Dangerously Bound

by Eden Bradley

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “Right now my limit is no sex.”

  There was a long pause. “No sex?”

  It was going to kill him, but if he was going to hang on to any shred of control, there had to be some line drawn in the sand.

  “I feel fine with some contact and, frankly, in getting you off—I wouldn’t leave anyone high and dry. But we’re not going to get that involved.”

  There was another pause. “I understand.”

  “Do you? It’s us, Allie. The contact has to reflect how complicated this is.”

  “It doesn’t have to be, Mick,” she said quietly.

  “You know it does. It just is, and we can’t pretend this is something it’s not. We are not two people who’ve just met or have had nothing more than friendship between them. Safe, Sane and Consensual also means being realistic.”

  “Okay. I get it. I honestly wouldn’t choose to impose those limits, but if that’s where you stand . . .”

  “It is.”

  “All right,” she agreed.

  Thank the Lord. He wasn’t sure how long he’d have been able to hold out against any real argument.

  “Since I have you, is there anything else you’d like to discuss before we play?” he asked. “Any questions for me?”

  “I think we’ve covered everything for now. I understand some things change, and will expect that we can renegotiate as needed—outside of scene time, of course.”

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ll check in with you that night before we start to see if you feel differently about anything, to see how you’re feeling physically.”

  “You’re very thorough,” she said.

  “I am.”

  “You’ve always been a perfectionist, though, haven’t you? I remember even in high school you’d polish your motorcycle for hours, making sure every inch of chrome gleamed. I liked hanging out in the garage with you, watching you work. Listening to music.”

  He didn’t want to think about the damn motorcycle. Not now, not ever. He moved back into the living room, stared out the window without really seeing anything.

  It wasn’t the bike that had ruined his life—it was his own bad judgment. But Allie referencing their past . . . those had been good days, and he couldn’t find it in himself to focus on the bad part that had come later—either with the bike or with her. Not now, with her voice soft in his ear.

  “The music was great,” he admitted, “except for your strange fascination with Nickelback.”

  “What? I still love them,” she defended. “His voice is amazing.”

  “You’ll never convince me of that.”

  “Do you remember our song, Mick?” she asked, her voice going soft.

  He didn’t want to answer. Didn’t want to think about him and Allie together back then.

  After a few silent moments she said, “‘Drive’ by Incubus. I . . . still listen to it sometimes.”

  “Great song,” he said gruffly, his breath catching in his throat.

  Damn it.

  “Allie, if we’re going to play at the club, maybe we’d better set some ground rules for this stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Trying to bring back the past. That was a long time ago.”

  “Okay . . .” She drew the last syllable out, and he could hear the hurt in her voice. But he had to lay down some boundaries or things were going to get messy.

  Hell, they already were messy. This whole thing was messy. But he wouldn’t go back on his word. Maybe a night of play and they’d both have it out of their systems.

  Yeah, right.

  And then she’d go on to play with some other Dom at his home club, and he’d fucking want to kill the guy.

  “Mick?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re right. We should stay focused on the present. Not get caught up in history.”

  “Glad you see it my way.”

  “You always are,” she muttered.

  “I heard that.”

  She laughed, breaking the tension. And knowing Allie, that had been her purpose.

  “I’ll see you Friday,” he told her. “We should both talk to Jamie, just in case.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And give Marie Dawn a heads-up.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He could hear the capital S in the way she said it, that breathiness again. His cock twitched.

  “Friday at eight. Don’t be late.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  “And Allie?”

  “Yes?”

  “Be prepared for me to smack some of that sass out of you.”

  “I’ll count on it.”

  They hung up and the view through the window came into focus. He braced himself with one hand on the frame.

  She would be perfect. She always had been, always would be. But at The Bastille . . .

  He groaned.

  He knew he was damn good at what he did. He’d had years of practice, was confident in his abilities. But this one girl just threw him off his game. He’d find a way to overcome it. He’d have to. For his own sake as well as hers. He’d have to really watch himself with her.

  Allie was definitely back in town, and was under his skin already.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  FRIDAY EVENING CAME, and Allie was trying to remind herself of what she’d told Mick—that her needs were simple. But there was nothing simple about the way she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  She’d had a long lunch with her mother, catching up on news of family and old friends, local politics and concerns about the bakery’s neighborhood, but Mick had been firmly in the back of her mind the entire time. Enough that her mother had asked her several times what she’d been daydreaming about. Allie had thought she’d managed to skirt the question, but by the end of lunch her mother’s appraising gaze told her nothing had escaped her, and Allie realized hiding her obsession with Mick—she didn’t currently know what else to call it—wasn’t going to be simple at all when it came to her family.

  She breathed out a sigh as she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door for the tenth time, looking for a bit of mussed hair, a smudge in her makeup. She liked the way her simple black knit dress fit her—short and tight across her hips, but blousy on top, with a wide neckline that fell off one shoulder.

