Surrender to Fire: Maison Chronicles, Book 3 (17 page)

With that simple touch, every ounce of anxiety she’d repressed flooded back. Tears sprang to her eyes and he let her cry, quiet and patient as he drove. Her interaction with Shawn seared through her brain like a horror movie on a loop until it filled her up and she had to either speak or drown. In halting words, she explained what happened, trying to be as matter-of-fact as possible. Halfway through, Damien cut over two lanes of traffic and skidded to a stop on the side of the road.

Cam bit her tongue to keep silent, especially when he shoved his door open, then slammed it shut hard enough to shake the car. Passing traffic rocked Damien’s sedan as she stared off into the distance, wondering just how disgusted he was. He probably couldn’t stand the thought that she’d complied with Shawn. Hell, it made her sick too. She’d wanted to explain to Damien how scared she’d been, how strong she knew Shawn could be, but it seemed too much like making excuses. When her door wrenched open, she yelped.

Then Damien was there, on his knees, wrapping her in his arms. Wetness hit her cheek and she craned her neck to look at his reddened eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry, Camille. I should have been there.”

He held her tighter as his words rang in her ears, vibrating down to her chest where they wrapped around her heart. “Damien, this is ridiculous. You didn’t do anything wro—”

“I’m supposed to protect you!” He leaned back from her, studied her face, then kissed her with such gentle brutality she had to swallow down tears. “Do you want me to take you home?”

She was tempted to go home, hide and pretend this morning had never happened. But she knew well enough it would fester and ache like an old wound. She stroked a hand down his back, feeling him shake beneath her touch. “No, Sir. I want you to take me to the club and make me forget.”

All of Damien’s fury drained away at Camille’s request. She was so brave, an alluring mix of bold confidence and pure submission. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out the man who’d cornered her in the alley was her ex. From the way he’d spoken, to the bravado puffing up his chest, he’d just known—and that man, Shawn, was not enough to break his sweetheart. Pride suffused his heart, boiling everywhere Camille’s body touched his.

“Would you like to tell me the rest?” He braced himself to hear whatever that asshole had done to her and not get angry. Camille didn’t need that distraction. Right now, she needed him to be solid and stable. She wanted to whitewash over her morning? He was more than willing to help and he knew exactly how Camille needed to escape.

As he held her, gravel digging into his knees from the highway, she finished her story in painful, halting words. He knew she was just giving him the basics, but he could read between the lines to her terrified fury. She had tried to shrug off the earlier threat, but not this.

And then it all made sense. Fuck. “Sweetheart, are you listening?”

Her muffled yet eager “Yes, Sir” told him she was ready.

“Let’s go. No speaking until I tell you.”

He grabbed his leather cuffs from the trunk while he mulled over the situation with Shawn. Camille broke things off with him the same time as her work scandal broke. None of the threats had been directed to Camille as a literary agent, but at her personally. Watching Camille’s still form through the back windshield, he withdrew his phone and called Officer Davis, telling him about the afternoon’s incident—leaving out some of the details, of course—and sharing his suspicions. When Davis promised to look into it, Damien breathed easier. At least Camille would be out of town for the next two days. She’d be safe with him.

He returned to the driver’s seat. “Give me your hands.” He locked the black leather cuffs tight around her wrists, making sure she had a pinky’s worth of give in them. He wanted them to be a reminder of her submission, not a choke hold on her hands. A shuddery sigh left her when he locked the cuffs into place.

“Red and yellow, sweetheart. Repeat your safe words.” She did, and he put the car back into Drive and continued down the road.

The I-5 was blissfully empty through Orange County. They would make good time, which meant they would get to the hotel and check in that much faster. If the arousal throbbing behind his zipper was anything to go by, the sooner the better.

Camille’s breathing had steadied as they drove away from Los Angeles, greatly aided by the heavy wrist cuffs. He didn’t know how her ex had been able to so massively fuck up being her Dom. Camille was a natural submissive, if he’d ever seen one, practically begging for a firm hand to guide and discipline and pleasure her.

