Bonds of Courage (8 page)

She shook her head, her expression bordering on sad. “You are so very lost, aren’t you?” Her soft voice held an element of pity that he resented.

“I don’t know what you mean.” He didn’t feel lost at all. For the first time in a very long time, he finally knew what he wanted—and it was her.

“You talk as if you know what being a submissive is like, yet you’ve never really submitted to a Domme.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling the strands away from her face before they fell back in a feather of black silk against her shoulders. “Do you know what subspace is?”

God, how did he answer that? Was there a wrong answer? A right one? “I haven’t experienced it, but I’ve read about it. Seen it in the expressions of others. I even talked to a sub once about what it felt like.” He leaned forward. “I want that.”

“I don’t doubt that you do.” Her eyes narrowed again, her scrutiny digging into him until he felt completely exposed. “What I question is how you know you’ll find it by submitting to me.”

How could I not?
He clenched his teeth to curb his initial answer before it left his mouth. She wasn’t asking for a flippant response, even though he believed it completely.

“A good guess. Hope, maybe,” he finally answered. He closed his eyes, the darkness calming. “I don’t know,” he whispered before he opened his eyes and met hers. “Maybe it won’t happen. But not knowing is worse than finding out I was wrong.”

She studied him for a long moment. Dishes clattered in the background, the low chatter of other guests blended into a hum that drummed in his ears along with the beat of his heart. He didn’t look away from her though. He’d been through enough contracts talks to realize this was decision time. Do or die. Yes or no. Negotiations were over.

“You’re trouble, Mr. Hauke.” She placed her napkin on the table and reached for her purse. His heart sank to merge with the ball of congealed food in his stomach. He’d fucked up another chance.
Damn it.

She stood, her hair framing her face when she looked down at him. He should stand, it was the polite thing to do, but he couldn’t. He was frozen in that spot, his emotions warring among anger, frustration and the sinking sense of acceptance and loss.

She reached out to run a finger down the edge of his jaw in a touch so light he might not have noticed if he couldn’t see her hand. The line of shivers that spread from the graze of skin on skin raced down his neck and shoulder to sink into his bones.

“Be at my house at eight on Friday. I’ll send you the address. This is between us. If I find out you told anyone, it ends. If we talk and our desires don’t mesh, it ends. If you lie to me, even once, it ends.”

She turned and strode from the restaurant before he could even think to find his voice. It’d gotten lost somewhere in the pit of his stomach with the rest of his internal organs. But one thing slowly sank in.

She’d said yes.

His moment of disbelief was interrupted by the waiter bringing the check. He smiled like a fool as he paid the bill. The prospect of what Friday could bring was already humming through him. Hopefully, it’d be everything he’d imagined and better than he could dream.

The possibility of it sucking wasn’t allowed to enter his mind. Not even a little bit.

Chapter Eight

Holden checked the address on his phone against the number on the house. This was it.

He scanned the two-story brick house that sat back from the street behind a large manicured lawn accented with groomed bushes and colorful flowers. The black trim around the windows and on the door was softened by the lighter color of the stone. Full trees edged the large lot and blocked the view of the neighbors. It was impressive but not pretentious.

It was a lot like his house, only in a different suburb.

He pulled into the long driveway and parked behind the third garage door. His pulse matched the anticipation that had built in the three days since their dinner date.

The buzzing under his skin had reached a point where he almost clawed at his arms to make it stop. God, he wanted this.

He jumped out of his car and blew out a breath. The slam of the car door echoed through the quiet neighborhood, disturbing nothing. The sun was low on the horizon, but there was still daylight left to enjoy.

The scent of freshly cut grass reached his nose as he strode up the walk edged with rows of multicolored flowers that added their own fragrance to the surroundings. He vaulted the two steps to the front porch in a single stride that had him at the door, heart still pounding, nerve endings still vibrating. His rap on it was solid and sure. Where logic told him he should be cautious, need had him charging in.

The click of heels on wood was muffled through the door before it swung open moments later. Vanessa stood on the other side, her gaze raking over him in a quick glance before she moved back and motioned him in.

“Hi,” he said as he crossed the threshold into her house. He flashed through a number of possible next moves, but she closed the door and headed down the hallway with a simple “follow me.”

The tap of her heels on the hardwood was oddly comforting and very her. She wore a fuller black skirt that swirled around her thighs as she walked. The toned muscles of her calves flexed with each step.

She led him to a table in her dining room before she turned back around. “Have a seat.”

Her simple burgundy tank hugged her body, and he found it impossible not to appreciate the creamy dip of cleavage before it was lost beneath the material. He almost dropped to his knees right there until her command registered.

He opened his mouth to ask why but stopped himself just in time. He was in her house. He was hers now.

Like that, the itchy buzz dimmed to a warm burn. “Yes, Mistress,” he said, tipping his head in respect.