  There was nothing simple about the way her heart was beating, as if a train were chugging through her chest. There was nothing simple about the way fear had set in the day before, the way it had grown all day until she was nearly bursting with it. But there was one thing that was simple.

  Her need for him was simple. Primal. Primitive.

  The need was like fire in her veins, burning her up inside, making her nipples hard beneath the filmy black mesh of her bra. She was wet simply thinking about the evening ahead, about Mick touching her, finally, after all these years. She could remember the feel of his rough hands on her body . . .

  She put her own hand over her chest, trying to calm her racing heartbeat, but she knew nothing would help other than getting to The Bastille, having Mick put her in his ropes, and silencing her fears and need with subspace.

  She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Seven forty-five.

  Somehow she could not stand the next fifteen minutes. She dug in her purse and found her cell phone, dialed Marie Dawn’s number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Allie, I thought tonight was the big playdate?”

  “It is. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Just . . . tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

  “Oh, chérie, only you can know what’s right. But . . . you’ve been convinced thi
s was what you had to do until now. What’s changed?” her friend asked.

  “It’s more real. This is when I’ll know . . . when we’ll know . . . if there’s anything there between us. If he’ll . . . have me. And God, I hate to sound so pathetic. I felt so strong going into this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Allie, we both know I don’t really get this BDSM stuff, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but could part of it be that subspace thing you told me about?” Marie Dawn asked. “You did say he specifically asked you to think of him and what’ll happen tonight while you were getting ready, and you’ve explained to me how the getting ready part is like a little ritual . . . Well, do you think you’re hitting subspace at all? Could it be making you feel more raw? This evening is important for you. I don’t know if you’ve ever played with anyone where there was this heavy an emotional load going into it. That’s got to affect you.”

  “No. I mean, yes—you’re absolutely right.”

  She was. If Allie took a moment to step back and detach from her nerves, she could see it clearly. She was starting to drop into subspace already, simply knowing it was Mick who would play her tonight. And that meant a certain level of vulnerability, with much more to come.

  “It’s all the strain of . . . hope, I guess. Hope that’s had nearly eleven years to build. Hope that built in the time between him leaving me in high school and that one night we had when I was twenty years old.”

  “That’s a lot for anyone to deal with. Under these circumstances where, from what you’ve told me, you have to have a large element of trust . . . I can’t even imagine what that has to do to your head.”

  “That’s it exactly. Although the psychology of it, the mind-fuck, is also what makes it so damn thrilling.”

  Marie Dawn laughed. “Better you than me, chérie. I’d rather get my thrills in a fast car or skiing down a mountain.”

  Allie couldn’t help but smile. “What can I say? We kinky folks are a strange bunch.”

  “Yes, you are, but I love you anyway.”

  “Love you, too. Oh, God, there’s the door.”

  “Lunch tomorrow—don’t forget!”

  “I won’t. Must go!”

  “Bye!”

  She tucked her phone back into her small black purse and went to answer the door, pausing to check her reflection in the hall mirror. She set her purse down on the narrow table beneath the mirror, freeing her hands to quickly smooth her hair, her dress. She inhaled, murmured to herself, “This is it,” and opened the front door.

  He looked enormous in the doorway of the old house. Big and handsome and radiating authority. He was dressed in dark jeans, a black dress shirt with the sleeves rolled at the cuffs, a dark undershirt beneath it. Around his neck was a leather thong with a silver cross hanging from it. Simple. Utterly masculine, like everything else about him.

  “You letting me in, Allie?”

  “Oh. Yes, come in.”

  She opened the screen door, and he took it from her and swung it wide. Then he charged in—it was more sudden and forceful than merely walking—and he was on her. One hand went to her shoulder and held on just tight enough for her to understand he was taking over already. The other took one of her wrists and pinned it behind her back as he pushed her up against the wall. She could feel the heat of his breath on her face. Could see the glittering gray depths of his eyes, the pupils wide and dark. He leaned in and a lock of his hair tickled her forehead. And all she could do was take in slow, gasping breaths, her body and her mind giving over to his command immediately, her muscles going slack.

  “That’s it,” he said so softly she could barely hear him over the blood pounding in her ears. “You go down nice and easy, like silk under the water. I like it, Allie. I do.”

  He tightened his hold on her wrist and shoulder, gave her a small, hard jerk. Her heart hammered. Her nipples went tight. Her knees went weak.

  “Yeah, just give it over to me, princess. I can feel it, you know. The way your limbs have gone all soft. Weak against me. And if I wanted to I could slip my thigh right between yours. Like this.”

  He did as he said, the strong muscles of his thighs parting hers. So close to the need blossoming between them, but not touching her.

  She moaned.

