Free Surrender to Fire: Maison Chronicles, Book 3 by Skylar Kade Page B

nodded, reveling in the extra tug against her scalp as she moved.
    He cursed and left her side. Silence screamed in his absence until she heard the swish of his jeans and he once again appeared next to the couch. “Come.”
    Cam snorted. “I wish it were that easy, Sir.”
    “Not what I meant, sweetheart,” he said as he guided her to the sheet-covered dining room table. He said nothing in response to her arched eyebrow.
    Firm, gentle hands led her up a two-step stool and onto the edge of the heavy oak table. Damien guided her back until she was staring up at the white ceiling. The rest of the room faded away as his hands touched her everywhere except between her legs. Eyes closed to block out his agonizingly slow movements, Cam focused on his breathing. The sound lulled her into a semblance of calm. She could distance herself from the all-consuming need that was eating at her edges and still know he was nearby.
    A flash of heat exploded on her stomach, surprising but not painful. She knifed upward, stopped by Damien’s heavy hand on her shoulder. “Stay still.”
    Okay, she might be able to do that—another hot slice against her side made her whole body tense, but she managed not to move. Tremors fanned out from her stomach, undulating down her legs and arms until her body vibrated in anticipation of his next move.
    “Open your eyes.”
    She obeyed and was met with Damien standing between her legs, that strand of hair flopping in front of his eyes, black shirt missing and hair sprinkling across his chest. She wanted to run her fingers across his tight muscles, feel the crisp hairs spring against her palm, grow finer and paler as she moved down his abs and around what had to be an impressive cock.
    Then she noticed the knife. Light glinted off the curved blade.
    Blood rushed to her head and she barely registered his words until his hand gripped her jaw and he came back into focus. “Camille, listen to me. This is not a cutting knife.” With his free hand, he ran the edge along his forearm, right in front of her face. Panic subsided, but just enough to listen to him. “The blade retains heat, baby.” He removed the hand from her jaw, reached for something on the table—a lighter, she saw—and used it to run flame along the metal blade. He touched it to his own arm, then moved it to her breast, letting it hover over her skin until she nodded.
    Not hot, not really, the metal bit at her skin before warming it. “Okay.” Her eyes sank closed again, trusting him a little more. Wanting him more.
    The knife danced around her skin, keeping her on edge and stealing all her attention. When the edge turned into a hot line curving around one breast and under the other, draping off her side, she gasped. The heat melted into her skin and then disappeared. Then the knife, the edge—then flat, quick swipes and long presses. Back to the line, hotter and burning deeper. Her skin pulsed like a hundred beating hearts everywhere his instrument touched her. Each throbbed in time with her clit.
    He walked her up to the edge of pain, but never crossed the line, until ice skimmed from her collarbone to her navel. “Sir!”
    His only reply was an evil laugh and a “Don’t move. And don’t even think about coming.”
    Torture. That was the only way she could describe it. Hot, then cold, until she couldn’t tell them apart. Dueling blades of fire and ice and slashes of hot-cold-hot bisected her torso until her blood screamed for him to touch her.
    Every exhausted nerve ending screamed for relief. “Sir, please,” she begged when his hot breath fanned across her navel.
    “Had enough, sweetheart? I’m just getting started.” His smooth fingers skimmed her body, the new texture sharp against her skin.
    “Please…” She couldn’t form her lips around all the words screaming for release in her head, part of that mind-spinning amalgam of sensation and temperature and raw, bitter need.
    From a distance, his voice echoed.