by Roz Lee
Colton pulls me up, crushes me against his broad chest. My heart feels bruised, yet it continues to pump, tapping out a rhythm I feel all the way to my toes.
“Shh, baby. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.” Colton’s heated breath fans against the shell of my ear, making promises he can’t possibly keep. As his lips kiss their way down my neck, I suddenly recognize the strange rhythm of my heart. I have fallen in love with Colton Barnes. That would never be okay.
∞∞∞
I wake with a start, warm, and no longer bound. Wrapped in a blanket, I’m on a sofa in a small room I don’t remember seeing before. The door is open. Somewhere in the darkness beyond, low voices assure me I haven’t been left alone. I sit up, wiping sleep and dried tears from my eyes. Christ, I’m a mess. A naked, sticky mess. Memories of the photo shoot come back to me. Fuck, I’ve botched it, big time. But, no. The last thing I remember before my world went black, were Wanda’s words. “Fuckin’ awesome.”
I’d had two orgasms in a matter of minutes—while a camera clicked away. Swinging my feet to the floor, I rest my elbows on my thighs and drop my head into my hands. “I’m so fucked.”
“Not yet, you aren’t.”
Colton. The man I’m hopelessly in love with. Shit. Yeah, I remember that part. Add another tally to the list of women who have fallen for the man. Don’t tell me what my number is, I don’t want to know. It’s humiliating enough to know I’m one of probably thousands. Maybe there’s a support group I can join—Bat-shit Crazy Women Who Fall for Sexy Cowboys Who Don’t Give a Shit about Them. Call 1-800-I’m Insane.
“I’m not what?”
“Fucked. Screwed. Whatever.” He sits next to me, his denim-clad knee knocking against my thigh. I scoot away from his touch. Without the lights and backdrop, being naked while he’s fully clothed makes me feel exposed and vulnerable in a way I haven’t felt before. Crazy. I know.
“I’m sorry. Maybe you should have hired a professional model.”
“If I’d wanted emotionless photos, I could have used a mannequin. I wanted real, honest emotions, and I knew I would get them from you.” He sits forward, mirroring my pose. “I should have told you what I wanted from you, but I thought you might try to fake a response, and that wouldn’t do. I gambled on my feelings for you bringing out the emotion I was looking for. I never dreamed you would be as responsive as you are.”
My brain isn’t firing on all cylinders yet, but it hones in on one sentence and won’t let go. “You have feelings for me?”
Colton sits back with a bark of laughter. I turn to face him. He has both hands on his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as if his head might explode at any minute. “Fuck, Beth. I’ve been in love with you since I was seventeen.”
No. No. No. I have to be hallucinating. Colton freakin’ Barnes did not just say he’s in love with me. “But…you never…not once….”
“You deserve better than the likes of me, baby. You always did. That’s why I never asked you out.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is it? I was never going to be anything but a rodeo rider, no matter what everyone else thought. I only did the other stuff because my folks said I had to stay in school. The teams and extracurricular activities filled the time, kept me from thinking constantly about where I’d rather be. You were a cheerleader, and too damn young for the kind of thoughts I had about you. Hell, I was too young to be having those kind of thoughts.”
“What kind of thoughts were you having?”
“Like I told you earlier, I wanted to tie you up. I didn’t know about rope bondage then. Didn’t know what I really wanted was to be a rope artist and use you as my canvas. I wanted to fuck your brains out, too. Be honest, you would have run screaming—probably would have had me locked up if I’d told you half the things going on in my brain.”
“That was a long time ago. You’ve been back home for years.” I left the question of why, unasked.
“I came back broken.” He rubs his hand over his left thigh. “Washed up at the only job I ever wanted. You’d come home a success with a degree, got on with the cheerleaders, and opened your dance studio. You didn’t need a broken bronc hanging around.”
One of the winningest men ever on the pro rodeo circuit thinking me more successful than he was laughable—only I found nothing humorous about it. I groaned. “Where’s the shovel? The manure in here is getting way too deep.”
He matches my groan with one of his own then stands. “I guess that’s what I get for baring my soul. I knew better. I really did.”
Jaw hanging loose, I watch him walk away, his ever-present limp more pronounced as if our conversation weighed heavily on him. It sure as hell feels like a ten-ton boulder on my shoulders. My glib remark hurt him. His parting shot scored a direct hit on my heart.
“Wait!” I grab the blanket, wrap it around myself, and bolt after him. I catch up, brush my fingers over his sleeve. He stops and turns. He’s always been a winner, looking the part with an easy smile and the light of confidence in his eyes. I’ve never seen defeat on his face.
Until now.
“If you want to shower before you go, you can use the one in my office.” He points back to the room I’d woken up in. “I put all your clothes in the bathroom. I’ll have your check ready by the time you’re done.”
My brain is on overload. Too many foreign concepts to process all at once. I’ve been dismissed. That much I’m sure of. He’s made his mind up about me—doesn’t want an explanation. I’ve injured his ego, and he wants to be left alone to lick his wounds. My heart practically jumps from my chest, wanting to chase him down again, but the voice of reason prevails. Turning on my heel, I head back the way I’d come. Back to Colton Barnes’ office.
