Free Chains and Canes by Katie Porter Page B

even vicious cane strokes that left her sobbing. Finally she’d found the key to the explosive release she’d unconsciously sought for years. Patrick had used her craving for pain to introduce her to submission. If she wanted to cry, or if she wanted to come, she did what she was told.
    Such a good girl.
    Perfect.
    Beg for it.
    Now your reward.
    She’d learned that the true reward wasn’t explosions or orgasms. It was the peace that followed. She existed with such calm in the days after a session. Everything aligned. Her worries disappeared as simply as graphite erased from paper.
    Despite the most sizzling sex of Naya’s life, she and Patrick hadn’t lasted long. The show had ended a few months later, and so had their association. He’d made that decision, just when Naya wanted to take their relationship beyond the physical.
    Daniel was so good to her. Safer. He’d tried to give her what she needed, but part of her had resisted. Being dumped by one’s master was worse than a breakup. It was a loss of direction, a loss of self . Patrick had molded her into his submissive until he didn’t want her anymore.
    Despite Daniel’s best efforts, she’d resisted giving in to him on that primal level. She didn’t want to risk security and love for the crazy, uncontrollable thrill of becoming his submissive—even if they’d been capable.
    Playing with Remy had been an adventure, and submitting to him had been scarily easy. But he wasn’t the one to hold her safe and make her happy for the rest of her life. Daniel cherished her. He believed in her. That meant more to her than the whole rest of the world.
    Yet, how could she marry him if she took for granted that he was content? That his needs were being fulfilled as well as he worked to satisfy hers? What if…?
    Damn.
    She entered Remy’s rehearsal room with that weight in her heart, only to have her chest burned open upon seeing him again.
    Only seven hours had passed. Could’ve been a year. More than the physical sensations, she’d adored his firm command. He’d kept his word—every nasty threat and every bone-melting promise. To trust in such a Dominant…
    She was in real trouble.
    He trained his deep gaze on her. A nasty, dazzling smile followed his slow perusal. Head to toe. Once more.
    “You wear too much clothes during rehearsal,” he said. “Noticed that yesterday.”
    “Habit. I want to be noticed for me. My dancing. Not how nice my ass looks poking out from tiny shorts.”
    He didn’t stalk toward her. He had too much grace for that. “Most choreographers and casting folks like to see bare skin. Technique can be masked by layers.”
    Naya looked down at her standard practice outfit. Leggings. Form-fitting T-shirt over a plain sports bra, which chafed like hell that morning. “You see plenty and you know it.”
    “After we dance, chère .” His grin was quick and dirty and, oh, she wasn’t going to be able to hold this together. “I’ll see plenty after we dance.”
    She ditched her gear in a corner and propped her hands on her hips. “That’s what you think.”
    Turns out she could hold it together just fine. The piece they rehearsed was to headline at Devant in two weeks. They had other, more simple pieces to perform in the meantime—merely warm-ups to acclimate to one another and the stage—but this was the exciting one. This one evolved every time they practiced. It was slow, sexy teasing, but above all, sultry, like dancing in honey. Or being made of honey. The music surrounded them as Remy’s arms surrounded her. They oozed through smooth jazz steps that shouted passion and hinted at obsession. His chest pressed against her back, as if he’d designed the choreography with her bruises in mind. After a quick turn and the snap of his arm, he pulled her face to face. One hand twisted into her hair. The other palmed her ass.
    He touched her like a lover, although she doubted it was because they’d become lovers. He’d touched her that