When they crossed into San Diego, she heaved a deep sigh and tension ebbed from her shoulders.

Perfect. “Take off your underwear.”

She snapped her head to look at him, but he kept his eyes on the road. She hesitated and looked around for nearby cars.

“There’s no one around. Now, sweetheart.”

The soft
whish
of her stripping stirred his cock. He didn’t look, though that was a struggle. From the corner of his eye, he saw her cross her arms over her chest, grumbling when the cuffs caught on each other.

He groped for the blanket he kept in the backseat, then laid it on her lap. “Bundle up now. Don’t want you getting cold.” Her stare, equal parts incredulity and curiosity, pressed on him, but she obeyed. Good. “Touch yourself.”

He stole a glance at her, his muscles tightening in resistance to touching her. Twin spots of color rose in her cheeks and she tentatively reached a hand under the blanket, looking around like a guilty teenager. To her credit, she didn’t speak. His girl was learning.

“Your pleasure is your own, sweetheart. Take it. Give it. But no one can steal it from you.”

Gentle twitches of the blanket and her deep sighs proved more of a distraction than he’d anticipated. When the scent of her arousal filled the car, he almost jerked to the side of the road so he could lick her to completion. He wanted to fill his mouth with her taste, feel her come against his tongue and fingers.

Later, he promised himself. This moment was about her. “That’s it, love.” She started to clam up, her strokes slowing. Her other arm had come up, almost unconsciously, to cover her breasts. He grabbed for it, holding her cold hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. She gasped, then moaned when he sucked her finger into his mouth. “You should never be ashamed of your body, baby.”

Her fingers moved a little more and he looked at her again. Her eyes were squeezed shut and a tear fell from the corner. He navigated over to the slow lane, ready to pull over if she needed more comforting. He knew this was pushing some buttons, but based on how she’d ignored and internalized those threats, she needed to purge this fear, now. He’d be there the whole time, ready to put her back together if she broke.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Camille quivered in her seat. “I feel like my body betrayed me when…”

He didn’t have to fight for that answer. Dominant pride hit him in the chest, albeit soured by her statement. Needing to disabuse her of whatever conclusions about herself she’d been drawing, he snapped at her. “Don’t ever fucking confuse your body’s innate responses for compliance. Not. Your. Fault.”

Her hand stilled and she shook her head. Softer this time, he said, “Not your fault, Camille.” He kissed her palm, noting they were only another half hour from their hotel. Just enough time, he hoped. After countless kisses, he laid her hand against his heart and offered a raw truth in exchange for her honesty. “I think you’re the bravest woman I’ve met. I am not ashamed of you—I am proud.”

Her quiet sobs erupted into tears and he let her cry it out. The little movements of her hand sped up.

“Come, sweetheart. For yourself.” He didn’t remove her hand from his chest, soaking in her body’s tremors and soft jerks as she brought herself to a quiet, rolling orgasm.

Damien slowed the car to take their exit while Camille sat in silence. He let her gather her thoughts while he navigated to the hotel and opened his door. Before the valet could get to Camille’s door, he was there, helping her out of the car, holding her against his side. He handed the keys to the valet in exchange for a claim ticket while a second valet grabbed their luggage from the trunk. He tipped the pair, then guided Camille inside.

Check-in was blissfully smooth, as befit the kind of hotel he’d chosen. Within minutes they were heading upstairs to the room he’d reserved weeks ago, when he first accepted the lecture offer.

Their luggage sat in the entrance of the small room that contained a compact sitting area and queen-size bed. He didn’t care about the accommodations so much as he did the view. Camille still trembled against him, so instead of talking or planning out the evening, he led her to the balcony that overlooked the Pacific Ocean.

She gasped and leaned against the rail, taking in the San Diego coastline. He trapped her between his arms, giving her silent strength until she chose to speak. Eventually, she did. “Thank you, Sir.”

