Page 33 of The Maverick

She tried to rock her hips forward, to get more friction, but the cross held her fast.

"No," he said simply. "You don’t take. I give."

She whimpered. He teased her again, this time slower, and watched her break open—soundless at first, then with a moan that started low in her chest and rose into something close to a cry.

"Please," she breathed. "Master, I…"

"Come for me." The command was soft. Absolute.

She shattered with a strangled gasp, her body pulling tight against the restraints, thighs trembling, back arching as the orgasm took her. He watched her come undone—watched thefire in her eyes turn molten and then dissolve into something raw and open and real.

And when she sagged against the cuffs, spent and breathing hard, he turned off the wand and reached up to release the restraints.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, catching her as she collapsed into him.

The room had grown quiet around them, watchers intent but respectful. The scene wasn’t about spectacle—it was about precision. About watching a woman give more than she wanted to.

Vanessa opened her eyes slowly. They were glassy and her lips were parted. She looked at him like she wasn’t sure who she was for a second.

Then she whispered, “Thank you, Master.”

It hit him harder than he expected—not just the ‘thank you,’ but her use of the honorarium without being prompted.

She had been frightened, but she’d come for him, anyway. She trusted him with the part of herself that she didn’t give to anyone—not lightly, not anymore.

And now? Now the trap was set. If the bastard watching them thought he had a claim, tonight would drive him to act.

And when he did? Hawke would be waiting.

Hawke stayed silent as he guided Vanessa off the stage, her hand nestled inside his, her balance just barely off from the adrenaline still coursing through her system. He wrapped her in a cashmere blanket. She didn’t speak, and he didn’t push her to. He could feel the energy running under her skin—volatile and electric—but beneath it was trust, fragile and hard-won.

They passed through the crowd slowly. The club had returned to its usual pulse of low music and murmured conversation, but a subtle shift lingered in the air. People had seen the scene. Not just the wand, not just the intensity—it was her. Vanessa giving in. Letting go.

And someone out there had seen more than they should.

He scanned the room with trained precision. Faces flickered through his memory—known members, vetted players, staff with years of clean records. But that didn’t mean they were clean now.

He focused on posture, gaze, breathing. A sub might stare too long out of curiosity, but a predator would fixate—quiet, lingering, possessive. He swept the club floor again.

Then he saw him. Charles, leaning against the far wall near the bar, arms crossed, not speaking to anyone. Eyes locked on Vanessa as she passed. Not the way you look at someone in admiration or even arousal. The way you look at something you think belongs to you and got away.

Too still. Too quiet. Too controlled. Hawke kept his body language neutral as he filed the image away.

He didn’t let go of Vanessa’s hand until the club doors were closed behind them. She was trembling—not visibly, but he felt it. In her fingers. In the way her body leaned toward him like she needed the contact to stay centered.

Hawke didn’t rush her.

Instead, he drew her aside, into a quiet alcove off the main hallway where the thrum of music faded, and the world narrowed to just them. The club’s lights were low here, the hallway dim and warm. He eased her into the leather armchair tucked against the wall and crouched in front of her, large hands wrapping gently around her knees.

“Color,” he said softly.

Her eyes lifted slowly, lashes still damp, breath uneven. “Green. Just… processing.”

He nodded once and didn’t push. Just stayed there, grounded in his stillness, giving her the space to return to herself.

Her hands drifted to his forearms, gripping lightly as if anchoring. “That wasn’t just a scene.”

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t.”

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