by Leah Braemel
An easel commanded the best view over the pond, a dozen or more drawings lay scattered on the floor by its feet. A rounded plaster cast leaned against one wall—the cast Amy had said they’d had done of her belly that Ryan had volunteered to paint. Even though the design wasn’t finished, tears sprung to Meg’s eyes at the beauty of the twin babies staring back at her, their eyes large and filled with wonder.
If she’d thought his workshop below was his inner sanctum, she’d been wrong.
Feeling like an intruder, she explored the room, examined the sketches, some done in pencil or ink, others in pastel. Almost all of them were of her. Usually of her asleep. In his bed or hers up north. “Are these done from memory or do you sketch them while I’m sleeping?”
“A bit of both.” He studied the pencil sketch closest to him, a profile. “I like looking at them on those nights you’re not beside me.” He stroked a finger down the cheek of the drawing as tenderly as if he’d been touching the real her. “You’re so relaxed, blissful. I keep trying to capture you, but I haven’t got it right yet.”
Oh God. Her chest ached not just from the love in his eyes, but the frustration in his voice.
He walked back to the stairwell and turned off the light, leaving the moonlight as their only illumination.
“I need you, Meg.”
The rawness in his voice stirred her need to please him, to calm him. To tame the wildness stirring restlessly inside him.
“I’m yours.”
He walked toward her, as proud and untamed as the wolf she’d seen casually trot across the road on the way back from Orillia. She’d slowed, fascinated when it stopped at the side and turned its head to watch her pass. Ryan had that same sense of invincibility, the same sense of belonging to his environment. He’d taken the mill and made it thrive, taken this sawmill barn and made it his too. How could she have ever considered asking him to move away from his home?
Shadows slanted over his face when he stopped in front of her, the reflection of the snow outside glittering in his eyes. She didn’t look down when he unzipped her coat and spread the sides wide.
“Strip.”
Not breaking his gaze, she dumped her coat on the floor and toed off her boats. She unbuttoned her jeans slowly, then realized he wasn’t wanting a show, a striptease, he wanted her naked. Now. She shimmied out of her jeans and stepped out of them, then pulled her sweater over her head and dropped it on her jeans.
Where the workshop below had been overly warm thanks to the forge, this part of the barn was unheated. Her flesh pebbled as she reached around to unhook her bra.
With a grunt, he shook his head. “Be right back. Don’t move.”
Leaving her standing in her underwear, he headed back down the stairs, returning moments later with a space heater in his arms, a length of rope coiled around his shoulder. Without saying a word, he set the heater down and aimed it at her, plugged it in and turned it on. Within seconds, the air warmed, though a hint of the chill still teased her skin. The blend of hot and cold sensitized her skin, so when he stroked a finger over the curve of her breast, a shiver raked down her spine. He captured her mouth again, in just as bruising a kiss as the one he’d given her below, and she realized she’d not tamed the beast at all. He tightened his grasp of her breast, hinting at the loss of control he’d warned of below. She nipped at his lower lip, encouraging him, only to have him pull away. Worse, walk away.
“Ry, don’t hold back. I won’t break.”
His eyes were in shadow when he faced her, but his voice betrayed his need. “I know. I’m not stopping, I need some stuff.” He held up one finger, stopping her when she went to speak. “Don’t move.”
As if she could.
Once again he ventured below. Muffled thumps told her he was looking for something, though what, she had no idea.
The rope at her feet told her part of his plans, but what else could he find below that they’d need? The squeak of the main door told her he’d gone outside.
Don’t move.
Fine. She settled into a parade rest, one hand clasping the other at the small of her back, and let her imagination wander about what he was planning, while the practical side wondered how she could tip him over the edge and make him lose his carefully guarded control.
The squeak of door announced his return, followed by the thump of footsteps up the stairs. His pockets bulging, Ryan stepped out of the stairwell, carrying a wooden box, and more rope. The wildness had left his eyes and there was a purpose to his movements. Something had settled in his head during his search. Whatever that something was intrigued her, but she knew better than to speak and break the spell building between them.
Without saying a word, he moved behind her and pressed his lips to the base of her neck as he unhooked her bra. The fabric sagged and fluttered to the floor. He hooked his thumbs in her panties. His lips followed their path as he slid them over her hips, down her legs. She shivered, though not from cold, when his fingers circled one ankle and lifted her leg to pull the lacy undergarment from it. Her breath caught with the fleeting touch of his lips to the back of her thigh as he released her ankle and moved to the other one to strip the last scrap of clothing from her.
For a man who claimed he was at the limits of his control, he methodically worked his way back up her body, his fingers spiraling over the skin followed by nibbling kisses. When he was standing again, he walked around to face her, placed a hand on each shoulder and pressed down. It took no words for her to gather his meaning.
To her surprise, he knelt in front of her, one of the lengths of rope in his hand. “Clasp your hands between your cleavage.”