He nuzzled her neck, kissed her nape and ran his hands up and down her arms. “For what? That was all you, sweetheart.”

Turning in his arms, she gave him a serious stare. “It’s not my fault, is it?”

His heart fractured at the edges. “No, darling, it’s not.”

She nodded, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I think I’m a little closer to believing that.”

Chapter Thirteen

Back in the car on their way to Liminal, the newest BDSM club in San Diego, Camille seemed much more herself. Her smiles were still a little tremulous. But after a shower earlier when washing her back turned into making her come—twice—against the cool tile, and drying off devolved into fucking on the bed, she was more calm.

That was so far beyond fucking, though.
The truth of that statement had been haunting Damien for the last two hours, all through dinner and dressing for the club. He wouldn’t call it tender—it was too fierce for that. Whatever kind of sex they’d had, had shaken his very being. She looked radiant on the seat next to him, so beautiful it was a distraction. And the calm that emanated from her, even in the face of entering a new club, was a testament to her bravery. Her sexy, seductive bravery.

They arrived an hour before the club opened, greeted by the owner, Stephan Vatolous. He showed them to the staging area in the back and left them to get ready, promising two submissives to help move any equipment around.

Damien settled Camille into a chair before he started to unpack. She wasn’t in fetish gear, but her tight black yoga pants and black T-shirt showcased her body better than any corset or negligee. Then again, maybe he was biased.

Piece by piece, he pulled tools from his rolling duffel and arranged them on a rolling cart. He’d have to suggest Kat get one—it was really convenient. On one side, a drop-leaf platform framed the tray-like middle. Two drawers below the tray provided more storage. On the three other sides of the tray, hooks had been added.

Since this demo was very similar to the one at Maison Domine, he only gave Camille a cursory explanation for each item he laid out, candles and putty knives and lengths of chain and shallow bowls for hot and cold water—all the temperature-play basics in his kit.

Her attention stayed glued to the candles, pupils dilating and breath growing shallow. Yes, his sweetheart liked the hot wax. Tonight, maybe, he’d take her deeper, cover her nipples in red and white wax. He wanted to lay her out, arms and legs bound apart, while he made her come from the wax alone, dribbling patterns between her nipples and lower, pooling around her belly button and teasing the very edges of her pussy. He’d start with cooler wax around her clit, circling closer and warmer until she orgasmed so hard the wax would crack.

A hand pressed to the front of his black jeans. He looked down into Camille’s eager face. “This is more than just educational for you,” she said. Not a question, but a statement of fact.

With his hand, he formed her fingers around the erection that had grown during his little fantasy. “Yes and no.” She cocked her head, curious as always. No fear, even when by all rights she should be running from every Dominant who looked at her. She gestured for him to continue and he knelt down in front of her. Her hand drifted up and across his chest to drape over his shoulder.

Comfortable. Comforting.

“I’ve been teaching for years,” he explained. “Different clubs, different partners. Usually submissives I’m friends with—them and their Doms. Sometimes even my own submissive.” Her lips tightened. Jealousy? The thought shot a possessive surge through him. He wanted her to feel a claim on him, despite what logic dictated. He thumbed her lips, pressing inside her warm mouth, claiming her in that little way. Her tongue curled around his finger and her eyes went sleepy and sensual. He gritted his teeth against the desire to bend her over the chair and bury himself inside her yet again. “None of them have ever done this to me.” His hips jerked against her, reminding her of how hard he’d gotten. “This is from thinking of all the things I’m going to do to you onstage tonight.”

Camille moaned and it traveled through his body to make his cock twitch.

“Not to mention that, before you, I had very strict rules about the lessons being free of intimate contact. Sex outside the club, instruction and play inside. Usually with different people. But there’s something about you…”

Footsteps outside the door grabbed his attention and he rose, adjusting his pants to make his desire a little less obvious. Two men entered, wearing black leather boots, painted-on leather shorts and collars. He directed them to take the massage table and Saint Andrew’s Cross onto the stage.