The Phoenix Candidate

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  Jared sucks in a sharp breath. “Or there will be consequences. That’s one, Grace. You’ve lost one hand so far.”

  He grasps the offending hand and holds it to the side of my body with enough pressure that I know he means business. “Don’t open your eyes or I’ll take your sight.”

  So this is his game? I nod my assent and kneel. One-handed, I remove his shoes and socks, then feel my way up the back of his thigh, careful not to touch the front of his pants. I find his belt and undo it. With my one fumbling hand, I release the clasp above his zipper, but my wrist brushes the tip of his cock that presses the material out toward me.

  I open my eyes and look up at him, afraid he’s caught me.

  Of course he has, and there’s a dangerous mixture of pleasure and resolve on his face. He steps back from me.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Grace.” He stoops and picks up his tie from the floor, then wraps it around my eyes twice. When it’s tied tightly behind my head, he lets his hand trail down through my curls, brushing my breasts, making my nipples hard and taut.

  “Is this part of your fantasies, Grace?”

  My heart beats loudly in my ears and I whisper, “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  I sense his movement around me and I’m still kneeling, chin tilted up in anticipation.

  Behind my back, he grasps my wrists, one and then the other, and pins them together. I feel his leather belt weave through them, around them, and the hitch as he buckles it in place.

  It’s tight. It’s terrifying. It’s thrilling.

  “And is this part of your fantasies? What I’m doing to you now?” Jared’s hands brush my shoulders, the side of my breasts, the curve of my hips and the globes of my ass.

  “Yes.” I’m in uncharted territory, completely alive even as Jared removes my senses, one by one. Sight, then touch.

  But the rest of my senses are heightened. I breathe deeply and I know these smells: red wine in the glass on the table next to me, rich with dark fruits. The smell of my apartment, and of Jared’s skin as I hear him move around me again, back in front of my face.

  He’s standing. I’m kneeling, bound, and blindfolded. My pulse races in my neck as I realize how far into the deep end of this power exchange he’s thrown me.

  Or I’ve leapt. I’ve never said no.

  “Grace, there are a million things I want to do to you right now, but I want you to want them too,” Jared says. His voice caresses me and I feel his fingers in my hair, tightening through the strands. “How will I know you want them?”

  “I’ll tell you.”

  “And how about the things you won’t tell me? What about the fact that we’ve practically burned up our phones with dirty talk every night this week and you could barely admit you want this? You wanted to be tied.”

  “It’s too…” I trail off. It’s too personal. Too taboo. This power exchange flies in the face of the fact that I am a woman in power, and yet I want to be able to give up power, too.

  I’m struggling, unable to see his reaction, unsure how to explain that I can’t explain. That Seth made me feel disgusting for asking for this. That he refused to tie me or mark me or take me in any way other than a few basic positions.

  “If you can’t tell me what you want, how can I trust you to tell me when to stop, Grace?” Jared’s voice is genuine, worried.

  “I’ll tell you.”

  “How will I know you mean it?”

  “I’ll demand you give me one fucking minute, OK?” I nearly shout. I’m breathing hard from the anticipation, wanting to get past this hesitation so we can do this.

  I’m ready.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “One fucking minute,” Jared repeats. “You say that, and this is over.”

  I nod, my nose detecting his rich and musky scent beneath the fabric of his slacks.

  “My pants are next, Grace. You don’t have your hands, but you can use your mouth.”

  I open my mouth, leaning forward slightly until I find his trousers open at the clasp but still hanging on his hips. My lips find the fly and then the zipper behind it. I grip the metal pull between my teeth, teasing it down the length of him.

  His cock bulges next to my cheek but I ignore it, tugging at the zipper until I hear the swish of material as his pants drop from angular hips. I hear him step out of his slacks, kick them aside.

  “Keep going.”

  My nose connects with soft cotton and I inhale his scent, then I search with my nose and lips until I find the waistband for his boxers. I slip my tongue under the edge until my teeth grasp the elastic, then I tug and twist, pulling them down his legs.

  But the elastic is caught on his cock and I struggle, bound and blind, to figure out this challenge. Jared’s hand cups my chin. “I’ll help you with the rest.” My ears detect the soft sound of his boxers hitting the floor.

  And then I wait.

  He makes me wait and wonder, until my body vibrates with need.

  I imagine what he could do to me like this, and my breath hitches. There’s no feedback—no sound or touch to indicate what’s next.

  “Swallow me,” Jared commands. “Let me fuck your mouth the way I’ve imagined it all week.”

