Chapter 5
5
VANESSA
V anessa couldn’t stop herself.
Pacing barefoot across the polished wood floor of Hawke’s cabin, she pushed her boundaries like they were dominoes—flicking each one closer and closer to collapse. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, but it wasn’t nerves that were the cause. It was something far more dangerous.
Curiosity. Frustration. And a building need that had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with the man currently pretending she did not affect him at all.
He was at the table again, laptop open, phone buzzing occasionally beside it. An entire threat analysis was unfolding in front of him, and he hadn’t said more than five words to her in the last hour. She hated it. Hated the calm. Hated the control. Hated that he made her feel seen without even looking at her.
So she did what she always did when things got too tight inside her chest… she poked the bear.
“You always keep it this cold in here?” she asked, arching an eyebrow as she passed behind his chair for the third time. “Or is this some subtle dominance tactic to freeze the brat into submission?”
“No one’s making you walk around in a shirt two sizes too small,” he said, not looking up.
She glanced down. The faded Iron Spur T-shirt she’d pulled from her overnight bag hugged her hips and clung to her chest, the hem barely brushing the waistband of her lounge shorts.
“Maybe I like the view,” she said, slow and sweet, circling to face him.
He finally looked at her… not at her mouth… not her legs, but right into her eyes. Steady. Unflinching. The kind of look that could silence any room—and used to undo her in ten seconds flat.
She lifted her chin anyway. “What? I’m not allowed to be comfortable?”
“You’re allowed to be quiet,” he said. “You’re allowed to follow orders.”
“Oh, now we’re back to orders.” She leaned on the table, palms flat, watching his face. “Because I seem to remember a time when you actually liked it when I misbehaved.”
His voice dropped. “Misbehavior is a privilege. One you haven’t earned.”
That snapped the grin right off her face. It came roaring back twice as sharp.
“Oh, is that what this is?” she asked, voice bright and mocking. “A test of worthiness? You hiding your hand until I perform like a good little submissive?”
He stood. Slow. Deliberate. And she felt her breath catch before she could stop it. He didn’t say a word as he rounded the table. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t rush.
When he stopped in front of her, she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. “You think pushing me is the right move to make here?” he asked, voice quiet.
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Think again.”
He caught her wrist in one hand and stepped into her space. The room shifted, air thick with heat and something sharp and electric. She felt it in her belly, tight and rising.
“You’ve been testing me since the moment you walked through my door,” he said. “You think you’re the one in control here. You think if you act bratty enough, I’ll slip. That I’ll lose the control you’re dying to crack.”
Her heart hammered.
“You want to play, Nessa?” he asked, fingers tightening just enough to make her legs quiver. “You want to know if I still have it in me?”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He saw it in her eyes.
He reached into his back pocket, pulled out the soft coil of black paracord he kept there—for emergencies, for this—and stepped behind her before she could move.
Her breath stuttered as he caught her wrists behind her back and bound them with expert speed. Not painful. Not rushed. Just enough pressure to remind her she was his.
Her thighs clenched.
“This is how it works now,” he said at her ear. “You push, I take. You brat, I bind. You talk back again, and I gag you with your own words.”
She whimpered. God help her, she wanted this. Needed it.
He stepped in front of her again, eyes darker now, jaw tight. “You’ve had your fun,” he said. “Now it’s my turn.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to scare me?”
His mouth barely curved. “You wish it did.”
He pushed her backward with deliberate, unwavering force until she reached the edge of the leather sofa. She dropped onto it instinctively, her heart pounding fiercely in her chest, each beat a thunderous echo, her mouth dry with anticipation as if thirsting for what was to come.
He knelt before her, his hands firm and commanding on her knees, then bent down to press lingering kisses on each one, his lips leaving a trail of heat as he spread her legs with calculated intent. His fingers began their slow, teasing journey up her thighs, the touch light and tantalizing, until they paused just beneath the hem of her shorts, the moment thick with electric tension.
“I will not rush this,” he declared, his voice a low, dark promise that sent a shiver through the air. “Not this time.”
