Truth By His Hand Read online

  Truth By His Hand

  Casey Cameron

  Copyright © 2017 by Casey Cameron

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This title is intended for adults only. It contains explicit sex acts and adult themes. Please keep out of reach of children. All characters in sexual situations are eighteen years of age or older.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Thanks For Reading!

  Also By Casey Cameron

  More Than Luck

  Perfect Game

  Love Keeps Giving

  Tying the Knot

  Omega Studies

  His Alpha’s Alpha

  Omega On the Line

  About the Author

  1

  “No offense, but I don’t think this is going to work,” I said, trying not to sound like a complete tool. It wasn’t easy considering the way I was dressed, in shiny-slick vinyl pants with a pale blue ribbon neatly pinned to my too-tight leopard print t-shirt. This getup made anything coming out of my mouth sound vaguely toolish.

  The ribbon was necessary, Mariah had insisted—just before she’d given me a supportive and obnoxiously cheery thump on the back and abandoned me here, speaking of tools. Shameless was a club with its own subculture and signals, and they took Speed Kink Night very seriously, even though the name made me think of a bunch of guys jerking off to Formula 1 cars. Nobody was allowed to participate without a ribbon, so I’d pinned on the pale blue that signaled I was looking for a Dom.

  Or at least that I thought I was. My forays outside the realm of fantasyland had been short and few, but I knew for sure that I wanted to at least try it out.

  I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to try it out with this guy, though. Sure, I was well aware I shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but I had a hard time imagining this cover was hiding a serious Dom. The research I’d done—okay, the porn I’d watched—had featured great big bears and broad-chested gym bunnies, guys who radiated power and could pin a sub down with one beefy arm no matter how hard he struggled.

  By contrast, the guy in front of me couldn’t have been taller than 5’8”, with narrow shoulders and a slim build emphasized by the close fit of his well-pressed burgundy slacks. His crisp collared shirt had just the top button undone, like he was making a grudging token effort to emulate casual dress. At least he wasn’t wearing pleated pants.

  The guy had a nice face, though, with cool blue eyes behind dark-framed glasses that gave him a little bit of a “sexy professor” vibe, and dusky lips pulled into a wide smile that looked somehow restrained, like he was perfectly aware of the span of his lips and was controlling it down to the millimeter. His dark hair had a subtle curl that swept down onto his forehead, and I had the maddening urge to brush it away. I had to admit he was handsome—hot, even—but there was a very specific thing I was looking for tonight, and he wasn’t it.

  “Why not?” he asked mildly. I’d been expecting him to be offended or disappointed, but if anything, he sounded amused.

  “Well, um…” I scratched at the back of my head, and the brush of soft fuzz there clamored at the irrationally compulsive part of my brain. I swept my hand up into the longer strands on top, and my mind went quiet again. For some reason, every time I got a haircut, I always spent the next couple of weeks doing this—reassuring myself that I still had hair everywhere I was supposed to.

  I dropped my arm when I realized it was pulling the sheer material of my shirt even tighter across my chest. Giving him a better view of my nipple piercings was probably going to send the wrong message here. “I’m, uh…you’re not…my type. I mean like…for this.”

  “I see,” he said, twinkling blue eyes pinning me to the spot. “You don’t think you could submit to someone who’s smaller than you.”

  It should have been more of a relief that he understood, but something about the look he was giving me kept me dancing on an edge I couldn’t quite define, somewhere between anxiety and arousal. “Well, yes. I mean, you’re very…” I gestured vaguely at him. “Attractive. It’s just…”

  “So I am your type,” he said, that precisely measured smile widening by a millimeter. He held his hand out to me. “Hi, I’m Ellison.”

  “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I said in a rush, taking his hand and shaking it. “River. That was incredibly rude of me. I promise I’m not usually this much of a self-absorbed tool.”

  “I’m not offended,” he said with a gentle roll of his shoulder—almost a shrug. “But we’re still stuck talking for six minutes, so why don’t you tell me what you mean by…this.” He imitated my incoherent hand gesture from earlier, and I felt the tips of my ears heating up as I realized what an idiot I must’ve looked like: a big old poser with a goofy haircut and pretentious tattoos, flailing his arms because he doesn’t know how to communicate like a sophisticated practitioner of the lifestyle.

  “I don’t know. Everything,” I said, more than a little aware that wasn’t much more helpful than windmilling my arms. “The whole BDSM…thing.”

  “BDSM is a huge umbrella that covers a lot of ‘things,’” he said mildly—not mocking or condescending, just a statement of fact. “What specifically are you looking for right now? Why did you come here tonight?”

  From someone else, I might have assumed this was his attempt to wheedle his way into my good graces—like if he could figure out exactly what was motivating me, he could talk me into letting him do what he wanted. It was exactly the sort of shit Dan had done, both before and after our big messy breakup, and I’d had more than a couple guys since then try to talk me into a one-night stand the same way. Unfortunately, sometimes it actually worked.