  I open my mouth and the tip of his cock brushes my cheek. I turn toward him, my tongue flicking the bead of moisture at the tip and my lips moving smoothly over his head. I stop at the ridge, my tongue circling him, my teeth offering just enough pressure, like fingernails scraping sensitive skin.

  His chest rumbles with a satisfied noise. I breathe deeply, my jaw relaxing as I take him in. Blindfolded, I am moving forward with just my lips and tongue to guide me. With my hands bound, I can’t touch him anywhere else, can’t tickle his sac or press his seam. But I can feel the softness of his curls as I draw him deeper, and I detect the hardness of his stomach as he tenses and quakes.

  I pace my breath against his thrusts, letting my throat open to take more of him. I blink back tears behind the blindfold when it’s almost too much, when I feel like I’m drowning in his scent and taste and the fullness of him inside my mouth.

  His hands touch my cheek and I feel him pulling back, sliding from my mouth.

  I’m stunned. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Hardly. I’m not done with you yet, Grace.” I feel Jared’s hardened arms behind my shoulders and beneath my ass, and then he’s carrying me in easy strides toward my bedroom. He places me gently on my side, my hands still bound behind me, and I hear rustling and drawers opening and closing.

  Jared’s breath washes over me as he returns and unbuckles the belt on my wrists.

  Disappointment floods me. It’s over?

  “Tell me about what you want, Grace. You want to be tied?”

  I feel him squeeze my wrist, massaging where the belt bit into it.

  “Yes,” I whisper. He stripped away my control over this situation, but it’s freeing. I thrill to his control, his demand, the force with which he teases my own unspeakable desires from me. Bound, I’m free to let him.

  Jared raises my hand over my head. In short, efficient movements my wrist is bound again and secured to my bed, this time with what I suspect is pantyhose. He follows with the other hand, until I’m a Y on my bed, my knees pressed together with thinly concealed need.

  “Open your legs, Grace. I like to look at you.”

  I blush and move my feet a couple feet apart, then I feel my mattress dip as Jared climbs between them.

  “More,” he commands.

  I move again, and it’s still not enough.

  Hands grip my ankles and they’re pushed back, bending my knees, spreading me wide. I’m embarrassed and elated, and then I feel Jared’s breath on me again, tickling my thighs, making every nerve alert with anticipation.

  His tongue traces my outer lips, then inside me, and my breath threatens to leave and never return. He licks the length of my seam, his tongue plunging inside me, playing with the hood of my clit, and diving back down
to draw a long, slow lick up my center again.

  His fingers join his tongue, exploring, punctuating each movement with a counter-movement. His hands move behind my knees and grasp my hips, tilting me up toward his mouth, and then his hands round my ass, down the cleft, across the bud, and into my core.

  I’m flying. As his tongue flicks faster against my clit, my limbs become weightless, my torso a churning mass of energy that gathers and gathers and gathers into a single point between my legs. I twitch and writhe, begging for release, and then I feel his cock brush my thigh.

  I still, waiting for him.

  Blindfolded, anticipation is equal parts torment and pleasure, making every sound, every slight touch more needful. He teases me with the head of his cock until we’re slick, and drives inside me.

  “You don’t know what you do to me, how much I needed this,” Jared growls, his rhythm building. “I need you, Grace, in every way you can imagine. I need to push you and make you beg, make you want and wonder. I need this control, because I need to know you’re not controlling me.”

  A little cry escapes me as the force of him steals my breath. It’s impossible to focus, and yet I think this might be the most honest he’s ever been about what’s happening between us.

  “I don’t want to control you. I just—need—you.” My mind spins with that admission, that my fierce independence has been compromised by something or someone I can’t command. If I need Jared, it makes me vulnerable. It gives him power to take it away, to hurt me.

  And yet. I need him. Desperately.

  I buck my hips against him, rocking furiously as my climax builds, as I feel the muscles inside me clench and spasm around his length.

  “You wreck me, Grace. You’re truth and beauty. You’re power and passion. You’re my drug, my clarity. And you are fucking mine.”

  With his last words, our bodies slam together and I explode in a climax that forces me to shout his name, and God’s, and probably wake up the neighbors. The orgasms from our late-night phone calls are nothing. Nothing, compared to the fullness of him inside me, driving me higher and further than I thought I could go.

  I’m captured, unable to touch him or see him, but he’s everywhere, his hands moving across my body, his mouth nipping up my neck, across my cheek.

