Initiate and Ignite

www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

Copyright © 2013 by Nevea Lane

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright. 

This book is a work of fiction.  References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

Published by

Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC

1589 Skeet Club Rd. Ste. 102-237

High Point, NC 27265

www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

Cover Art:  Marteeka Karland

Editor: Allie Hart   

Proofreader: Novellette Whyte

Formatting and Ebook Conversion:

Jim & Zetta,
http://www.jimandzetta.com/

ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-61788-333-0

To those who had to learn ‘how to deal.’

Note about eBooks

eBooks are NOT transferable.  Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or Beautiful Trouble Publishing.

CAVEAT

This work of erotica contains adult language and sexually explicit scenes, which are smoking hot.  This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made.  Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.

An ache formed in her chest as Celine Beauregard flipped through the chart for her next client. It was always the same heart wrenching ache every time she saw the name Xerxes Talmay on her schedule. She wished there was more she could do for the war-weary veteran besides these tense massage therapy sessions. Her ache wasn’t because he was disfigured physically. Actually, he was quite the opposite. Xerxes had all the bells and whistles of a very eligible bachelor: he was single, had a steady job, no kids, fifteen years of military service, several siblings and a doting mother. He even owned a loft in the heart of the city, a few blocks away from her studio.

There was just the small problem of his social skills. According to friends and relatives, he’d always been slightly shy, but after six deployments to Afghanistan, Gunnery Sergeant Talmay had become less than himself, according to his mother, her fellow workers and the local Veteran’s Administration hospital.

She’d been a trauma touch therapist since she witnessed firsthand what trauma could do to a man’s psyche. Her own brother would stare off into space for countless hours unless she touched her finger to his knuckle to bring him back to the present. To her, Xerxes was no different than her brother, who witnessed a brutal civil war during his nomadic wanderings throughout the Middle East. According to Xerxes’ paperwork, his social skills were remarkable, once he opened up. She kept telling herself he was just another client, but his despondency was becoming more personal with every session. It was the look in his eyes that made her feel like he was so much more than a client.

She wasn’t a psychiatrist, nor was she a psychologist. Celine’s therapy was based on touch and a method of neuroscience taught to massage practitioners. Of course, she always had to deal with all sorts of assholes who assumed the title ‘massage therapist’ meant ‘fancy escort’ or ‘happy endings,’ but Xerxes was nothing like those men. The first time the closed off ex-Marine came in for a session, she’d managed to get his shirt off and a hand on his shoulder before he bolted out of the room like a band of jihadists was after him. She knew when she’d gotten the referral from her friend at the Department of Veteran affairs this wounded soldier would be a tough cookie to crack.

Sighing, Celine mentally prepared herself for this particular session. She’d decided during their session the week before that this marine needed a new medicine. During last week’s session, a pencil rolled off the desk and clanked to the floor. The sound created something within Xerxes so fierce he didn’t stop to put his shirt on when he stalked out the door. Before the door slammed on her, he looked over his shoulder and simply said “Sorry.”

Standing up from her oak desk, Celine began to coil her long raven tresses into a loose chignon. When she looked at the wall clock, she realized she only had fifteen minutes to prepare. Locking the door to her inner office, she looked toward the stairs to her apartment above the studio. This office had become her sanctuary after her own terrifying flight from an abusive ex-boyfriend. Her French mother had told her to run away, but she refused to head home to Chamonix. She loved France and she loved her mother, but her parent was somewhat of a wandering soul who never stayed in one place for long. It was no wonder her mother had fallen hard for her gypsy father. Their spirits were both nomadic and restless. How they stayed still long enough to bring Celine and her brother into the world was still a mystery.

Heading up the stairs, she looked around her studio. She believed the soft muted mauves, tan and plum of her couch and drapes would be soothing to anyone in need of solace and comfort. The studio was her anchor. Every piece of furniture, wall-hanging and decoration was a form of her personal ‘state control.’ Her life and her schooling taught her everyone has an anchor, whether it is a sound, a touch or a sight. She became a master of her own environment merely because having one place instead of many to rest her head became her anchor. Finding a studio which she could rent the apartment above, she believed, was fate. Her anchors of home and work came together in one place. The harmony she felt in her studio was a harmony she wanted each one of her clients to walk out with. She believed many of her clients needed her to be in complete control of her environment as well as theirs.

While she knew she had to take on all different styles of clients in order to make ends meet, her passion was veterans suffering from PTSD. She’d seen subtle breakthroughs with a few of her clients, but with Xerxes, she wanted to see more than a subtle breakthrough. She took a quick shower and dried off. She draped a sheer black dress made of the best batiste material her mother could find over her svelte frame. For this particular session, she was delighted her mother had the lauded French taste and a flare for the exotic. The dress lay against her skin like it was painted on, but the folds of the fabric allowed her to move freely.

Celine knew how to make even the most subtle changes to her facade thanks to years of watching her mother apply makeup according to the purpose of the evening.

“Smoky eyes, dear, create sensuality by batting an eyelash.”

She could almost hear mother’s strong accent in her ear as she dabbed a bit of kohl eyeliner around her eyes. She slipped on thin ballet flats and tiptoed back downstairs. A knock sounded as soon as her foot hit the last stair.
Always punctual
, she thought, as she shrugged her shoulders and opened the door.

His eyes opened wide and the long look he gave her from head to toe made her shiver just a bit. At least she knew he appreciated her extra effort.

“Um, we have a session today, don’t we Mademoiselle Beauregard?” He’d always called her by her proper name and even now, he looked very much the soldier with his ramrod straight posture.

“Of course, but tonight, I’m just Celine. May I call you Xerxes?” she asked as she made a sweeping gesture for him to come in.

“Please do,” Xerxes said as he walked into her studio and looked around. She’d pushed the massage table out of the way and left the middle of the studio bare, like a dance floor. The shades were pulled, the peaks of sunlight from the setting sun played cat and mouse with his dark features. The stubble on his chin looked a bit darker and his brown eyes appeared almost coal black.