Enthrall Him (Enthrall Sessions Book 3) (13 page)

“I love watching you come,” he whispered.

I pounced on his pocket, reaching in. My fingers wrapped around the remote and tugged at it. His strong fingers wrapped around mine.

We grappled for it.

He grabbed it back and my fingernails dug in to his hand as I pried the device away from him, trying to ignore this blissful pussy party going on in my panties.  

He had the remote again and fired it up onto full.

I’d never heard Cameron giggle before and he sounded so cute, so adorable, but I wasn’t letting him off lightly. Snatching the device out of his pocket, I brought it to my lap, using my napkin to cover it.

I sat back in my seat, ecstatic with my win, and turned it off, steadying my breathing. “Freud was wrong,” I said, sucking in another deep breath. “Wanna know why?”

Cameron grinned. “Do share your theory, Ms. Lauren.”

“He didn’t have a vagina,” I said. “You men are so arrogant. You’re always on about Freud’s ‘Penis envy theory.’”

“Always on about?” He shook his head, amused. “Actually, that theory was presented in 1908. There’s been substantial exploration of it since. Including my own extensive testing.”

“Apparently you’re not asking the right questions.”

“Have a theory you’d like to share, Ms. Lauren?”

I leaned towards him and switched the vibrator back on low, whispering close to his ear, “There’s nothing like a clitoral and vaginal orgasm at the same time, sir. You guys are missing out. Truth is, you men have clit envy.”

His irises dilated, his jaw tensed, and he wore that feral expression.  

“I’m so wet, sir.” I purred the words. “I’m fantasizing about your cock inside me.” I hovered my lips close to his. “Your cock is complemented by your finger strumming my clit.”   

“Really?”

“I’m fantasizing about being upside down again back in your office,” I added huskily. “Your mouth on me. My tongue lapping at your balls. And if you’re lucky, I might suck you. Hard.” I gave him an
oh yeah
look.

Followed by a
you’re a lucky bastard
look.

“Mia.” He grinned.

“Sir,” I whispered. “I’m coming right now. Right here. And it feels amazing.”

“Mia.”

“You can’t stop me.”

He arched a brow and gestured behind me.

Sarah, our waitress, had returned with the check. “Um, I’ll just leave this on your table then.” She scurried away.

Oh. My. God.

I turned the vibrator off. And slapped my hand over my mouth.

Cameron laughed hysterically, wiping away tears as he pulled crisp new pounds from his wallet and placed them on the silver dish.

“Oh bloody hell,” I said, mimicking an English accent.

Cameron went off into another fit of giggles and grabbed my hand, mercifully leading me out of the café. My cheeks were scarlet and my embarrassment threatened never to lift.

Cameron took the remote off me.

“I know, I know,” I muttered. “Only good girls get to come.”

“Well at least you’ve remembered one thing I’ve taught you.”

“Where are we going now?” I said. “Does Harrods sell playroom accoutrements?”

He squeezed my hand. “Lingerie. My sub needs new panties.”  

CHAPTER 9

I IMAGINED HOW scared she must have been.

Lady Jane Grey had been beheaded right there on the lawn before the white tower. The year had been 1554.

Cameron and I had listened intently, along with the group of other tourists, taking in every word that Ted spoke. Our guide wore the traditional suit of a Beefeater, dressed in a red uniform and wearing a large hat.

Cameron led me away, and not surprisingly seemed to know just as much as our guide on Lady Jane. She had, Cameron informed me, been crowned Queen of England for only nine days. Apparently she failed to gain the needed support of the other members in the Privy Council. Probably they’d been offered land and wealth should they offer their support to another monarch, a shrewdness lacking in Jane Grey’s camp. Mary I, the only child of Henry VIII and his first wife Catherine of Aragon, assembled a force to depose Jane, and ensured the council changed sides.

The decision led to an accusation of treason for Lady Jane, and after six months locked away in a dungeon here, Queen Mary I gave the order for Jane’s execution.

Cameron told me that one of the most compelling paintings of the actual incident had been captured by French artist Paul Delaroche, and historians believed Delaroche must have read the accounts documenting the day of Lady Jane’s execution.

Soon after climbing the scaffold, Jane had blindfolded herself. As she fumbled forwards, she failed to find the block with her hands, and cried, “What shall I do? Where is it?” Seconds before, she’d given a profound speech and asked for forgiveness. A statement based on wanting nothing bad to happen to her loved ones, no doubt.

Other than being cajoled into accepting the crown of England, she’d done nothing wrong.

“She was only sixteen years old when they executed her,” said Cameron, staring off.

“British history is horrible,” I said.

Cameron shook his head and led me across the green. “I imagine one day even this time will be looked back on with horror.”

“Even though we’ve come so far?”

“We still have such a long way to go.”

He told me the tower had once been the tallest building in London, though it was eventually overshadowed by the city that grew up around it.

The London Tower was a thousand years old.  

We took our time viewing the well guarded exhibition of the crown jewels, the royal armory, and lingered a while in the part of the tower that showcased the torture devices. Both of us viewed with fascination the replica of the rack used to ensure Guy Fawkes confession. The contraption dislocated every bone in the body, causing so much pain you’d confess, guilty or not.

According to the brass plaque next to the rack, Guy Fawkes had been caught red handed and his torture was used to get him to reveal his co-conspirators.