The rasp of rope against her skin at her wrists surprised her—while they’d experimented with her handcuffs before, they’d never tried bondage so hard-core. The hemp scratched as he slid the rope beneath her breast and around her back, then flipped it over her shoulder and drew it between her cleavage. After another layer of intricate knots in the center, he looped the rope over the other shoulder. He slowed at regular intervals to tie knots over her arms and at the sides of her breasts, forming an intricate design with the rope while leaving her breasts unbound.
Trust Ryan to make bondage artistic.
With each knot he tied, his fingers softly brushed her skin before the rope followed with its coarse bite. “You’re shivering. Are you cold? Or scared?”
She’d gotten so lost in the sensations it took an effort to pull herself back to answer him. “It’s neither.”
“Baby, you don’t have to pretend you’re not scared. I have a knife that can cut through this with no trouble at all, so you’re not really trapped, just say the word and I can get you out of there.”
Good to know, but not an issue. “I’m not afraid, Ry. I’m so freaking turned on.”
He dipped his fingers between her folds. His eyes darkened with an intensity that had her body jonesing for him to fuck her.
Satisfied with her response, he resumed tying his knots, over her biceps, beneath the other, a knot over her spine. The soft brush of his fingers, the harsh scrape of the hemp, brush, scrape, brush, scrape. Occasionally he’d pause and ask her a question—was she comfortable, was that knot too tight, was she thirsty?
Yes, no, no. Her chin fell to her chest, her head too heavy to hold up anymore. Even though her knees were starting to ache, her whole body craved to feel the same pleasure-pain of being bound. “God, Ryan, why didn’t we try this before?”
“I never thought you’d be willing.”
Placing a kiss on one shoulder blade, he stood and reached above him. Only then did she notice a thick chain hanging down from an even heavier hook in the overhead beam. Once the chain lowered to waist level, Ryan bent down and picked up what she’d thought was a chair. As he attached it to the ring at the end of the chain, she realized there were two long strips of fabric stretched between a bent iron frame.
He lifted her to her feet and positioned her ass on one strip. Supporting her shoulders,
he laid her down so the other strip supported her head and shoulders.
“Oh, it’s like a swing.” God, she sounded drunk. Hell, she felt drunk—her mind was floating, as if it were separate from her body.
“I got this idea from that hammock you liked at the spa we visited in Mount Tremblant. Made a few adjustments though.” With a frown, he repositioned the fabric to the small of her back, then set about knotting the hemp over her hips and her mound to secure her to the frame.
Meg closed her eyes, letting herself give in to the overwhelming sensations. Each inhalation filled her lungs with the scent of old wood and sawdust and Ryan. Each turn of the heater painted her body with warmed air to be replaced by the cold air leaking through the ancient floorboards.
Ryan’s fingers circled her ankle and lifted it from the floor, his calluses rough but tender as they bound her feet and her calves. She stifled a giggle at the woolly tickle of a padded fabric he placed beneath one ankle followed the harsh scrape of the rope. When he let go and stepped back, her ankle stayed suspended all on its own.
She lifted her head and peered blearily to discover he’d created a separate sling for her leg.
He pushed her ankle and her knee automatically bent, the sling moving with her foot as it floated in a random pattern. The moon that had been just below the tree line was now well above them, silhouetting his shoulders and head, but there was no mistaking the bulge at his crotch. “Comfortable?”
“Very. It’s like I’m floating high above the pond.” Yup, it was like being drunk. And not just two-martinis drunk, but a whole dozen. If she tried to stand, she’d probably fall to her knees. She giggled, remembering that was the position she’d started from.
“You’re so beautiful.” He traced the path of the ropes with his finger, frustrated, desperation and love all mingling in his expression. “I’ve tried painting in oils and watercolors, sculpting you in marble and wood. But I can’t do you justice. I can’t capture the expression on your face, the look in your eyes. Even Michaelangelo himself or any of the Old Masters couldn’t recreate the sheer passion in your expression right now.”
Oh fuck, that was so sweet. She didn’t want sweet. She wanted rough. She wanted raw. She needed to be fucked. Hard. “Touch me, Ryan. Fuck me. Something. Please.”
He wrapped the ropes holding her ankles aloft around his shoulders, stepped between her legs and sank to his knees. His movement tugged on the ropes, crossing her ankles behind his head, holding him captive against her pussy.
She whimpered when his tongue parted her folds. His moan pulsed through her body with his each, with each taste. His hands cupped her ass, his thumbs stroking the skin left unbound.
As much as she wanted to twine her hands in his hair, to direct his mouth, to tell him to speed up, to slow down, she knew that he’d take care of her; he’d make sure she came. All she had to do was just let herself feel. The moment she relaxed into her bindings, leaving it all up to him, her body shuddered and the beginnings of her orgasm coursed through her.
“No you don’t, not without me in there.” Standing, he positioned his cock at the head of her entrance and pushed in with one smooth thrust. He pistoned his hips, driving her over the edge. Her body clenched around him; still he continued his frantic thrusts, hitting a spot that took her to a place she’d never been before.
“I can’t tell you what seeing you tied up, at my mercy, does to me, Meg.” His beard rasped against the tender skin of her thigh, the heat of his breath brushing her sensitive folds as her trembling subsided. “That you trusted me enough to let me do this to you.”
