concentration. “What has you so tense? Work?”
Camille froze and shook her head no, retreating to her side of the car. Not happening. He grabbed her curls, knowing this was one of her good-submissive triggers.
She went lax and gazed at him expectantly. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she finally replied.
“Not good enough. I need to trust you to use your safe words and if you get in the habit of holding things back, we won’t establish those good behaviors.”
First her bottom lip trembled, then her whole body. He cursed, then pulled her onto his lap, once again grateful for the roomy seats. Though she was tall, she managed to fit perfectly in his arms.
“I’ve got you.” He stroked a hand up and down her spine. Tears spilled over her cheeks, each one a drop of Chinese water torture for him.
“Work has been shit. It’s got me all knotted up and it all started the day Shawn left, so it was kind of a double whammy. I expected last weekend’s getaway to be more soothing—and it was, don’t get me wrong—but it didn’t carry over to this week.”
It didn’t explain her tears. Something more was going on, but he decided to bide his time. That was enough of the story for now. It wasn’t like he was spilling his guts to her either.
He kissed her forehead and her cheeks, the salt of her tears bitter on his tongue. “And submission helps?”
She nodded against his chin. “With you it did. I forgot while we played. And hitting subspace? That was one giant reset button for me. For a while, anyway.”
An idea formed, something mutually satisfying. “Would you like to play tonight? We can test your limits in private and you’ll get a little relief.” Me too. He needed his own reset button tonight—she was wrapping him up, making him care more than was safe. Playing her, “practicing” for a lecture, would be good. It would reinforce their boundaries.
He hoped.
“Okay, Sir. I just have one question.” She looked up at him, her big blue eyes bright with unshed tears. “Why me?”
The most simple yet complicated question to answer. Since he’d yet to figure out the more complicated parts of it, he stuck with what he knew. “Two reasons. One, you put on a good show. Temperature play is something you click with and the audience felt that.”
Her soft curls tucked against his neck as she repositioned on his lap, coming into direct contact with his insistent erection. He gritted his teeth, but didn’t move her. The pain was good for his control, especially once he remembered she wasn’t wearing panties under that dress. Fuck. He rushed to finish, needing to get her out of the car and into true privacy, where he could do all kinds of creative, wicked things to her. “Second, sweetheart, we have chemistry. I know neither of us wants a relationship…but I think our needs are complementary. We’re both getting exactly what we need. That’s a rare find.”
She smiled sweetly at him. “Agreed, Sir.” Then her smile faded. “So what happens after Saturday?”
Hell, he could barely think past that evening. “What do you want?”
Camille’s sweet lips met his, her tongue darting out across the seam of his mouth and begging entrance. He let her rule the kiss for a moment, then took control, grabbing her cheek with one hand and pressing into her jaw until she opened more for him. His tongue explored every inch of her mouth, dancing along her teeth and sweeping over her lips before pulling away.
Her deep breaths pushed her soft breasts against his chest. “As long as I get more of that? I don’t really care.”
“Good answer. Shall we?”
She scrambled back to her seat and out the door, snagging her little purse in the process. He followed at a more sedate pace, grabbing the food and his toy bag before locking his car, while she waited for the elevator. “A little eager, sweetheart?”
“I feel like I’m going to explode. I just don’t know what’s going to get me first—you or all the shit from my week.”
They got on the elevator and he caught a hint of her sweet arousal. “Explode, you say? I think that can be arranged.” He slipped into his most predatory smile and watched her freeze like a snared animal. He stalked the two steps across the small elevator as the doors opened on her floor. “I can have you exploding all night if you’d like, sweetheart. You just have to ask nicely.”
Her needy whimper drove into his gut. He led the way down the hall, mentally planning out the evening.
A few doors away from her apartment he froze, his arm swinging out to stop her.
The molding around her doorknob was shredded. He dropped his bags to the carpet. “Don’t move, Camille, or I will tan your ass.”
“What—”
“Hush.” Trusting her to stay, he crept down the hall, listening for any sound coming from the apartment.
Nothing. He pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket and used that to push at the door. It swung open without resistance, exposing a ruined apartment. Shredded couch cushions vomited stuffing, kitchen drawers slumped open and what was left of her TV screen glittered all over the carpet.
That was enough. He marched back down the hall, holding one finger up to Cam
ille before she could speak. “Your apartment’s been broken into.”