I
am hers
.

She took a seat adjacent to him at the head of the oak table, her focus on the papers stacked there. “Did you find my place okay?”

“Yes.” He laid his palms on his jeans to keep his hands still.

“Since you’re here, I’m assuming you still want to do this.” Her hair fell over her shoulder when she turned her head toward him.

“Yes, Mistress.” More than ever.

She nodded and a brief smile cracked the hard icy shell that controlled her features. “We need to talk about limits then.” She set the papers before him, her red nail tapping the top of the page. “Read through everything here. Follow the instructions.” She set a pencil next to the papers and stood. “I’ll be back when you’re done.”

Her heels clicked off her departure, the echo growing softer until there was nothing but silence.
Where’d she go?

He pried his fingers from their hold on his thighs and flexed them. The stack of papers was impressive but nowhere near as daunting as the many contracts he’d read. He trusted his agent, but he hadn’t slept through his college business classes either. It was his life and he wanted to know exactly what he was agreeing to.

And that was the purpose of this exercise.

He rolled his shoulders and picked up the papers. He scanned through each page, getting a confirmation that he’d guessed right. The list of BDSM activities was a surprising eighteen pages long. Those were followed by a page of expectations from her. Rules, as she’d said.

Rules.

Am I really looking for this?
His leg bounced, the doubt edging in for the first time. Seeing it listed out on paper made it very real. And very cold.

He looked up, glancing around the room and what he could see through the archway into the kitchen. Everything was pristine. Walls painted in rich colors were paired with hangings and pictures that made the rooms welcoming, if not used. The counters were a dark marble, the appliances stainless steel, cabinets a cherry wood.

The décor and furnishings of Vanessa’s house wasn’t very different from his, but the feel definitely was. He always had stuff scattered across the kitchen counters, his dining table was used as a mail sorter, and there was usually at least one pair of shoes under the island bar, left there after he’d slipped them off while eating.

Focusing back on the papers, he picked up the pencil and started down the list. He was to rate each item on a scale of interest and note if he’d done it before or not. He methodically went through each one and scored them based on his first reaction, which left a lot of them marked as curious. He’d done so little that rating based on experience was impossible. However, he was still on the first page when he marked his first hard limit. It was an amazingly thorough list that included things he’d never considered or wanted to do.

Bestiality? Yeah, no.

He had no idea how long it’d been before the click of heels echoed up the hallway to drag him from the papers. He looked up as she entered the room. The sun had set, the shadows growing longer with the dimming light.

“Are you done?”

He glanced down. “Almost. I was just reading through your rules.”

She sat back down and drew the completed stack over. “Finish. I’ll look through these.”

It was hard to concentrate with her next to him. He was aware of every movement she made. Each time she flipped a page over, tucked her hair behind her ear or wrote something on the paper. Her perfume lulled his senses, muddied his brain until the words blurred on the paper before him.

“You’ve been reading that page for five minutes. Is something wrong?”

He snapped his head up, his breath trapped in his lungs. “No.”

“Do you have questions?”

He did. Lots actually. But the first one that came out probably wasn’t the place to start. “Is it always this impersonal?”

She sat back, brows drawn together in a confused frown. “What do you mean?”

He waved his hand at the papers and her. “It’s just...” He searched for a word. “Cold.” Like the ice he skated on almost every day of his life.

“It can be. If that’s what the participants want.”

“Is that what you want?” He hoped not.

She inhaled, the curves of her breasts rising with the edge of her shirt before she exhaled. “Not usually. When I’m engaged in a Scene, I prefer to be close to the sub. But there are times when distance works better.”

He made a pointed glance around the room. “Is this one of them?”

She studied him for several long moments before scooping up the papers and rising. “Follow me.”

Shit. Now what? He slumped back, eyes tracing the pattern of the textured ceiling before the click of the heels halted. “Mr. Hauke?”

“Holden,” he mumbled.

She came back around the corner, but he didn’t look at her. “What’d you say?”

“My name is Holden,” he answered, his voice louder. “Mr. Hauke is my dad or someone kids idolize. My friends call me Holden.”

“I’m not your friend.” The clipped answer was quick and held that hard tone of certainty that left no doubt she thought that was true. After days of interacting with Liv at the center, he was reminded that this relationship was nothing like the one he had with Vanessa’s sister.

But then, he wasn’t attracted to Liv and he sure as hell couldn’t see Liv laying a flogger over his naked ass.

He sighed and sat up. “Right.” The chair squeaked as he stood, the spindly legs protesting louder than he did.

“Is everything okay?”

He faced her, his decision firm. “My name is Holden. I’m not into degradation or humiliation, but you can call me whatever you like when we’re in a Scene. I get that. But when we’re not in a Scene, you can use my name.” She was using the formality to keep her distance, and he didn’t want distance.