  “I can hear the way you’re breathing,” he went on. “The small catch in your throat that tells me everything I need to know. You’re going down already. Aren’t you?”

  She did not want to give up all control to him. Not this soon. Not without her having some hold on the situation. To go into it this fast . . . her head was spinning.

  “Tell me,” he demanded.

  She tried to push against him, to push him away, but it only brought her aching mound into contact with his thigh.

  “Mick, stop.”

  He eased back an inch or two.

  “Stop is not the usual safe word, Allie, you know that. But tell me, are you safe-wording out? If you are, I’ll let you go right now.”

  She drew in a few panting breaths, desire and confusion twining together deep in her body, her mind.

  “I . . . no.”

  “No what?”

  “No, I’m not using my safe word.”

  He drew her in against his body, his hands gripping both wrists behind her back now. She could feel every rock-hard plane and muscle: abs, chest, shoulder, and his thigh pressing between hers, making her hot and wet. The cross he wore around his neck dug into her flesh, but she welcomed it.

  He lowered his head, his mouth a hairsbreadth from hers. She tilted her face, needing to be kissed—that need was scorching her. But he only held her there, inhaled her breath, then another, and another, until she sank into the rhythm of it. Her limbs relaxed into his hold on her. Safe. Familiar.

  Mick.

  This was Mick. Finally. He wouldn’t hurt her. Not in any way she didn’t want him to.

  “Good girl,” he whispered against her mouth, and her knees nearly buckled.

  He held her tight, just breathing with her—it was the only sound in the room. She raised her gaze to his, found his eyes dark and stormy, but with desire or some other emotion she couldn’t tell. All she knew was that his eyes looked right into her, through her, in the way they always had, yet even more intense with all the life he must have lived in the intervening years.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling,” he said. Commanded.

  “I . . . I’m warm all over,” she answered quietly. “Loose but filled with tension at the same time.”

  “What’s the tension about?”

  “Being with you. Knowing we’ll play tonight. That we already are. Needing you to kiss me, Mick.”

  She felt his chest heave as he drew in a long breath. His hold on her didn’t change. She waited.

  The angle of his chin shifted. His mouth drew closer to hers. Held there. She didn’t dare do what she so desperately wanted to—to lift up on her toes, tilt her chin, claim his lips.

  His grip on her wrists tightened painfully, his gray eyes going dark. She didn’t care. She waited while she measured the sharper cadence in his breath, the gleam of stark desire in his eyes. Felt glad to see it there, to know he needed her in the same way she needed him.

  Why wouldn’t he kiss her?

  Unbearable.

  He twisted his crushing grip, twisting the skin until it pinched, and she gasped. She lifted her chin, the need too powerful, but he moved away just enough to avoid her seeking lips.

  No!

  But she remained silent. Waiting. Just as she’d been taught. She would wait for him. Be good for him. Please him.

  “We’ll go now,” he told her, releasing her so quickly she almost fell. He caught her with an arm around her waist, stood silently while she regained her balance, asked, “You good?” and wait
ed for her affirmative nod before letting her go.

  Her mind was emptying already, beginning to float as he put her purse into her hands and led her onto the porch, closed the door behind them.

  The change in air brought her back to the surface a bit, but not too much. New Orleans air was always a bit magical, after all. The night was soft and sultry, like scented oil in a warm bath. Like she knew his skin felt at the small of his back.

  Mick wrapped his palm around her waist and led her down the stairs, careful of her in her high heels, the black pinup-style stilettos with the peep toe and the small velvet bow she’d worn just for him. He led her to his big black truck parked at the curb, the sleek paint shining in the moonlight. He helped her up onto the high seat, buckled her in with careful hands and closed the door before going around to the driver’s side and getting in.

  The drive to the club didn’t take long from her house in the lower Garden District to the Warehouse District, just south of the French Quarter. There was some jazz playing on the stereo, just loud enough to fill the silence. But it was comfortable that they didn’t talk. Natural. Meditative.

  They turned onto Magazine Street and passed a few blocks of warehouses—some of them actually used for that purpose, some housing galleries or nightclubs. Mick pulled into a parking lot and came around to help her step down from the truck.

  The big warehouse in front of them didn’t look any different from the others on the block, except for the red light over the doorway. Mick led her up to it, and they went up the short flight of stairs. He nodded to the doorman, a wall of a man in a leather vest, before opening the door and ushering her inside.

  She blinked in the bright light. They were in a small room filled up by a large antique desk. Behind it sat a small woman in her sixties, Allie would guess, who watched them over a pair of blue-framed bifocals worn low on her nose.

  “Evening, Mick,” she said. “You must be Allesandra. Welcome to The Bastille. I’m Pixie—we chatted online.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  “You’ve already read and agreed to the house rules and sent in your paperwork, including your membership card from your club in San Francisco, so all I need is a copy of your ID and you’re good to go.”