Chapter 11
SIMONE
The guest house feels smaller after dark.
I've been staring at my laptop for the past hour, pretending to review board materials while my mind runs through tomorrow's battle.
Henry called earlier and confirmed he received the forensic evidence package linking Armand to the shell corporation that funded Julien's surveillance.
The documentation is solid—tight enough to present to the board without giving Armand room to deflect.
The emergency meeting is set for mid-morning.
I close the laptop. The financials blur together anyway.
Luc's in the kitchen, making coffee despite the late hour. Every action is deliberate, nothing wasted—the way he moves through space.
"You need to sleep," he says without turning around.
"I need to prepare."
"You're prepared." He pours coffee and brings a cup to where I'm sitting on the couch. "What you need is rest."
I take it. It's exactly how I like it—he's been paying attention to details like that. "How am I supposed to sleep when tomorrow my uncle is going to try to destroy everything I've built?"
"By trusting that you've already won." He sits beside me, close enough that I feel the heat from his body. "The evidence is solid. Henry's working the board. Armand's desperate. He's already lost."
"Desperate men are dangerous."
"Yes. Which is why you're still under protection." He covers my hand on the coffee cup. "You're not alone in this."
I want to believe the board will see past Armand's influence, his carefully cultivated relationships, his performance of being the steady hand LaCroix Petroleum needs. But I've been in enough boardrooms to know that perception often matters more than evidence.
"What if they choose him?"
"Then you fight." There's no hesitation, no platitudes about how it won't happen—just certainty. "But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, you need to be present."
"I am present."
"No." The coffee cup leaves my hands, both set on the side table. "You're running scenarios. Planning contingencies. Trying to control variables you can't control." His hand cups my chin, tilts my face toward his. "That stops now."
The command in his voice cuts through the spiral. I feel my shoulders drop slightly, tension I didn't know I was carrying releasing at the edges.
"I don't know how to stop thinking about it."
"I know." He releases my chin, stands. Offers his hand. "Which is why I'm going to help you."
I look at his hand, knowing exactly what he's offering. Not distraction. Not escape. Structure. Dominance. Something to surrender into when my own mind won't let me rest.
I take his hand.
He pulls me to my feet, guides me toward the bedroom. Tonight it feels different. Not just protection detail. Not just necessity—like we've crossed some invisible line.
Inside, he closes the door and locks it.
"Ground rules," he says. "You submit completely. No thinking about tomorrow. No planning. No control. Just follow my commands and let everything else go. Safe word is red. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl." He moves behind me, hands on my shoulders. "You've been holding on too tight for too long. Real strength is knowing when to let go."
His hands slide down my arms, then back up, working knots from muscles I've been clenching. I want to argue that I haven't been performing, that I am strong. But he's right. I've been holding myself together through sheer force of will, and the cracks are starting to show.
"Tonight you surrender," he says quietly. "Because you trust me to hold you."
"I trust you." The words come easier than I expect.
"I know." His hands move to the hem of my sweater. "Arms up."
I raise my arms. He pulls the sweater over my head, then works the clasp of my bra. The garments fall away, leaving me bare from the waist up. The air conditioning kicks on, and I shiver.
"Jeans. Take them off."
I unbuckle my belt, slide the jeans down my legs, step out of them. My underwear follows. Standing naked while he's fully clothed makes me vulnerable in a way that sends heat through my belly.
"On the bed. On your back."
I move to the bed, lie down. The sheets are cool against my skin. He goes to the nightstand, opens the drawer, pulls out rope—jute, the kind that requires skill to use safely.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he begins working the rope around my wrist. His hands are efficient. The rope wraps in a cuff pattern, distributing pressure, then he secures it to the headboard.
"Too tight?"
"No, Sir."
He repeats the same process with my other wrist, then my ankles. By the time he's finished, I'm spread open, vulnerable, unable to close my legs or protect myself from his gaze.
"Beautiful." He stands, looks down at me. "And completely mine."
The possessiveness in his voice shouldn't send heat through me, but it does. Because he's earned it. Not through force or manipulation, but through proving over and over that he understands what I need even when I can't articulate it.