  I didn’t get that impression from Ellison at all. There was no undercurrent of hopefulness or desperation in his words, just a mild curiosity, like this was just the kind of banal small talk he went through with everyone he met. For all I knew, it could’ve been.

  “I’m looking for a Dom,” I said. His eyebrows lifted faintly, and I rushed on before he had a chance to tell me I was being vague and unhelpful again. “Someone who can be forceful with me. Uh, hold me down and push me around, that kind of thing.” I figured that was enough to make it clear why I wasn’t interested in him that way—I didn’t think either of us could pretend that he could do anything to me if I didn’t consciously allow it. The guy was at least four inches shorter than me, and while I’m not a huge lifter or anything, I was pretty sure I could bench press him if I really tried.

  “So you’re into physical force and manual restraint,” he said, and I gave him a tight little nod. “Is that how you usually play, or is this a new direction for you?”

  “Usually, yes,” I said, feeling like the biggest bullshitter in the history of bullshitters. It was kind of laughable to describe any of my experience as happening often enough for “usually” to apply, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m into spanking.” Well, I’d been into it the three o
r so times it had happened. Close enough. “Being held down and struggling.” That had happened a few more times, so it had to count. “And, you know, dirty talk and stuff.” Phone sex two whole times.

  God, that couldn’t be the whole list. My mind raced around in useless circles, and came back empty-handed.

  “It sounds like you don’t have much experience in the lifestyle.” Ellison’s ice-blue eyes bored into me. There was nothing mocking or judgmental in his tone—it was a simple statement of fact.

  Yeah, I guess it must have been pretty obvious. I gave up the pretense of experience, sagging a little in my chair. “I don’t.” I couldn’t tell what it was about this guy that instilled such an instant sense of trust, of unwavering assurance that I could give him my secrets and he would keep them safe. “I’ve never done anything particularly…formal. Just some experimentation with my last boyfriend. But most of it felt more silly than sexy, like we were playacting roles that neither of us were comfortable in.”

  Oh, hello, metaphor for our whole relationship.

  Ellison nodded with an understanding smile. “Everyone’s got to start somewhere. Tell me what else interests you.” It wasn’t a command, exactly, but it didn’t even occur to me to resist it.

  “I don’t really know,” I mused, drumming my fingers on the table. “I don’t know a whole lot about what’s out there, but I’m willing to try almost anything once.”

  His lips quirked up, and I had the sudden inexplicable urge to trace the curve with my tongue. “Except being dominated by someone smaller than you are.”

  I buried my face in my hands to cover my burning cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to offend you or anything. I do date shorter guys—I’m not a shallow asshole.”

  “I understand.”

  The thing was, I was pretty sure he did, but I still felt this need to explain myself. Quite possibly because I was hoping I’d convince him to get a drink with me sometime somewhere other than a kink club—my motives weren’t entirely altruistic.

  “I find you very attractive,” I said, chancing a look at him since continuing to hide my face might not help convince him of my sincerity. “I just don’t find you intimidating.”

  “Do you want to be intimidated?”

  I felt another rush of heat at Ellison’s low, rich voice, but this time it was nowhere near my cheeks. It was something like arousal, radiating in a soft wave from my chest to settle in my cock. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep looking at him.

  “No,” I said. “I mean, what’s sexy about fear? Intimidating someone sounds abusive, not like something that has any place in the bedroom.”

  “What we crave in the bedroom doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with what we crave in the rest of our lives.” He rested his elbow on the table and propped his chin up with his hand, more relaxed and casual than I’d seen him yet, but no less intense. His eyes burned with a cold flame, pulling me apart with the focus of their stare. “But you definitely had a reaction when I said ‘intimidated.’ Why don’t you tell me about that?”

  I frowned slightly—this was supposed to be Speed Kink, not Speed Psychoanalysis—but I didn’t want to blow off his question. I just…didn’t know. “It’s hard to pin down why.”

  “Take your time.”

  I had to chuckle at the absurdity of it—even over the low hum of a dozen conversations around me, I could hear the egg timer ticking merrily away at the front of the room. “Okay, so,” I said slowly, scratching my head, “I guess it’s that even though the thought of being intimidated doesn’t do anything for me, there was sort of a meaning and context to your question. You meant something sexual by it, so I reacted like it was a sexual thing.”

  I could swear he looked pleased. “You’re very self-aware, River.”

  “Well, I’ve had a lot of therapy,” I said with an awkward laugh to take my mind off the way hearing my name on his lips made a tiny tingle run up the back of my neck.

  Once again, his grin was perfectly measured. I missed the flicker of delight I’d seen an instant ago. “Does this feel like therapy to you?”

  “A little. I feel like you’re trying to dissect my brain, and I kind of want to know why.”

