Page 20 of The Maverick

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."

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