His freakin’ office! I hit the light switch, cringing as the room comes to life. Done in earth tones, the place is decorated in testosterone. The sofa I’d slept on is part of a cozy conversation group for giants, anchored by a massive coffee table. Bookcases line the opposite wall. Framed photographs, books, and a few trophies personalize the space. Occupying one corner is a chunk of wood that is either the cornerstone of a high-rise building or Colton’s desk. The leather wingback chair behind it clues me in. This is the seat of his empire—one that includes a BDSM club.
Spying the aforementioned bathroom door, I file this new information away for another time. Like his office, the private bath is large, comfortable, opulently furnished, and masculine. A damp towel hangs from a hook beside the shower where water droplets still cling to the tiles. An electric toothbrush and razor rest on stands next to the sink. Being in his private space feels intimate in a way I can’t describe.
I inhale, savoring the fresh, clean scent of my man. My clothes are in a neat pile next to my purse and makeup case on the black marble counter. I can’t wait to get the oil off my skin, but the makeup has to come off first, or I’ll have raccoon eyes when I come out of the shower. Pre-moistened towelette in hand, I turn to the mirror and freeze at the sight of Colton’s rosin handprint on my stomach.
I’m wearing Colton Barnes’ brand.
I can still feel his skin pressed against mine—searing me to the core. I force my gaze up, searching my reflection for any meaning other than the one flashing through my brain, and come up empty.
I belong to Colton Barnes.
The realization unleashes something wild and possessive inside me. I belong to him. I have the brand to prove it. But he belongs to me, too—and he’s not getting rid of me with a rope and grope or his fuckin’ check.
Digging in my purse, I find my phone. It takes me a while to snap the best photo possible and save it as my wallpaper. If he thinks he can brand me, tell me he loves me then send me on my merry way, he’s got another think coming. The loveable jerk doesn’t know who he’s messin’ with.
∞∞∞
Washing his handprint off has to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. Dressed, I glance at my p
hone, reminding myself what’s at stake here before heading out to take the bull by the horns.
He’s huddled over the computer with Wanda. Hearing me approach, he stands, fingers stuck in the front pockets of his jeans, calling attention to the long, hard ridge behind his fly. Before he opens the chute and spurs me out, I breeze past him to look over the photographer’s shoulder.
“What ya lookin’ at?” I can lay on the dumb blonde with the hick accent when I want.
“Today’s photos. Da-um, girl, they’re hot. I was just tellin’ the cowboy we need to do more. A complete series, maybe do a calendar or posters. I’ve got it!” She spears the air with her index finger and bounces on her chair. It’s not a pretty sight, but I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm for her latest idea. “A coffee-table book!”
The man crowding me from behind growls. It’s not a sexy sound, more like a coyote snarling at the poodle he’s about to shred. “We aren’t doing anything with them. They’re mine,” he says, holding his hand out. “Give me the memory card.”
“Hold on a minute.” I swat his hand away. “I haven’t even seen them yet.”
“Sit down,” Wanda commands. “I’ve isolated the best ones. Give me a sec and I’ll show you.”
I take the seat recently vacated by Colton. He makes another sound, this one is more akin to a beast with his paw caught in a trap.
“There. What do you think?”
I stare at the photo. It’s me, but no one would ever recognize me. The way my head is tilted back, all you can see is the long column of my neck, ending at the point of my chin. My fingers are reaching for the floor, hovering there in suspended animation. The rest of my body is perfectly arched, my boobs are pert, the nipples alert. Colton’s hand, the one that branded me, is high in the air as he rides me in perfect bull rider’s form. Before I find the words to comment, the image is replaced by another.
Taken from a different angle, there is no doubt who the models are. My upside down face is clearly visible—caught in a moment of orgasmic bliss. Above me, Colton holds me suspended with his right hand. His left is splayed across my stomach. His forearm, strategically obscures the head of his cock notched between my labia. It’s a lovely, erotic photo of me, but that’s not what has my heart pounding and my eyes tearing. It’s the expression on Colton’s face.
The growl makes sense now. Everything he feels for me is written in the lines straining his face. In the depth of his gaze, locked on the point of our joining. In the way his hand possesses me, and my orgasm. It’s a fierce and tender moment frozen in time. I feel like I should say something, but no words come to mind.
Colton lays his hand on my shoulder. The same hand he branded me with. I jump at the contact, and he withdraws. Reaching over my shoulder, I snatch his hand back, covering it with mine so the only way he can move it is to be a jerk. “No one will ever see these,” he says.
I agree. No one should see this one, but the other one wasn’t so bad. I say as much, earning another growl from the beast who owns me. “You said something about suspension?” I recalled our conversation on the first day. At the time, the idea of being bound and hanging from the ceiling frightened me. But now? I want it. I want to be completely at Colton’s mercy. I want him to do every fuckin’ crazy thing he can think of to me.
“You don’t want to do that.”
Hanging onto his hand, I turn so he can see my face. I want him to see the honesty in my eyes. “Yes, I do. I’ll be here tomorrow. I want Wanda here, too. She’s right, these are beyond good.”
