Why are you doing this to me? I don't want to feel anything for you—for any man—ever again.
Savi turned toward him again. His eyes were nearly black; pupils so large they obliterated his chocolate-brown irises. A shiver danced down her spine, definitely from a response other than fear.
Too intense.
"It's going to take time for me to discover your triggers, Savi. Maybe if you tell me about what you can remember those men doing to you, I can avoid some of the obvious ones."
No, she could never tell him about the despicable things her father, Lyle, or any of the sadists had done. For the most part, she'd dumped those memories into a black hole long ago, where she wanted them to remain. So, why did they keep resurfacing into her consciousness now? It was enough to know her father had raped her too many times to count from when she was a little girl until she'd turned eighteen. What purpose could remembering the details serve in her healing? She'd thought the horrific memories would disappear entirely, but they were still there, buried deep inside. Only now they seemed to be closer to the surface than they once were. She didn't want to see or feel them.
But one memory had never gone away. The branding. She shuddered, then tensed, stomping on the memory with the fervent hope that this time it would go away. No such luck.
Damián's hand stroked her back until she relaxed again. She hadn't even shared that incident with her therapist. No one knew but Father and Lyle, and her last two sadistic clients at the penthouse who had photographed her mark of shame.
Her therapist and Anita knew generally about the sadistic torture she'd endured, and she'd admitted to both of them that she'd been raped repeatedly by her father, which was horrific enough. She'd just never allowed herself to acknowledge or deal with any of those deeper feelings, or the more vile memories, on an emotional level. Just the facts, ma'am.
"I remember the scene with the two sadists at the hotel the night when I heard you screaming. I can imagine you'd be triggered by the violet wand, the quirt, and maybe even being restrained with ropes."
Ropes, quirt, electricity.
Savi shivered. She didn't remember the pain of that night, but was thankful he could focus on that incident, which had been mild compared to the ones at her father's house. She'd had no emotional connection to those two men, so the incident held much less power. She relaxed against him.
"You responded when I touched your breasts. You seemed to enjoy that."
No! I didn't mean to!
Sex was ugly, dirty, bad.
Savi was ugly, dirty, bad.
No, not Savi. She'd never even had sex.
It was Savannah.
Then why had Savi's body betrayed her in Damián's bedroom, stirring up feelings of Savannah's arousal that Savi had tamped down for years? Why had those feelings returned now and with such a vengeance?
Savannah isn't dead.
She gulped air into her lungs, not realizing she'd stopped breathing until her chest began to burn.
"Slow, deep breaths." She did as he instructed and the burning went away. "Talk to me, mi sueño."
Tell him. "I don't like sex. I don't want to have sex—ever." Maybe he'd give up on her when he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere with her in that area.
"What you experienced with those men wasn't sex, bebé, it was sadistic torture." He clenched his fist, then relaxed. She could almost feel the rage seething within him, boiling just below the surface.
Savi pulled away. She didn't want to absorb his rage. She'd dealt with her own anger; she didn't need his. She'd moved on.
Or had she?
"Remember our day at the beach, Savannah? In the cave?"
"Savannah's dead."
He frowned.
She has to remain dead. I can't survive if she lives. She knows too much.
Why did he refuse to understand that woman didn't exist anymore? If he wanted Savannah, well, then…she moved to get off his lap, but he didn't release her. Panic flared within her.
"Savi, we aren't finished." He stroked her arm. "Breathe deeply."
She did as he told her and relaxed again, but her nerves remained on the defensive. "I'm finished with sex." I've been finished sexually since I was nineteen. Since our time in the beach cave. "I can't be that promiscuous girl for you again. She doesn't exist."
Savannah is dead. Savannah is dead.
He raised his eyebrows. "I never thought of you as promiscuous, Savi. We both just needed someone that day. We connected; we were there for each other."
She'd never considered the notion that Damián had needed her that day, too. She'd thought he'd only tried to fill her brokenness with his tenderness, that he'd taken pity on her for what she'd experienced in the hotel.
She stopped fighting to get away from him. Finally.
Chapter Eight
What the fuck was going on? Since the moment he'd walked into the bathroom and found Savi huddled on the floor, razor blade lying beside her, her eyes lost in a trancelike state, Damián felt like he'd been dumped into a combat zone without a clearly defined mission.
Obviously, his touch had triggered something that had been done to her all those years ago. He wished he knew what, so he would know not to do it again. He'd touched her nipple, but she hadn't responded negatively to that. Total opposite, actually. Then he'd touched her mons and clit through her jeans. That seemed to be when all hell broke loose.
Now she was talking about leaving. That wasn't going to happen. Still, how could he keep her safe—not from the outside threat he'd been so focused on the past couple months, but safe from herself?
He needed to help keep her in the moment; get her mind to interpret his touch as something positive, not the pain and degradation she'd known in the past.
A cutter. Mierda. That complicated things. Patti at the club had been one, too. He'd been able to help her with SM sessions when needed, even though most Doms knew to steer clear of cutters and just get them the mental healthcare they needed. Patti's husband, Victor, had assured him she was in counseling, and begged Damián to help her, too. Victor couldn't inflict the amount of pain she'd needed to take away the pain exploding inside.