  “And how does that make you feel?” I was about to glare at him when I caught the crinkling at the corners of his eyes and the slight twitch at the edges of his mouth. “Kidding. I’m not trying to be your therapist, but learning about people’s motivations and desires is an interest of mine—sort of a hobby. You don’t have to answer my questions if you don’t want to.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said with a shrug. “I’ve never had to think about this stuff before—I mean, on such a detailed level. I—I’ve definitely thought about it a lot. I’m not leaping in on a whim.”

  “I bet you have,” he said, his deep voice rolling over me and vibrating deep in my chest. “What do you imagine, when you’re thinking about it? I assume with your hand on your cock.”

  I swallowed hard. This was taking a hard left off Clinical Street into Porno Alley, and honestly, I was pretty okay with it. I looked him over again—subtly, but I saw a flicker in his eyes that told me he definitely noticed—and gathered up my courage. “I could tell you more about it over dinner sometime.” I leaned forward slightly to catch his eyes, just on the off chance he was completely dense and didn’t catch my meaning. “Or after dinner sometime.”

  Ellison’s reaction was immediate—his face shuttered, the twinkling light in his eyes going dark. He straightened up, shaking his head in that perfectly measured way. “I’m sorry, I got a little carried away—I didn’t mean to give the wrong impression. That’s not what I’m here for.”

  “What do you mean? Aren’t you here to date?” I tried to rein in the desperation in my voice—I wasn’t about to be that asshole trying to talk someone into something they didn’t want, but I was damn sure I hadn’t been misreading things that badly. He was interested in me, at least a little. “This can’t be entirely a hobby for you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m mainly here to look for friends and play partners, not dates.” He looked me over again with an expression that may have been sad.

  Some desperate part of me scrabbled frantically for a foothold. “You said ‘mainly.’ That means you’re open to dates.”

  “I find you very attractive,” he said, echoing my words from earlier, “but for me, the kink side of things isn’t a curiosity. It’s a requirement, and non-negotiable.”

  “Well, I—okay,” I stammered, twisting my hands together. “Maybe I could try—”

  Ellison interrupted me with another firm shake of his head. “I don’t push or force, and I don’t want a reluctant sub.” His tone invited no argument, and the harsh buzz of the timer prevented me from continuing to struggle for an opening anyway. He stood up, straight and proud and polished as ever. “I thoroughly enjoyed meeting you, River. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  As he walked on to the next table and the next eager sub, I couldn’t help but watch the way his slacks clung to his hips, feeling more or less like I’d just been run over by a freight train.

  Goddammit.

  2

  “So, how did Speed Kink Night go?” Mariah tossed off casually as she stood on tiptoes to reach the many-hued alcohol markers on the top shelf. With her flamboyantly colorful fashion sense, the wide assortment of yarns and fabrics woven into her thick dreads, and the conspicuous absence of her right arm below the elbow, she was so used to sticking out like a sore thumb everywhere she went that she didn’t think twice about dropping bombs like that in the middle of an art supply store. I kind of loved her for it, though I couldn’t help but glance up from the two pencils I was considering to make sure there wasn’t anyone else in our aisle.

  “It went fine.”

  “You’re mumbling,” she said in a singsong voice, then grunted in triumph as she reached the marker she’d been straining for. She hopped down from the shelf she’d been standing on a
nd flipped it in her left hand before glancing down at it with a frown. “Oh balls, I wanted robin’s egg blue. Make yourself useful and grab it for me—I think I’m going to break the shelf if I climb up there again.”

  With a smile, I took the marker from Mariah’s hand and swapped it for the one she’d wanted. She popped the cap off and breathed deeply, her eyes fluttering shut in pleasure. “Better than morphine, I swear.”

  “You’ve got a weird nose, Mariah.”

  “I’ve got a weird everything—what else is new?” She sidled up next to me and gave me a nudge with her elbow. “So tell me how Speed Kink Night went.”

  “I told you, it went fine.” I frowned, smoothing down the corner of the price sticker on the pencil in my left hand before turning my attention to the one in my right. Left was better for dark shading, right was more versatile—which one did I need most to finish this week’s panels?

  “And that’s not good enough,” she said, hand firmly on her hip. “Give me details. Who did you meet? Did you find anyone intriguing? Did you set up any play dates?”

  “Please stop calling them play dates,” I groaned.

  “Only when you stop blushing when I do.” She pulled a pencil from the shelf to inspect it—the same one in my left hand—then shrugged as she put it back. “You know I’m not going to leave you alone until you tell me, so give up the details.”

  “Are you domming me into kissing and telling?”

  “Whatever works,” she said with a shrug. “I pride myself on being flexible and resourceful.” She fixed me with a piercing look that gave me no doubt she was serious about pestering me until I told her. In a distant way, it reminded me a little of Ellison.