Dangerously Bound

by Eden Bradley

  There are some variations, of course, and new kinks that develop along the way, but this is my basic list.

  Allie took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing pulse, the heat spreading like wildfire through her system. Her sex was a hot pool of desire. She crossed her legs, found that only made it worse, and uncrossed them.

  “Jesus,” she murmured.

  It was everything she loved or wanted to try. With Mick attached.

  “Tearing the lingerie to shreds as I take it off you . . .”

  She might have to climax again right there!

  She shook her head.

  Pull it together, girl.

  She focused once more on her computer screen.

  Tell me now if you’re still in this. You are welcome at any time to withdraw, of course, but I want to hear from you now that we are on the same page about the things we want to do together. That having seen my list (which I noticed is very similar to yours), you’re still interested.

  You know I have my doubts about this. Not that you’re dragging me kicking and screaming into playing you (not that anyone could, something you would do well to remember), but I have to tell you up front that this is a bit of a mind-fuck for me, and I am damn well not used to it.

  I am always in control when I play. I can promise you I will maintain that control with you. Glory in it or fight it, it doesn’t matter. I’m simply telling you how it will be.

  I want you to take a little time before you reply. Think it through. Then write back and tell me what your answer is. And again, contact me with any questions or concerns.

  Mick

  She knew exactly what her answer was. Her body was already screaming it. She typed one word. Yes.

  She tapped her nails against the keyboard, waiting to see if he was online. If he would email her back. Several moments passed. She picked up the new cup of coffee she’d poured herself, and sipped. It was cold. How long had she sat there reading and rereading his email?

  “Okay,” she said to the empty kitchen, “I can’t sit here all night waiting for his answer.”

  She stood and pulled her X-Acto knife from a drawer and moved into the dimly lit living room. There were boxes everywhere and the scent of old furniture, tinged with a bit of lilac that was her aunt Joséphine’s favorite scent, apparently—it was everywhere in the house. She chose a cardboard box marked kitchen, sliced it open and started to pull something wrapped in white paper out of it. Her laptop pinged. She barely remembered to retract the blade of the knife as she hurried back into the kitchen.

  Her laptop sat like some glowing temptress on the table. She set the knife down and flexed her fingers before sitting down again and clicking the email open.

  A brief but succinct reply. Which, under other circumstances, I might approve of. Here, however, you and I need to communicate.

  When we play I will instruct you to answer any questions in the briefest way possible so I don’t inadvertently pull you out of subspace (and trust me, I will take you there). Right now I view this as part of the fight in you. I don’t mind the struggle because I have absolute confidence that I will win. Keep in mind, though, that even though we both see pain as pleasure, it can also be punishment.

  We meet this Friday at 8:00 in the evening for your debut at The Bastille. I will pick you up. I will email you again with instructions as to how you should dress for me.

  Mick

  Dress. For him.

  She exhaled a long, hot breath, full of a wild wanting and the innate stubbornness that yearned to argue the point. But this was Mick. How much could she really argue? She’d wanted him—only him—since she was sixteen years old. The only question was, was she truly ready for him?

  She pushed her hair from her face, too hot suddenly. Even her robe seemed like too much weight on her shoulders. And the same heat danced almost viciously between her thighs.

  She stood, loosening her robe as she moved down the hallway and back into the bedroom. She arrived there naked, tossing the robe onto the end of the bed.

  Her toys were still lined up on the smooth sheets. The comforter lay in a pile on the floor at the foot of the bed. She bit her lip, chose two items and moved into the bathroom.

  She reached into the shower and turned it on, made sure the temperature was cool before she stepped in, her toys in hand.

  She gasped a little as the cold water hit her heated skin, then let her body melt into it. She closed her eyes, leaned against the pink tiles, enjoying the flow of water over her body. And thought about Mick.

  God, the things he’d written in his emails. The list of kinks. His attitude—cocky to the point of arrogance, but the level of command there was staggering. Maybe because it was him. Maybe because he simply was that commanding. Either way, her body was responding like crazy. And despite her earlier orgasms, she needed to come again. Badly.

  Mick.

  She could imagine him binding her in his ropes, her arms behind her back while he built a harness around her breasts.

  “Oh . . .”

  She switched on the small bullet vibe and pressed it between the slick folds of her aching pussy. Paused for several moments, enjoying the buzzing vibrations before she pushed it inside.

  “Oh!”

  It felt so good, pleasure coiling tight, waiting to be sprung free.

  He would pinch her nipples once he had her breasts bound. His fingers would be hard and punishing.

  “Please, Mick,” she whispered as she turned the other vibrator on—this one a small pink textured vibe. It was long, narrow, but had a powerful buzz she loved.

  Squeezing her sex so the bullet would stay put, she touched a fingertip to one hard nipple, squeezed her breast, kneaded it, finally drew out her nipple between her fingers. Then, pinching hard at the base, she touched the tip of the vibrator to her sensitive flesh.