Whipping out his phone, he dialed 9-1-1 and explained the situation when the dispatcher picked up. “They’re sending a car around. After they clear the place and talk to us, you’re packing a bag and coming home with me.”
Camille held herself so rigidly he was afraid she’d shatter. He reached out a tentative hand, wishing she’d say something. Do something. Instead, she stared off into the distance, tears brimming in her eyes.
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he hauled her against him, pressing her face against his dark wool coat. “Cry, sweetheart. Let it out.”
Her first sob ripped at his heart. The dam opened and she bawled into his chest, smacking her fist against his shoulder. He rubbed her back, wishing there were more he could do. Tonight, he’d play her until she let it all out—not just whatever emotions she’d allowed to bubble over—then she’d sleep peacefully. He hoped.
The tears ended as abruptly as they’d begun. She swiped under her eyes, straightened her dress, but wouldn’t look him in the eye. He was about to press, but the elevator dinged and a police officer walked out. The stocky black man had kind eyes and an easy smile that turned into a frown when he spotted Camille. “Ms. Verona, I was hoping I’d never get called out here again.”
Camille said nothing, just let her hair fall into her face as she stared at her shoes. The cop looked up and down the hall, taking in both of them, their leftover food on the floor and Camille’s tight black dress, lingering a little too long on the sweet curves of her body.
Possessiveness swept through him. People would watch her at the club in even less clothing, but he didn’t like the way this guy noted the distance between him and Camille, as if that was an indication that she was single. Damien thrust out a hand to shake with the officer. His other hand curled around Camille’s waist.
“Damien Winter, Camille’s boyfriend.” She jerked against him. The word had rolled off his tongue without a thought—good to know it surprised her as much as him. But damned if he’d leave the other man with any opening.
“Officer Roger Davis.” A firm handshake and crisp nod, and the cop was all business again.
Damien also returned to the situation at hand—and Davis’s first words. “When did you get called out here before?” His chest ached as he struggled not to jump to conclusions.
“Sunday. Ms. Verona received a threatening package.” Davis’s sharp glare implied that this was something her boyfriend should know.
His arm tightened around Camille. She hadn’t mentioned anything, which he would deal with later. “Any leads?”
Davis shrugged. “The flowers didn’t have any indicator of where they were purchased. Nothing distinguishing about the vase, paper, pen or handwriting on the note.” He shrugged. “Not much we could do, given the extent of that threat or, rather, the lack of extent.” Davis turned to Camille and stepped closer to her, then placed his hand on her shoulder. Damien tensed, but didn’t interrupt. “Ms. Verona, do you still think this is a disgruntled reader?”
More surprises. Excellent. Damien kept his face blank, even when he wanted to shake Camille for not telling him what was going on. You’re not really her boyfriend. You had no claim on her before tonight. The truth roiled in his gut. But what were his options? He wanted to keep their relationship casual and this was the price.
Camille shook her head. “I don’t know. This seems more personal than the flowers or the note at work.”
Davis nodded and tugged a notepad from his back pocket. “Nothing else out of the ordinary of late?”
“No.” She smiled up at Davis then stepped back and leaned against Damien. That took care of one source of skyrocketing blood pressure. He didn’t like seeing another man’s hand on her.
Shit. He dipped to lay a kiss on Camille’s head, hiding his eyes from the too-observant cop for a moment. He gathered his composure, shoved all his questions and uncertainties and unruly emotions into a box to peek at later. Right now, he needed to focus on Camille and whatever threat loomed over her.
Keeping her against his side, Damien gestured to the apartment. “I saw the doorjamb had been tampered with. The door’s unlocked, as I found out.” He held up his handkerchief. “Didn’t touch anything, but I did get a good look at the apartment from two steps inside.”
Davis moved to the open apartment door. “Appreciate the care you took with the scene, Mr. Winter.” Beginning with the doorway, Davis looked over the scene, periodically scribbling into his notepad. Camille started to follow, but Damien held her back. She didn’t need to see her home just yet. After Davis was done, they could go in.
Then Camille would go home with him. Instead of the icy trepidation he expected to feel at a woman invading his personal space—especially after all Natali’s ridiculous harping about the size and location of his Manhattan condo—he felt nothing but satisfaction. He had a primal urge to throw her over his shoulder, beat his chest and take her back to his cave. Which, when he measured it, was really the ancient equivalent of what he was already doing.
Damn the consequences and damn the rational voice that told him it would take their relationship beyond professional territory. She was staying with him.