Apparently, Savi also needed that endorphin release if she'd been that close to using the razor to cut herself to counteract the psychological pain she was feeling.
Guilt washed over him. This time, it was from pain Damián had inflicted without even knowing it. Hell, the irony of it was that he got relief from his own psychological pain by inflicting pain on women he Topped in controlled sadomasochism scenes. He always knew the bottom's limits. He hadn't intended to hurt Savi today, though, in any way. He thought he was being gentle, sensual.
Maybe he couldn't be that kind of man anymore.
"Tell me what it felt like the last time you cut yourself."
She shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it."
"Tell me, Savi." He needed her to define the feeling. She'd clearly resorted to cutting before, judging by the scars tracking across her upper arm.
He didn't want her to hurt herself like that anymore, but there was only one way he knew to help. Damián was a mechanic. He needed to fix things. He also was a sadist and a Service Top, but his sweet Savannah had been tortured by sadistic monsters much of her life. She wouldn't want to be around another one, even if he was nothing like those others.
She looked down at her lap, picking at the skin next to her middle fingernail. Was this another way she mutilated herself? He placed his hand over hers to still them. She tried to extricate her hands from his, but he wouldn't let her escape.
"Tell me."
He'd about given up on her responding when she said, "A rush."
"You get high off cutting."
She shook her head. "Not high. It's just a…rush. The pain would build up inside until I couldn't stand it anymore, then, when I cut myself, all that pain gushed out and I just felt a rush. Afterwards, I was incredibly relaxed and the pain was gone."
"Do you know
what endorphins are?"
She nodded. "Yeah. I know that's the clinical term for the rush I'm trying to describe."
"Would you like to find other ways to get that rush without cutting yourself?"
Savi pulled away and looked at him, hope flashed in her eyes, but faded as quickly. "If you're going to suggest curing me with rough, hot sex, it won't work."
He grinned and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "Too bad. But that's not what I had in mind. I want to help you overcome some of your aversions to being touched. Help you connect with your body again."
When she tried to scoot off his lap, he placed his hands on her upper arms. "How do you feel about being restrained—but this time by someone you trust?"
He couldn't imagine how she could have gotten any more tense—but she did. She placed a hand on his chest to keep him at bay, but didn't use enough resistance for him to feel she was seriously panicking. Yet.
"I don't give up control to anyone."
Well, he sure knew that feeling. "Even if you trusted the person you surrendered your control to? Even with me?"
The wary expression in her eyes told him she didn't trust him either, and it hurt to think he still hadn't gotten anywhere in that regard.
"Mi sueño, I know you've had some awful experiences with men." She held her breath. "What I want to try won't be about sex, Savi. It might eventually make sex less frightening for you, but I'm not just trying to get inside your pants."
Her face flushed and she looked down at her hands again. "I'll never be ready for sex again, Damián."
"One thing I've learned in recent years is never say never." There had been a time when he'd thought he'd never walk like a normal man again. Okay, he still wasn't normal, but he sure as hell could fool most people. If he could adjust to an artificial foot, Savi could learn to enjoy sex.
"I'd like to plan a scene for you where you would have ultimate script control over what would happen. A scene you could call off at any moment if it became too intense or uncomfortable."
"You want to do a play?"
He grinned. "Not do a play—just play. Hear me out."
She placed her cool fingers on his lips and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Damián. I can't trust anyone enough to let them restrain me. Even having someone touch me sends me…"
He fought the urge to suck her fingers into his mouth and moved her fingers off his lips, trying to regain his self-control. "I'm talking about a role-play scene." His heart tripped over a couple beats. It was now or never. "I know of a club where you would be safe to explore this scene with me. There would be other people there whose job it is to protect you from harm—not that you'd need them. If you use your safeword, I'd stop immediately and we'd talk about what you were feeling."
"Safeword?"
He forgot not everyone knew the lingo of his kinky community. "It's a word or phrase you could speak during a scene when you needed the action to stop—like when a director says 'cut' in a movie." He winced. Okay, cut wasn't the right word. "Remember in the bedroom when I told you I'd stop if you said 'hot tamale'? Well, tamale could be your safeword. Of course, if you said 'hot tamale,' I might think you were referring to me." He grinned, hoping to lighten the mood.
She didn't relax even a tiny bit, but he continued, anyway. He'd come too far now. "You would use your safeword to signal me that you needed to stop what we were doing. To take a break. Regroup. Even stop the scene for good."
"I understand what you're saying, but it's still not going to happen. No one will ever restrain me again."
How could he explain this without sounding like the Marquis de Sade? "I'm told it's different when it's consensual restraint. There's a sense of freedom you find when you give up control willingly."
"How can being tied up make someone feel free?"
"I'd have to show you in order for you to understand."
She shook her head again. "So not happening."