He strips out of his shirt. I've felt this body against mine in the dark, but seeing it—shoulders broad, chest and arms built from work not vanity, dark hair trailing down to his jeans—makes my breath catch.
"Tell me what you need," he says.
"I need to stop thinking."
"That's what. Tell me what you need."
I know what he's asking. Not the goal, but the method. What specific acts, what particular dynamic will get me there.
"I need you to take control. Make decisions. Use me however you want." I pull against the ropes, feel them hold. "I need to surrender completely."
"Good girl." He moves to the nightstand, opens the drawer. "I'm going to make you come. Multiple times. You're going to lose count. And when I finally let you stop, you won't remember what you were worried about."
It's not a question. Not a negotiation. Just a statement of what's going to happen.
"Yes, Sir."
He returns to the nightstand, pulls out a silk blindfold. Black, soft. He slides it over my eyes, and the world goes dark.
"You spend all day watching. Analyzing. Reading people." His voice comes from somewhere above me. "Not tonight. Tonight you just feel."
The loss of sight sharpens everything else. I can hear his breathing, the rustle of fabric as he moves. Feel the air currents shift when he leans closer.
His hands on my inner thighs, thumbs brushing close to where I'm already wet for him. He doesn't touch me there yet. Just traces patterns on my skin, building anticipation until I'm trembling.
"You hold yourself so tight," he says, feeling his hands move over my body. "Always in control. Always performing. But here, with me, you don't have to be anything except exactly what you are."
His thumb brushes over my clit. Light pressure, not enough to satisfy. I try to lift my hips, seek more contact, but the ankle restraints limit my movement.
"Stay still."
I freeze.
He leans down, presses a kiss to my inner thigh. Then another, higher. His scruff scratches against sensitive skin. I can feel his breath on me, getting closer to where I need him, but he takes his time. Deliberate. Controlled.
When his mouth finally reaches my center, I gasp. His tongue is firm, tracing through my folds with the same precision he brings to everything. He finds my clit, circles it, then moves away before I can build toward release.
"Luc." His name comes out as a plea.
"I didn't give you permission to speak."
I bite my lip, silent. He rewards the obedience by returning his mouth to my clit, this time with more pressure. His tongue works in steady circles while one hand slides up my body, palms my breast, thumb rubbing over the nipple.
The dual sensation makes it hard to think. It's exactly what I need. My mind finally starts to quiet, focusing down to just physical feeling. His mouth. His hands. The ropes holding me open and vulnerable. The darkness wrapping around me.
He slides fingers inside me while his mouth stays on my clit. The stretch, the fullness—I need this. He curls his fingers, finds the spot that makes my back arch off the bed despite my best efforts to stay still.
"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Come for me."
His fingers work inside me while his tongue maintains steady pressure on my clit. The orgasm builds fast, inevitable. I pull against the ropes, not to escape but because I need something to fight against as everything tightens low in my belly.
When it hits, I cry out. My body locks up, every muscle clenching, and then the release—hot and sharp and overwhelming. He doesn't stop. Keeps working me through it until I'm gasping.
Then he pulls back slightly, lets me catch my breath. But his fingers stay inside me, still moving in slow strokes.
"One," he says. "We're just getting started."
He leans down again, and I realize he meant what he said. He's going to make me lose count.
His mouth returns to my clit, gentler now that I'm sensitive, but still insistent. Building me back up before the first orgasm has fully faded. His fingers continue their steady rhythm inside me, and I feel the pressure building again impossibly fast.
"Luc, I can't—"
"You can." His voice is steel. "And you will. You're going to come as many times as I decide. Until you can't think. Until all that control you're so proud of is completely fucking gone."
The crude edge in his voice sends heat through me.
He increases the pressure with his tongue, curls his fingers harder against that spot inside me.
The second orgasm hits before I'm ready, sharper than the first, almost painful in its intensity.
I strain against the ropes, need the anchor they provide as sensation overwhelms thought.
He gives me even less recovery time. His mouth stays on me, relentless, while he adds another finger. The stretch borders on too much, but he knows exactly how far to push. Knows the line between pleasure and pain and how to walk it.
"Please."
"Please what?" His voice is dark, commanding. "Tell me what you need."