Little tremors still radiated through Cam’s body. After Officer Davis had thoroughly explored her apartment and taken stock of the destruction, Damien had let her go in. Her heart had cracked. She didn’t care about the broken stuff, or even the mess, but the feeling of sick violation clung to her like toxic sludge. She didn’t think a year of showers could erase it.
But Damien might be able to.
He’d supervised while she threw a few days of clothes into her bag, instructing her to grab everything she’d need to stay out of her apartment until Sunday. It wasn’t much, just clothes, a few toiletries, her Kindle. Being low maintenance felt unfeminine, especially with Damien’s stark masculinity filling the room. She bet he was used to classier women, the kind who took one hour just to curl their hair and a second one to primp and dress.
Damien’s hard eyes surveyed the room. With his hands tucked into his pockets, sweeping back his knee-length coat, he looked like a Victorian lord surveying his demesne, albeit in a much nicer suit. She melted. She couldn’t resist him, even in the face of this crisis.
“Are you sure that’s all you need?”
Well, the jig was up, she might as well cop to it. “I’m not exactly what you would call high maintenance.” She scanned over the single large duffel bag. “Sorry to disappoint.”
Cam looked around her bedroom—the one area that hadn’t been damaged in the invasion—to avoid meeting his eyes. She could feel him staring. The prickles of awareness on her neck filtered through her body to meld with the growing lust he already inspired.
“Well don’t be fussy on my account. I’m not exactly a fan of overdone women.” The air shifted as he closed the distance between them. She could feel the heat of his body soaking into her back, even though he hadn’t touched her. “Especially when I’m just going to be stripping them and mussing their fine hair and makeup.” He ran a finger along her neck, sweeping aside her hair before pressing a kiss to her nape. “But that’s just me.”
Desire swamped her, washing aside the nauseating tension from the evening’s events. Hot damn. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to lose herself for a few hours. “Take me away from here, Sir.” She whispered the words, but when Damien’s hands squeezed around her hips, she knew he’d heard.
“Yes, sweetheart,” he growled. “I hope you’re not too tired.”
The surprisingly short drive to Damien’s was filled with their mutual tension, until Cam felt like an overtightened guitar string. One pluck and she was going to pop in his hands. She distracted herself by trying to conjure a vision of Damien’s place. She imagined a cold, sterile condo, professionally decorated to model-home standards. It would have to overlook the city, as befit the kind of power and strength demanded by a man like him.<
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When Damien pulled his sleek car into the parking garage of a luxury hotel, her heart sank. She guessed that made sense. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to welcome intrusion into his personal space. He parked, then Damien hefted her bag over his shoulder and guided her to the elevators. He hit the button for 40, then lounged back against the wall. His closeness, the mirror shine on the elevator walls, made her think of their interlude on her elevator earlier. Was that just a few hours ago? It seemed like days.
Suddenly weary, she slumped against the gold, waist-high railing that lined the elevator. She dug her thumbs into her temples to ease the throbbing headache that steadily grew. The elevator dinged and Damien grabbed her hand to lead her down the hall.
Only a few doors broke the long, nut-brown lines of the hallway. Damien didn’t stop until he reached the far end. He dropped her hand, pulled a keycard from his pocket and swiped it, then held the door open for her.
Cam entered and looked around as Damien set the bags next to a black leather couch with chrome legs. The main room gleamed, from the kitchen to the small dining table to the entertainment area, complete with a massive flat-screen TV. Wide windows overlooked the Los Angeles city lights, just as she’d predicted. Disappointment trickled through her. He’d surprised her as a Dominant. She didn’t know what else she’d expected from him as a man.
The lights flicked off, leaving only the ambient nighttime light pollution to highlight the room. Damien returned to her side, spun her around to face the kitchen area and set her hands on the cold marble bar top that separated her from the small cooking area. “Don’t move.”
Heat suffused her at his sharp words. What did it matter if he was a typical rich bachelor? She wasn’t dating him. Wasn’t in the market for a husband. His trappings didn’t change the way he dominated her and that’s all she wanted right now. He tugged at the zipper until her dress parted and cool air skated across her back. Damien warmed her, trailing kisses along her spine until her fingers dug into the edge of the bar, desperate to touch him. He knelt, the soft material of his suit dragging along the backs of her legs. He traced his tongue along her spine before lifting one leg, then the other, to remove her heels.