“Of course I trust you. I love you.”
* * *
Humbled by Meg’s trust, his head filled with her scent, with her taste, Ryan sat back on his heels. He’d been beyond angry when he’d thrown that hammer, yet she’d settled him down, diverting his attention from Roger and June and the doubts they’d raised. He knew what it was like to have his dreams ripped from him He’d been lucky, his dreams had only been delayed. But his father’s death meant he’d gotten to know Sophie and Noah as he wouldn’t have done if he’d moved away after he’d graduated. He’d learned a lot, about life and decision making, and handling money. He’d grown up, and was now far better prepared to handle the fame and money that had come with his sudden success.
Despite what Roger said about needing to be near the center of the art world, a little distance wouldn’t hurt. There were too many phonies, too many hangers-on. Being close to Toronto meant being close to Roger, who kept booking him at different events around the country, across North America and even Europe. Distracting him from his art.
Sophie, Noah and Derek understood that death didn’t care that anyone planned to do something next year, or even next week. They understood why he wasn’t prepared to take the chance that the next drunk who shot at a Mountie, who shot at Megan, might not miss and he wouldn’t have had a chance to hold her that one last time, to tell her he loved her.
Screw Roger. Screw June. Or pity them, that they hadn’t found the type of love he had with Megan.
His demons abolished, he cupped her breasts in his palms, smiling when her eyes went dewy. “I’d love to make a cast of these one day. Like they did with Amy’s belly.”
She grimaced. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Why not? They’re beautiful. There’s only one change I’d make.” He thumbed the tips until they peaked. “There, now they’re perfect. Just ready for this.”
He dipped his head to capture one with his mouth.
“You can—oh God, that feels good—make a cast of them right after you make one of your dick.”
“Who says I haven’t done that already?” He lifted his head, unable to keep the grin from his face. God, life with Meg was going to be amazing. “Well, not a cast, but a sculpture of sorts.”
“You did not!”
He rustled through the box he’d brought from the house and pulled out a smooth marble phallus. It even appeared to glisten at the tip, though that was a trick of the moonlight. He unzipped his pants and pushed them to his ankles, then placed the stone beside his own throbbing erection. Weird, his hard-on looked bigger than its duplicate. Maybe he was bigger, because Meg was here in person, and no hand job could ever get him as hard? “Exhibit A, your honor.”
One eyebrow arched up as she glanced between the sculpture and his groin. “A little egotistical, don’t you think?”
“More like I had too much time on my hands. I’d been working on a marble sculpture that just wasn’t going the way I wanted it to. I’d never worked with marble before, so I figured I needed some practice but couldn’t figure out what to carve.”
“Typical man that you’d carve your dick.”
“Hey, it was there. Of course it took a few hand jobs over the week I worked on it to check I was getting the details right.”
“Oh, Jesus, Ryan, weren’t you afraid you might use the stone-cutting tools on the wrong cock?”
“Are you saying my dick’s as hard as rock?” He dragged the stone over her mound.
“Why Corporal Sullivan, are you willing to testify to that under oath before a court of law?”
Her breath caught sharply as he dragged lower and coated it with her essence. “Maybe we should do a comparison, just so we can both be sure I’m not committing perjury.”
With a nudge of his knee, he set the hammock lightly rocking, using the motion to tease her with his creation. “You said you’re up for anything tonight.”
“I am.” Her lids were heavy when she raised them to meet his gaze, and he wondered if she realized she was arching her hips, pressing the sculpture over her clit with each rock of the sling. “Anything.”
“Are the ropes too tight? Do you need me to loosen them anywhere?”
She wiggled her fingers and her toes. “I’m fine.”
Taking her at her word, he bent down to the box and retrieved the condoms he’d bought specifically hoping he’d be able to use them for this pur
pose, though not thinking it would be here and now.
“The marble’s clean,” he explained as he rolled a latex sheath over the stone dildo, “but there’s no sense in taking any chances.”
He concentrated on her breathing, on the clenching of her thighs as he teased her with his creation, inching her closer to her release. He hadn’t lied when he’d compared her beauty to something only an Old Master could capture. Perhaps the problem was that a pencil or paint could only capture the outside beauty but could never capture something as ephemeral as her trust.
The moonlight glistened off her folds, off the latex covered with her cream. Her hands fisted against her chest and her lips parted with each breathy moan. She’d trusted him to bind her, and also to bring her to the ultimate pleasure.
If Roger thought fame was worth walking away from this type of trust, this depth of love, then Roger was a fool.
As her hips rocked toward him, he let the stone slip into her entrance. The motion of the swing allowed it to enter only an inch before it swung away. In and out, each time a bit farther within her tight passage. Needing to taste her again, he knelt between her trembling thighs and trapped a trailing rope in place to control the swing’s movement. He placed his mouth on her slick folds, teasing and nibbling.
She arched against him as he thrust the stone dildo into her in a slow rhythm. A soft needy sound floated over him, telling him she was close to release; his cock responded until it could have matched its double in hardness.
Unwilling to waste her climax on a piece of marble, he withdrew it, but when he bent to place the glistening rock on the floor, he paused.