Damián steeled himself. He had to tell her eventually, but hadn't planned to do it so soon. But he needed to be honest with her, if he expected the same from her. "What if we went to my club? There would be monitors present to put an end to the scene if I didn't stop when you used our safeword." He decided that referring to these people as dungeon monitors might not be what she needed to hear right now.
"What are you talking about? What kind of club did you join?"
Slow down, Chico. You're moving too fast for her. Someday he'd tell her what he'd become, but right now, he'd just talk about the club. "I'm not just a member. I co-own the club." She raised her eyebrows. "After our active service ended, Adam, Marc, and I started a kink club here in Denver."
Her eyes opened wider. "Kink? As in bondage, whips, and stuff like that?"
"Yeah."
"Whoa. I don't think I can picture you in such a place."
He wondered what she thought such a club was supposed to be like. "To be honest, I'm not sure how I got roped into it." He grinned and she groaned at the pun. At least she didn't seem as freaked out. He needed for her to understand what the place was all about. "We run a nice, safe club. Everyone there signs a contract and agrees to follow the rules. We're all consenting adults just looking for a safe place to play. Our club provides equipment most people can't install into their homes and a place to explore their power exchange more deeply, maybe even learn some new techniques or improve a skill. Some just stop by to hang out with like-minded people who understand this part of their nature."
People who won't think of us as freaks, even if we may call ourselves that.
"Power exchange?"
He took it as a positive sign she hadn't jumped off his lap and hightailed it back to Solana Beach. Yet. "Yeah, couples negotiate rules within their relationship. One or more partners relinquish control to one or more others."
"I'm not into group sex. Hell, I'm not into sex. Period."
"I said it doesn't have to be about sex. It's mainly about control—the giving and receiving of control. Of course, that power exchange turns some people on and we provide private rooms for those wanting a more intimate experience with each other, but the main gathering room is pretty tame. Even scenes in the theme rooms often don't involve sex."
Well, that was true enough—up to a point. He had no clue what happened in most of the theme rooms. He spent most of his time in the great room or the dungeon.
"Theme rooms?"
"Those rooms are set up mostly for fulfilling fantasies. Medical, harem, office, and the like."
Damián appreciated that she still seemed to be considering his words without freaking out like most people would have if they'd been in this conversation. It gave him hope. He brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. "What do you fantasize about, Savita?"
Her gaze focused on him, shooting daggers at him. "Nothing."
"Everyone has fantasies. It's normal. Healthy."
* * *
Savi's chest grew tight; a stab of pain radiated outward from her heart. She might as well confess her inadequacies to him now, to avoid embarrassment and disappointment later. If there would be a later.
"I'm not normal or healthy when it comes to sex. You're wasting your time, Damián." She moved to get up off his lap, but he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Tendrils of panic snaked through her.
She looked into his warm brown eyes and calmed a bit. "What's in it for you?"
"Savi, I'm a Dom."
A what? She cocked her head.
"Sorry—a Dominant. I like to be on the end accepting control from a submissive. But what I really enjoy is being able to give a sub what she needs. What no other man can give her."
She shivered. What was Damián trying to tell her? He liked to tie women up and beat them—because they needed it? "What she needs. What does that mean?"
He placed his hand over her arm just above her elbow and she grew warmer at his touch. His thumb made lazy sweeps over that tiny patch of skin, short-circuiting her ability to follow the conversation for a moment. Focus.
>
"A submissive has an innate need to surrender to a Dominant. It's only then that she feels a sense of fulfillment and completion. There also are male submissives, but we'll focus on female ones—because that's my favorite kind." He grinned. She couldn't believe he was telling her these things. Damián was into bondage and sadomasochism? "There's also a lot of pride a submissive feels in pleasing her Dom."
"I won't be a submissive plaything for any man." Never again.
"In a healthy Dom/sub relationship, it's symbiotic. You will receive as much as you give, maybe even more. It could help free up your mind and body from the things that are holding you back. Not that I can vouch for that feeling of freedom from my own experiences at being restrained." He grinned.
Great. She couldn't get out of her head the visual of Damián chained to a bed.
"Why would you let someone restrain you?"
"Part of my training. It's important for me as a Dom to experience what I'm going to do to a submissive, mainly so I can keep her safe when she's in my care and know what to look for if something goes wrong. I've experienced everything I've done to a sub."
"You've had a lot of submissives?" As much as she hated to admit it, the image of Damián dominating other women bothered her.
"As one of the club's owners, I have to be available to unattached subs wanting to experience various…techniques I'm good at. We also do demonstrations with models we've practiced with before. Sometimes I provide a needed service to a Dom's sub when he is unable or unwilling to provide what's needed—with permission, of course. It's always consensual. Again, I'm not talking about sex—just bondage, impact play, and the like."
He made it sound as if they were talking about Damián offering personal training services at a gym or something. Savi couldn't believe she was having a conversation about bondage, S&M, and submission with a self-proclaimed Dom. She didn't want to think about participating in anything of the sort, but was inexplicably fascinated by it. To make herself that vulnerable to a man again would be unthinkable.
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