  She moaned, did it again, just brushing her taut nipple, the electric shivers running through her body joining with the vibrations deep inside her sex.

  Her climax hovered, but she bit it back. For him.

  She breathed in, held the air in her lungs, held on as long as she could. But in moments Mick’s face, his words, the shivering vibrators, did their job. She pinched her nipple hard as she came, pleasure exploding in her body, in her head. Stars whirled behind her closed eyelids. Mick’s face was there, his big hands. His deep voice commanding her to come harder.

  She did, her hips jerking until she had to press her fingers to her clenching pussy to keep the bullet inside her.

  “Oh, God . . . Mick . . .”

  Even his name was hot on her lips. And before her climax could fade away, another began, shaking her, making her sob his name.

  “Mick!”

  The long vibrator slipped from her hand, but it didn’t matter. It was knowing she was going to him, and oh, God, the things he was going to do to her. That alone was enough to make her come.

  Finally her body calmed and she pulled the bullet from her sex, switched it off. She sank to her knees on the hard porcelain, trying to catch her breath as the cool water poured over her.

  It was never going to be enough. Because it was Mick. Even once they were playing together, when the fantasies in her head were finally brought to life, would that be enough for her?

  She didn’t know. He was intoxicating. Dangerous. She hadn’t known the truth of it until she’d seen him again. She hadn’t known exactly what that man could do to her body simply by talking to her, by just being himself. And how much more powerful would his effect on her be when she was naked beneath his hands? When she was vulnerable in subspace?

  For the first time she had to question the viability of her plan. Maybe she was crazy to think she could be with Mick. Be with him, if he was not going to . . . what?

  “If he’s not going to
love me,” she admitted, her voice a breathless whisper.

  The water fell, echoing around her. She let the cold calm her.

  No. She could do this. If Mick wouldn’t give her his heart, then at least she could finally give him her body. All of it, with everything out on the table between them.

  Except that she was still in love with him. That secret she would keep to herself.

  CHAPTER

  Three

  MICK LOCKED THE door to his flat and went downstairs. Moving out onto the quiet New Orleans street, he jogged down the sidewalk. Nothing too fast, keeping an easy, even pace, warming up for the workout he’d do once he reached the gym ten blocks away.

  He needed the workout. Not only to keep in shape for his fights, but after seeing Allie, his blood had been humming too damn fast. Too damn hot.

  He needed to work her out of his system before she was in his hands.

  A part of him could hardly believe he was going to have Allie at The Bastille. Under his command. In his ropes. He was a bastard for agreeing to her crazy plan. But she had the references. She obviously knew what she was getting into from the BDSM side of things. She sure as hell didn’t know what she was getting into with him, no matter how many years they’d known each other.

  He took a right down Esplanade Avenue, free of traffic and crowds this early in the morning, heading toward the Faubourg Marigny. He picked up his pace, reveling in the way his lungs opened up.

  How did you warn someone of your own bitterness? He didn’t like to admit it to himself. But it was there, like a serpent hiding in the shadows. Bitterness about his own foolish mistakes. About what he’d had to deny himself because of it—being a firefighter, like his father, his brothers, his grandfather. That anger burned through him to this day, but he kept it banked through the fights, and through the control he exerted as a Dominant.

  Except that Allie challenged his control too damn much. But he was going to play her anyway.

  Maintain control.

  Words to live by. And he did, damn it. He would.

  He passed the old iron gates of Washington Square, the trees bent, their leaves nearly touching the ground. A few homeless, regular residents of the park, still lay sleeping under their blankets on the grass, where later in the day the local musicians would jam.

  He and Allie had spent some time on that grass, listening to music, talking, kissing . . .

  The old plaid blanket he kept in a roll on the back of his bike. Allie lying on it, her hair spread in long, silky strands, her eyes glinting golden in the sunlight.

  “Mick, kiss me again.” A small smile on her lovely face, her hands coming up to push his hair out of his eyes, then skimming down to grab the lapels of his leather jacket and pulling him closer. She laughed. “Come on, Mick. You know I can never get enough. Kissing is my favorite thing.”

  “You’re my favorite thing, Allie girl.”

  “Oh, now you really have to kiss me.”

  He leaned in to press his lips to hers. Lips like plush velvet, tasting of summer. Tasting of her. Their skin, their hair, smelling of the sunshine in the park. Kissing until their lips hurt, then laughing about it. His heart hammering simply because he held his girl so close, because her eyes were so damn pretty, shining with love when he pulled back to look at her. Love for him. Pretty heady stuff. But she was his girl, and this was exactly how it should be.

  Except for the dark beast he kept hidden away from her. The one side of him he could never show her.

  Damn it.

  He pushed himself harder, starting to break a sweat in the humid morning air.

  He needed to stop thinking of her for one damn minute. That was how he’d let his sparring partner’s fist through yesterday morning.