She swallowed, her throat constricting with a mix of apprehension and desire. “I didn’t ask you to,” she managed to reply, her voice a mere whisper.
“You didn’t have to,” he replied, lowering his head, his breath warm and inviting as his mouth skimmed along her inner thigh, each brush of his lips deliberate and tantalizing. “You’ve been begging for it since you stepped into this cabin.”
Her pulse hammered beneath her skin, a relentless drumbeat of need that seemed to resonate through her entire being.
“I’m not going easy on you,” he warned, his tone firm and unyielding. “You want to brat? Then brace yourself for what’s coming.”
He rose to his feet, his movements fluid and confident, unbuttoning his shirt with a swift flick of his fingers before discarding it carelessly, revealing his strong, sculpted form. He knelt again, his hands steady and sure as he dragged her shorts and panties down her legs with an unyielding tug, the fabric slipping away to expose her to the chill air, which kissed her skin and sent a shiver coursing through her.
He brought her panties to his nose and inhaled deeply.
“You’re already drenched,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel yet hot as fire, a blend of primal need and possessive heat. “And we haven’t even begun.”
With an assertive grip, he pulled her knees apart, leaning in with a searing intensity. His mouth was unrelenting, his tongue moving in a rhythm that blurred her vision and set her ablaze with sensation.
Her wrists strained against the cord that bound them, her back arching violently as she moaned—loud, uncontrolled, desperate, and raw.
He didn’t relent. He didn’t waver. He consumed her with a fierce possessiveness, as if he owned every piece of her. She bit her lip, struggling to hold on, striving to maintain even a shred of control, but when he thrust two fingers inside her and growled against her clit, the world around her shattered into a thousand brilliant pieces.
Hard. Loud. Shaking—she came with his name a breathless chant on her lips, her pride obliterated under the crushing weight of her surrender, the echoes of her release reverberating through the room.
When she opened her eyes, he was watching her.
Still in control.
Still waiting.
She swallowed. “Satisfied?”
“Not even close,” he said.
And with that, he hauled her up to her feet, tossed her over his shoulder and carried her up the stairs to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.
Vanessa barely registered the door closing before her back hit the bed. Hawke dropped her like a man who knew exactly where every piece of her belonged—and wasn’t interested in negotiation.
Her pulse thundered in her ears as she shifted on the mattress, bound wrists tight behind her. Her shirt was the only thing still on her body, the hem pushed up and twisted under her ribs.
He didn’t speak as he pulled a Bowie knife from the sheath at the back of his jeans. She knew the blade was so sharp that it would slice a chiffon scarf in half as easily as a hot knife through butter. He didn’t rush, never broke eye contact as he used the knife to cut away the shirt. His body was all control and carved strength. He moved like a man who’d never doubted a decision in his life.
She lifted her chin as he approached, even with her legs trembling and her core still pulsing from his mouth. “You really think tying me up and throwing me around proves anything?”
He didn’t blink. “It proves I know how to handle you when you don’t know how to ask for what you need.”
The words hit like a brand, scorching through the armor she’d built since the day she left him. She should’ve snapped back. Should’ve thrown up another wall. Instead, she watched as he slid onto the bed and knelt over her.
His hand moved slowly, brushing her thigh, then curling around her ankle. “Do I need a condom?”
“No. I’m still on birth control and I just had my annual checkup last month.”
He didn’t need to tell her because he knew she knew that regular STD screenings were required for all resident Doms.
“Do you want this?”
Her breath caught. The question was quiet. Deadly serious. She nodded, but he didn’t move.
“Use your voice, Vanessa.”
She swallowed. “Yes. I want this.”
“Say it.”
Her eyes fluttered open, ignited with a silent, unspoken hunger. "I want…" she began, her voice trembling with longing, only to be cut short by his unyielding, steely command.
“No. Two words: brat.”
In that transient moment, she searched his intense gaze until, with a husky, trembling whisper, she surrendered, "Yes, Master."
