Page 65 of The Maverick

Hawke didn’t speak at first. He walked to the cabinet, unlocked it, and pulled out the bag he’d brought himself earlier in the day. Then he turned to face her.

“Come here Vanessa,” he said, not unkindly. Just a command. When she stood in front of him, Hawke moved to her side, touching the exquisite collar he’d placed around her neck earlier before they came to the club.

“This is not a game,” he said. “It’s not about theatrics or claiming territory. This symbolizes me offering you something sacred. Something earned.”

Her chest ached.

“If you say yes,” he said, “you don’t just belong to me inside these walls. You belong to me everywhere. Every morning. Every night. When you’re writing. When you’re laughing. When you’re climbing into bed and when you’re curled against me after the nightmares.”

She felt her throat tighten.

“This is forever, Vanessa,” he said. “And it’s not about protection. It’s about partnership. I will never stop dominating you… but I will never stop listening, either.”

It was as if she could feel the collar settle against her skin like it had always belonged there.

Vanessa closed her eyes, let her head fall back against his shoulder. “Yes.”

Hawke didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

She opened her eyes and turned her head, whispering again, “Yes, Master.”

His mouth brushed her temple. “Good girl.”

Vanessa’s breath caught as he turned her around. She obeyed him without hesitation. She felt the spine of the large Bowie knife he carried slide under the laces of the corset, slicing through them as if they were nothing. Slowly, he freed her from the constraints of the corset, peeling it off her, letting the cool air pebble her nipples. The fastenings on the leather skirt came next, then the thin lace panties beneath. When she was bare, he turned her to face him, studying her like she was art.

“Up on the bench and in position.”

She climbed onto the padded bench as instructed, kneeling with her back straight, thighs parted, hands resting palm-up on her thighs. Her breath moved slow and shallow, but not from nerves—because she was ready. Because she trusted him.

Hawke moved with precision, checking each item in his tray: safety blanket folded on the nearby table, fire wand prepped and soaked in isopropyl alcohol, extinguisher within reach. He laid out his tools in a clean line, each one handled with care. His attention to detail kept her centered and relaxed.

The scene space was warm, dimly lit, and cleared of distractions. The air held a faint undertone of singed cotton and leather polish. Two trained monitors sat nearby, respectful and silent.

Hawke returned to her, holding the silver fire wand, the cotton-wrapped end already damp. He dipped it once more into the jar, then struck the long-necked lighter. Flame flared at the wand’s tip—low and controlled, flickering orange in the dark like a whispered promise.

“You remember your safe word?” he asked, voice low, all command.

“Yes, Master.”

“And your color?”

“Green,” she whispered. “Very, very green.”

A pause, and then: “Good girl.”

He brought the flame within an inch of her shoulder. The wand never touched her skin—just close enough to trail heat across it, awakening her senses. Her breath hitched as he ran it slowly down the outside of her arm, heat chasing goosebumps in its wake.

It wasn’t fire play for shock value or show. It was rhythm. Intention. A choreography only they understood.

Hawke worked her body like a song—fire above her thigh, the back of her arm, across her stomach. Never touching. Always teasing. She knew some Doms preferred to use flash cotton. It was easier to control, but not Hawke.

He didn’t speak except to remind her to breathe, to hold still, to trust him. She obeyed without thought; the surrender coming easier now than ever before.

Moving behind her, he traced the heat down the line of her spine—slowly, carefully. She felt the air shift as he passed the wand, then a faint kiss of heat as the alcohol flash ignited and vanished, leaving a tingle behind. No burns. No pain. Just sensation and trust.

He circled her slowly, repeating the pattern. Thighs. Abdomen. Sternum. Always hovering first, checking her body’s reactions. Always watching. Always in control.

By the third pass, she was trembling—not from fear, but from how fully she’d let go. Her hands had curled into soft fists. Her head tipped back, exposing her throat and the collar he’d placed there earlier. The diamonds caught the firelight and glittered like stars.

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