He looks like a man who has just been told there is a chance his life sentence might be commuted to time served. Wary, but hopeful. Little does he know, he hasn’t begun to serve his time. Estimated sentence—fifty years.
Hung Up
As bad as I need the money, I have no intention of depositing the check Colton insisted I take for today’s session. If the first check hadn’t already been gobbled up by bills, I’d snatch it out of my account and give it back, too. What we’re doing seems too personal to take payment for. If that makes me a lousy businesswoman, then so be it.
I’d love another massage, but I can’t afford one, and Colton hadn’t mentioned it, so I settle for soaking in the bathtub for as long as the hot water holds out. That and a few pain meds make me feel almost human, not to mention, the long soak gives me plenty of time to think about tomorrow—and all the days after.
If today is anything to go by, tomorrow’s rope art will be complex and beautiful, making my task simple. All I have to do is show how pleasurable it is to be the canvas for his imagination. Easy-peasy. I never thought I’d enjoy any kind of restraint, but the last two days have shown me how misguided I’ve been. Even now, my thoughts resemble a skein of yarn the cat’s been playing with. My brain tells me to run like hell from anyone wanting to tie me up, but the moment Colton began to wrap the rope around me, a feeling of safety came over me, and stayed as long as he touched me. When he left to change his clothes, leaving me in Wanda’s care, I freaked. It wasn’t rational, and I think I hid it well, but the unease didn’t go away until he returned.
So, yeah, I enjoy being part of his art, but I’m not sure I would do it for anyone else.
The night passes in fits and starts. Each time I wake, I reach out, wanting the reassurance of Colton’s touch. When I think of all the nights we’ve wasted, more than a decade’s worth, it pisses me off. I don’t want to waste another one. Even if I have to tie the man up with his own rope, he’s sleeping in my bed tonight. Or I’m sleeping in his. Either way works for me.
∞∞∞
I walk into controlled chaos. Wanda stands on a ladder, rigging lights above the backdrop. Colton is at the supply table, consulting a paper. A drawing? A list? I don’t know. He waves me over to what has become my dressing/undressing area, tells me the makeup job from yesterday was perfect—do it again—then goes back to his task—whatever it is.
All made-up and oiled, except for my back, I take my place on the backdrop. Wanda checks the values of the new lighting, scribbling notes on a pad before grabbing her camera. I do silly poses while she snaps test shots then I go back to watching Colton get his gear in order. The pile is getting bigger by the minute. He turns around, gives me the once over, and orders me to my knees so he can do my hair.
Sweeping it into a ponytail at the crest of my skull, he braids the long strands and ties them off with a strip of leather. I hold my hair out of the way while he oils my back. “I’ve got several poses I want to get in today. I rig fast, but if you’re uncomfortable at any time, speak up.”
“Yes, Sir.” I don’t know what possesses me to call him sir, but I swear, something happened between us in that moment—an understanding of sorts. Time seems to stand still for the span of a heartbeat then he slaps me on the ass and moves away.
The first pose is a simple arabesque, in ballet terms. From there, he binds my arms and legs in various positions requiring me to remain balanced on one foot. If not for the support of the rope harness caging my torso and attached to the winch above my head, I’d fall flat on my face. The dancer in me recognizes the beauty in the forms, and where I can, I arch, point, or otherwise use my body to illustrate the pose. All of the photos are staged both with and without his handcrafted ropes. At times, I hold the bull ropes in my teeth. Other times it becomes part of the artwork on my small frame. And then other times he wraps them around my waist or breasts or once, in an elaborate pattern where the handle lies lengthwise over my pussy.
Every time he touches me, he claims a little more of me for his own.
After a short lunch break to eat sandwiches Wanda went out for, we begin what is to be the final pose. He doesn’t tell me what he has in mind, only says he’ll make sure Wanda doesn’t photograph anything I don’t want her to. He’s offered the same consideration on a few other poses where all my goods were on display. After his meltdown yesterday over the explicit photos, I don’t think he’ll ever let anyone but the three of us see them,
so I tell the photographer to snap away.
Truthfully, I’m surprised he’s posed me this way. I expected to be dressed like a nun for today’s shoot. His concern for my modesty could have been all for show, but I doubt it.
True to his word, he works fast. As his talented hands knot the rope into the most elaborate pattern I’ve seen yet, I sense our time running out. When we complete this pose, he’ll be through with me, and I can’t let that happen. He thinks he’s the only one who’s washed up, the only one who’s ever had to give up something important.
He checks to make sure he hasn’t cut off circulation to my arms, which he’s bound behind my back in a similar rigging to the one he used on the first day. My body, from neck to crotch is encased in intricate knots and weavings. Other than the sound of carabiners snapping closed as he assembles the rigging from which he’ll suspend me, the place is as quiet as a tomb. It’s driving me nuts. When he circles around in front of me to check the ropes across my stomach, I’m struck by his complete concentration on the task at hand.
Even though there is a mat beneath the backdrop I’m standing on, the idea of falling from even a short distance if he makes a mistake sends a shudder through my body.
“Too tight?” he asks.