  No point in thinking about it now. He forced his mind to empty, to focus on his breathing, on his feet pounding the pavement as he ran the last few blocks.

  He slowed as he reached the gym and swung open the door. It was already crowded, but he spotted his sparring partner, Antoine Duke, working out with the double-end bag, his dark skin gleaming with sweat. He’d see if Antoine would have time to work the heavy bag with him when he was done. He’d be meeting his Muay Thai instructor later for a more thorough MMA workout. Meanwhile, he’d start on the speed bag. It’d be good for him. Help him burn off some of this energy raging through his system.

  He would be in the gym every morning until he saw Allie. And maybe every night. He hated to admit how much he needed it right now, but seeing her had dragged memories to the surface, things he’d rather forget.

  Sometimes he thought he’d rather forget her—not that it was possible. Especially now that she was in New Orleans.

  And he was going to play her at the club.

  He took a quick jab at the bag, let his fist plow a lot harder into it than he should since he hadn’t warmed up his hands yet. Fuck it. He would do whatever it took to calm the hell down. Had to. Because these same hands would be touching her bare flesh all too soon.

  He slammed the bag again, focusing on the pain in his knuckles. Welcomed it. Deserved it.

  Allie. Naked. Under his command.

  Oh, yeah. He was definitely going to hell. He was pretty sure it’d be worth it.

  * * *

  MORNING CAME TOO early, the sky a still blanket of fog outside her windows when Allie realized she wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep. She’d tossed and turned all night, waking up as often as every hour. Always thinking of Mick.

  She sat up, stretched, threw back the covers and picked up her robe, slipped it on. She made her way into the kitchen, pausing to open up her laptop as she passed the table before she started coffee brewing. She’d need it this morning. She sat down and browsed through email while she waited for the coffeepot to finish.

  She’d always loved the scent of coffee. It reminded her of her father. He’d always been the first one up in the morning, making coffee for her mother before she left to go to Dolcetti, the family bakery, at four a.m. It was her father who was there to help her get ready for school, who made her breakfast, packed her lunch, even braided her hair. Except when he was on tour—then her mother and her aunts would take turns staying with her until it was time for school. But it was those mornings with her father she had loved best.

  Bertrand LeClair had been a brilliant concert pianist. She remembered music in the house, always, whether it was him playing the old grand piano in his study she wasn’t allowed into without his permission, or the symphonies and operas he’d listened to.

  Her mother hadn’t been to the opera since her father died. She couldn’t bear it. But Allie still adored the opera her father had taught her to love.

  She got up when the coffeepot beeped and poured herself a cup, took it back to the table and clicked into her music library, opened her favorite recording of Lakmé. It was a sad opera about ill-fated lovers. She’d often thought of herself and Mick as Lakmé and Gérald. Not that she planned to kill herself, like the poor, grieving Lakmé. It was simply that sense of impossibility that had haunted her for so long.

  She’d accepted it all these years. But no more. Mick Reid was going to give her one more chance whether he liked it or not. She would do her best to see that he did.

  It was in her, that need to please. It always had been. She’d never understood what it was when Mick whispered the words good girl in her ear, all those years ago. She’d only known it had made her shiver.

  God, to hear him say that to her again . . .

  A small shudder went through her, leaving goose bumps all over her skin.

  She shook herself. She couldn’t sit there mooning over him all day. She had work to do.

  She fired off an email to Jamie reminding him to ask his brother to call her about doing the repairs on the house, then opened up the business plan she’d spe
nt months putting together to expand the family business. Her mother and aunts would be hard cases, she knew, but she’d always had so many ideas, and now she had the training and experience in the field to back it up. Maybe this time they wouldn’t turn her down.

  Two cups of coffee and two hours later, her cell phone rang. She got up and picked it up off the counter, smiling when she saw her best friend’s name on the screen.

  “Marie Dawn, you’re up early.”

  “Neal had an early shift at the firehouse—I’ve been up since five. I didn’t want to wake you, but I’m dying to know how things went yesterday. I got your message but I couldn’t call you back. I was taking care of grand-mère until late last night.”

  She poured herself another cup of coffee and stood at the counter with it. “It’s no problem, hon. And I’ve been up since six myself. I couldn’t sleep. Too much on my mind.”

  “Let me guess what that might be.”

  “You don’t exactly have to be a mind reader.”

  “So, tell me everything,” Marie Dawn prompted.

  “Well . . .” She paused, sipped her coffee. “. . . He was pissed.”

  “As we expected him to be. Continue.”

  “I’m really glad Jamie was there. It helped, even if it was mostly to give us both something else to focus on. And why in the world didn’t you tell me Mick is still fighting, Marie Dawn?”

  “Because I knew you’d worry, and I didn’t want to do that to you. If he was ever seriously injured I would have let you know.”

  “He hasn’t been?”

  “Nothing more than a few broken fingers, and that badly broken nose, but that was years ago, when you were still in Europe. There would have been no point in telling you then.”