A slow, predatory smile unfurled across his lips as he methodically disrobed, each gesture deliberate and steeped in ritualistic precision. With care that bordered on reverence, he removed the rest of his clothing—shedding his rugged jeans and belt with the championship-buckle—each item folded meticulously before being stowed away. He set his worn cowboy boots aside with the same precision, their leather softened by time, neatly tucking the toes beneath the bed’s end.
Her heart thundered in her chest as she absorbed the magnificent truth of his presence: he was undeniably there, radiating raw power and magnetic allure. His erection, magnificent and unapologetically pronounced, was hard enough to be near his navel—perched above washboard abs sculpted to defiant perfection. His broad, imposing shoulders and powerfully defined limbs transformed him into a living myth, every heroic image she had once penned now a pale imitation compared to the breathtaking reality of Hawke.
Reaching out, he grasped a nearby pillow with intent, his arm brushing lightly against her already sensitive nipples in a teasing, tantalizing caress. Sliding the pillow purposefully beneath her hips, he reached between her legs, his fingers delving deep to test the familiar depths of her desire once more. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as her body arched instinctively, each nerve alight with anticipation.
"Still wet," he murmured low, every word heavy with possessiveness and command. "Still mine."
His deep voice resonated as her moan transformed into a cry of surrender, each sound a testament to the intimate domination unfolding between them. With deliberate intent, he claimed her completely—his body descending slowly as he parted her thighs like a secret door revealing hidden pleasures.
Every deliberate movement was a promise: as his hands roamed possessively over her curves, gripping her firm ass with an unyielding fervor, he aligned the throbbing pulse of his desire with the very core of her being before entering her with a single, powerful thrust. The motion was smooth yet overwhelmingly intense, leaving her gasping and breathless in its wake.
Her cry erupted—a raw, explosive blend of shock, fervor, and unbridled submission—a sound that reverberated from the depths of a place long unheard. Each snap of his hips drove his commanding desire deeper into her, every press of his thumb against her sensitive flesh sent her spiraling into a dizzying height of pleasure yet tethered her securely in delicious captivity.
As her inner fortress of pride crumbled beneath the urgency of need, she whimpered his name with a vulnerability that left nothing concealed. "Hawke…" she gasped, desperation lacing every breath she took, every sound she made.
"No," he growled in a decisive tone that left no room for negotiation.
Her trembling intensified as she pleaded softly, "Please…" teetering on the brink of complete capitulation.
"Now," he growled, the deep command shattering her resolve and pushing her irrevocably over the edge and into submission.
In that electrifying moment, she broke utterly, his name bursting forth from her lips as she surrendered to the overwhelming cascade of his dominance. Moments later, as he followed her in a shared eruption of passion, his rhythmic pace gradually slowed—the final, deep thrusts sealing their union with measured intent, until he finally stilled, his powerful frame encasing hers in an intimate, unbreakable embrace.
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just lay there, bound, boneless, and undone.
She half expected him to leave the bed, to put distance between them, but Hawke didn’t move away.
He reached for the blade on the nightstand and cut the cord binding her wrists with practiced ease. The rope fell away, and she barely brought her arms forward before he caught them in his hands, gently massaging the muscles.
Her throat went tight.
He didn’t say a word. Just touched her. Warm palms over sore skin. Smoothing the red lines. Holding her as if every inch of her mattered.
He shifted onto his side, pulled her into his chest, and wrapped an arm around her waist.
Vanessa had never done aftercare like this. Not with him. Not with anyone.
Her eyes burned unexpectedly. “You don’t have to…”
“Shut up.”
The words weren’t cruel. They were soft. Protective.
“You’re not a scene,” he said. “You’re not a game.”
Her breath hitched. She hated she needed this more than she’d ever admit.
“Don’t be nice to me,” she whispered.
He kissed the back of her neck. “Too late.”
Her fingers curled into his forearm where it wrapped around her middle. He held her tighter. She didn’t know how long they stayed like that—twined together, bodies on top of the quilt, the scent of sex and safety lingering in the air.
But at some point, her body gave out. Her last thought before sleep claimed her was simple, terrifying, and true. She’d never felt more safe or owned. The worst part was that she desperately never wanted the feeling to go away.