I was reassured Cameron was equally taken aback by some of the pieces. The last thing I needed to see was a look of arousal when he took in any of these suckers.

When I shared this with Cameron, he fell into another fit of laughter. I enjoyed seeing him having fun, despite the downer mood of this place.

I reminded him I’d had the displeasure of seeing Chrysalis’s own collection of torture devices hidden away in a dungeon. A gathering of contraptions owned by Cameron’s predecessor, apparently, and evidently a man with a morbid curiosity. No way did I want to live under the roof of any home that housed these things.

Behind a glass case lay a three foot by two foot chopping block, which was made in the Victorian era, so visitors could get their fill of gruesome. I wondered if it was a replica of the one Lady Jane Grey had rested upon.

Cameron and I explored the tower’s uppermost prison cells. We joined up with a tour group and learned from the young vibrant guide about the many famous men and woman in history who’d been detained in these very cells.

After twenty minutes or so, we were invited to look around on our own.

I went on ahead of Cameron, noting that old brass key in the large wooden and brass studded door. It reminded me of my mom’s old key collection. It would be lost to history now, like those old photos of my childhood, or those toys I’d once loved until they’d fallen apart.

Perhaps that’s all we want really, I thought, not to be forgotten after our death. Needing to believe our lives have meaning. Those words spoken by Lady Jane Grey seconds before she’d been beheaded were proof enough she’d hoped not to be forgotten.

I ran my fingers over the thick stone bricks and uneven cement, marveling these dated back a millennium. These same walls had detained prisoners. I imagined the captives peering out their cell turret, fearing not only for their future but that the rest of the world had forgotten them.

The men must have regretted their religious or political outbursts that had gotten them imprisoned, or those once queens held captive had to have rued the day they’d caught the eye of the king. Apparently, Catherine Howard had only been nineteen when she was beheaded, though rumor had it she was younger.

My fingers traced the grooves and fissures where prisoners had left their mark by carving graffiti into the stone. These thick walls were meant to hold in the heat, but in here, with no fireplace, they must have been frozen to the bone during those long winter nights. The echoes from other dungeons resounded, and perhaps cries from the other prisoners would have carried during those long dark nights.

I patted my arms to hold off the chill.

This place had to be haunted, and I told Cameron that.

“We’re more at risk from the ghosts of our past ever haunting,” he said wistfully.

“We need to free them,” I said. “To find peace.”

He bowed his head and ambled off, trailing his hand along the wall as though the melancholy of this place had gotten to him.

My feet froze rigid to the ground.

Cameron had once told me he had no regrets, no demons that tortured him. That he’d found this lifestyle of BDSM and enjoyed it freely without trying to purge his pain from his past.

From what he’d just told me, that didn’t make any sense. What if, like me, he had pain so deeply embedded he didn’t know it was there?

I doubled back down the stone hallway, heading the way we’d come, and went straight for the brass main door.

Cameron was an enigma. There were so many facets to him, so many colors, and after all he’d given me, done for me, I needed to feel I’d at least given him something profound in return. I wanted to ensure his chance of finding happiness.  

Finding
her.

Shay had hinted at a possible clue to a shadow hanging over Cameron. Perhaps even the reason he was so controlling, so unwilling to let go and truly love.

I refused to leave Cameron with any kind of pain dwelling in him.

I owed him this.

I turned the brass key in the lock.

And waited.

Cameron reappeared and patted his arms. “It’s cold,” he said, and went for the door.

I moved in behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and he spun around and nudged me back against the wall, pressing his body into mine and kissing me firmly. He broke into a smile against my lips and my heart melted.

“Body warmth,” he whispered. “Brilliant idea.”

“I’d like to talk with you,” I said.

“Oh?”

“Learn more about you. Understand you better.”

He nudged me away. “I’ve told you before, Mia. What you see is what you get.” He moved toward the door and turned the doorknob. “Well that’s not good.” He peered over at me.

“Guilty as charged.”

“You’re insatiable, Mia. Where’s the key?”

“You locked me in a dungeon. This is karma.”

He looked amused.

“And you tied me to the wall,” I said. “With a chain.”

He brushed a strand of hair out of my face. “You were extraordinary under capture.”

“Cameron, I’m serious.”

He stared at me. “You’re having second thoughts on its efficacy?”

“No, of course not. It helped. You freed me from my subconscious psychological pain. Now it’s my turn to reciprocate.”

“Where did you hide the key?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be hidden.”

“What is this?”

“I’ve discovered why you refuse to love.”

His gaze broke away from mine. “It’s a matter of finding the right person.”

“Cameron,” I whispered. “I was in the room with Dr. Finely. I heard everything. I know what
Amare
means.”

“Stephen threw that out—” Cameron waved his hand –“as a theory, not a fact.”

“I know about Afghanistan.”

He went quiet.

Footsteps shuffled along out there on stone. The voices of strangers moved away.

Confusion marred Cameron’s face. “Who have you been speaking with?”

“Someone who cares deeply for you.”

His gaze searched the ground.

“I know what happened.”

“The key, Mia. Please.”

“Not until you talk about it.”

“Key.”

“Cameron, I’m a lot gentler than you.”

“It takes years of training to do what I did with you. An easing of the subconscious. Do it wrong and…” He turned and faced the door, his hands splayed out on the wood. “I need it open.”

“Whatever you’re hiding is causing you pain,” I said. “I really believe—”