Page 32 of The Maverick

Vanessa’s pulse ticked under his palm. Not panic. Not resistance. Readiness.

“You still with me?” he asked.

She turned her head just slightly. “You tell me.”

He gave her the smallest nod. That was enough.

They had already prepped the table with the violet wand. A corner stage outfitted with a St. Andrew’s Cross stood under soft amber lighting, the wand itself resting beneath a black cloth on a side table. The setup was subtle—no raised platform, no dramatic spotlight—just clean, restrained elegance designed for control, not spectacle.

Vanessa didn’t speak as he led her to the cross. With quiet, deliberate care, he removed her corset and slid the silk and lace thong down her legs, baring her inch by inch. Then, without a word, he helped her into position—facing the cross, arms extended upward as he guided her wrists into the cuffs. Her eyes stayed locked on his as he adjusted the grounding pad against her thigh and checked the contact points with steady precision.

He positioned her against the cross, her back to the room, arms raised above her head. The cuffs closed around her wrists, then her ankles, spreading her limbs wide. Her red hair spilled down her back, catching the light like flame against shadow.

Hawke picked the thinnest glass attachment—just enough current to draw goosebumps, not enough to leave a mark. Hepressed the wand to her skin lightly and let the first crackle hum against her shoulder.

Her breath caught, but she didn’t pull away.

He worked methodically. Tracing from her shoulders down her spine. Across her hip, then back to her thigh. Her body trembled slightly with each pass, not from pain, but from surrender. He kept the rhythm unpredictable, letting her mind chase the next strike and never quite catch it.

Her eyes fluttered closed.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and firm. “Color?”

“Green.”

His hand reached out to smack her ass. “How do you answer me, sub?”

“Green, Master.”

He moved lower, letting the wand skim the inside of her thigh. He saw her knees tense, but she didn’t stop him.

The current arced in soft pulses—just enough to prickle, to tease, to make her breath stutter. He adjusted the dial with one twist, dialing the sensation down, dragging the glass tip in lazy circles behind her knee, then up, higher, inch by inch toward where her thighs met.

Vanessa let out a sound between a gasp and a curse.

"Say the word if it’s too much," Hawke said quietly, voice close to her ear.

"I didn’t say stop," she snapped, breathless.

“You speak to me with respect.” His mouth curved slightly as he reached up to give her nipple a nasty tweak. Not a smile—approval. Control.

He drew the wand across the swell of her hip, then down again, dancing closer to where she was already wet, already shaking. She shifted against the restraints, her head tipped back, red hair tumbling down the side of the cross like fire spilling from a glass. Her eyes fluttered closed, lips parted.

"Still afraid of the wand?" he asked, trailing the tip just along the crease where thigh met groin.

"Yes, Master, but still green," she whispered.

"Then you’re mine until I say otherwise."

She moaned. The wand hovered at the edge of her sex, not touching—just close enough for her to feel the air crackle between her skin and the glass. The anticipation was worse than the contact. He knew it. She knew it.

Her breath hitched. He waited.

Then—just when her body leaned in, when her thighs opened wider in silent surrender—he slid the wand between her legs. Not inside her. Just a flicker across her slick folds. A kiss of current over swollen flesh.

Her whole body jolted. She gasped, nearly choked on it, pulling at the cuffs instinctively—but not trying to escape. Her back arched beautifully, straining for more. A low, desperate sound came from her throat.

He circled again, more firmly this time, letting the wand trace her clit in deliberate, maddening passes. Not enough to push her over. Just enough to keep her dancing on the edge, panting, fighting the climax building like a storm in her spine.

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