Her gaze went to the window. “Fine.” She spun around and started back down the hall. “Holden.”

The soft roll of his name barely carried over the click of her heels, but he caught it. A smile spread over his lips and the chill that had settled around him dissipated with that one word. He left the dining room, taking the small victory with him.

He might belong to her while he was here, but that went both ways. She was his to take care of. Being her friend was just the first stage in making that happen.

* * *

Vanessa kept her back straight as she led Hauke—Holden—down the stairs to her rec room. She didn’t turn around to see if he was following her. She didn’t need to. His steps were long and sure, his movements almost flowing for someone so large. He didn’t lumber, but glided like he was still on the ice.

And the fact that she knew that irritated her.

His insistence on being called Holden was just another sign that he wasn’t a truly natural submissive.
Why am I doing this?
It was the same damn question she’d been asking herself since Seth had first called weeks ago. The answer still wasn’t clear, but here she was.

She flicked on the overhead lights, illuminating a room filled with a large sectional couch before a flat-screen TV. A billiards-sized pool table took up most of the space between the couch and the locked door to her playroom.

The carpeting was soft under her heels and the comfortable couch had been selected for the hours spent watching games and the rare movie. The back walls were painted a dark brown, which made the space seem cozy and countered the bank of windows that included a walkout to a brick patio. The bottom level had been built into a small hill, so from the front, no one knew it was there.

She sat on the couch and waited for him to do the same. “Better?” She didn’t bother to hide the hint of sarcasm in her voice. In truth, she liked her subs to be at ease with her, but Holden was crossing her boundaries once again.

She could still end it. Either of them could at any time.

His smile was full, the boyish good looks showing through. “Yes, Mistress. Thank you.”

Oh, he thought he’d won something. Not for long.

“I’m only your Mistress when we’re in the playroom.” The
Mistress
tripped her Domme notes but also reminded her that the hockey player shouldn’t be here. She set the papers next to her to keep from crumpling them into a ball. “You don’t need to call me that otherwise.”

“But I like calling you Mistress.”

“And I like calling you Mr. Hauke.”

He chuckled softly and gave her a nod. “Vanessa then. Does that work?”

Not really, but Ms. Delcour was too formal. V? No, that was for family. Mistress V was for the club. So it came down to her given name. The one used by both friends and associates. “Sure.” She shuffled through the papers, more as a distraction than need. “By what you’ve marked, it looks like you’re interested in a range of BDSM play that mostly involves bondage, submission and levels of masochism. Public displays are out. Humiliation and degradation are also a no. All edge play activities are hard stops. But sex in all forms between us is okay.” She looked up. “You’re sure about that?”

“With you, yes.” He rested his forearms on his thighs and clasped his hands in a comfortable pose. The position stretched his T-shirt across his shoulders and had his biceps bulging in a display of strength.

“I’ll remember that.” She ignored the rush of heat that simmered through her. “The write-in area is blank.” She handed the last page back to him. “You should add a few things. For one, I’m guessing you don’t want marks that would raise questions in the locker room. Right?”

“Wow. Yeah.” He shuddered and quickly scribbled that down.

“Kneeling should also be on your hard limits list.” She flicked through the pages, found the one that had it marked as okay and handed it over. “You have an injury that is aggravated by kneeling. There are other ways to show your submission that don’t require that.”

He frowned. “But it doesn’t bother me that much. It just gets stiff after having the weight on it.”

“Are you willing to risk it? What if a Domme leaves you kneeling for an hour or more? Could you handle that and still skate the next day?” She waited until he gave a small head shake. She hadn’t thought so. “Always be upfront with the person you’re playing with. Do you think we want to permanently hurt someone? We don’t. In fact, I’d feel like complete shit if I did anything that caused you pain that you didn’t want.”

He hung his head, her chastisement received. “Sorry.” He looked up. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

“Now you know.” She crossed her legs. “Are there any other injuries that I should know about? Your shoulders or wrists? Elbows? An old sprain that acts up? Anything at all?”

He sat back and gave it some thought, which she appreciated. His frame consumed almost an entire cushion on the couch. His thighs stretched the denim tight and he wasn’t wearing skinny jeans. Not even close. Just the thought of him trying to force his solid legs into the thin-cut denim had her smirking.

He lifted his head from where it rested on the back of the couch. “What?”

She’d tried to contain her chuckle, but a small laugh slipped out anyway. “I was just picturing you in skinny jeans.”

His faced bunched into a grimace of horror. “I marked dressing up as a no. I classify skinny jeans as falling into that category.”

“Agreed,” she conceded before getting back to business. “Any other injuries I should know about?”

“Not right now, but that changes weekly.” He resumed his earlier position with his arms braced on his legs. “It depends on the game and how physical they are each week.”

She nodded. “Then you’ll update me before each session.”