  His lips brush mine. So softly, so swiftly, I almost miss it. I turn toward his face, or at least where I imagine his face to be, searching for his lips again.

  I get nothing. His rhythm changes, his hips buck harder. He’s pounding against me and I’m hanging on for dear life, my knees wrapped around his narrow hips, ankles crossed like he could buck off me at any minute.

  I twist and move again, needing his lips to find me. How long has it been? Five weeks since that night in the bar? More? It feels like a lifetime, like we’ve grown a real relationship.

  And yet he won’t kiss me.

  And I’m done with that. I feel his ass clench, his muscles tense as he works toward his own climax. And my climax is building again too, threatening to sweep away my yearning thoughts that desire the kind of intimacy he won’t offer.

  I’ve tried. He’s refused. And I’m left in a sea of confusion.

  “Jared. Jared, I need you.”

  “I’m right here, Grace,” he pants, and his hips grind harder. “I’ll give you anything you need.”

  “I need your lips. Now. I need you to kiss me.”

  “Grace—” His tone is warning.

  “Now, Jared! Give me one fucking minute of kissing! Or get off me.”

  Jared’s body goes tense, and then slack. He moves to pull out, but I don’t let him, I squeeze my thighs around him harder, my heels digging into his ass.

  “Don’t you dare pull away from me, Jared Rankin,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare leave me like this when I felt your lips two seconds ago. I know you want this.”

  “Grace—”

  I cut him off again. “Don’t Grace me. Take off this fucking blindfold and kiss me senseless.”

  Jared’s fingers slip under the silk of his tie, loosening it from my face. When I’m eye to eye with him, his cock still buried inside me, I look in his face, and I know.

  I fucking know. I know I can’t let this man get away with leaving up his walls, any more than he’s letting me get away with wanting something but being unable to express it.

  A little bondage? A little spanking? That’s my taboo.

  Kissing? That’s his.

  “Do you want me to take off your bindings, too?” Jared searches my face, his eyes crinkling with worry.

  “No.” I answer clearly, deliberately. “I want you to move inside me again. I want you to touch me everywhere. But more than anything, I want your lips on mine.”

  Jared rests his torso on his elbows and I feel him press forward to bring his mouth closer to mine. He chickens out, though, and goes for my cheek first.

  Cheek to cheek, there’s a sweetness to this, and I struggle to get a hand free to touch him.

  “Let me.” Jared’s voice wavers and he grabs my wrist. His thumb slides across my pulse and loosens the hosiery. He repeats the process with my other hand, and I’m free.

  I run my hands up his arms, over his shoulders, along his neck, and feel his stubble tickle beneath my fingernails. He’s still holding back. So I push one arm and one leg out to the side, rolling us.

  Now I’m on top, my hair spilling over one shoulder in a curtain of curls. I’m on top and I control the pace and rhythm and distance of my mouth to his.

  I sit up, feeling his cock still hard inside me, rubbing my hands across his chest. “I want to kiss you, Jared. But I don’t want to hurt you.”

  His eyes are tight, but he nods. “You won’t.”

  I hesitate, and he nods again. This is the most intimate thing we’ve ever done, and I don’t take it lightly as I plant my first, chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth.

  Never mind he’s inside me. This kiss, this brush of lips, threatens to make my body burst into flames.

  Jared is still and I run my hands lightly over his jaw, down his neck, and then up through his hair. I trace his broad forehead and dark brows with my thumbs, and bend to kiss each of them in turn.

  I kiss his lashes, his cheekbones, the tip of his nose. I kiss that soft spot in front of his ear where his beard doesn’t grow, and then the quirky smile lines that form parentheses around his expressive mouth.

  I kiss the place just under his lips, and the curve of his lower lip. I draw it between my own lips—softly, no teeth or tongue—and I just kiss Jared with a press of emotion. I move my mouth up, connect both of our lips, and again let him ease into this connection.

  I’m dying for him to kiss me back.

  Dying.

  And he isn’t. Or can’t.

  And so I plant soft kisses on his mouth, just a few, just enough. I feel his pulse race in his neck and I know I’m having a powerful effect on him. His hips rock beneath me.

  Maybe this is too much. I got what I wanted—I broke through his wall, at least a little. And so I leave his mouth, pull his face against my neck, and rock my hips in a rhythm that says go. I rock with him as I feel him get closer to the edge, ready for his climax.

  When he comes, he comes hard and long and in great gasping bursts. His teeth sink deep into my shoulder and I’m breathless from the pain. I’m spinning with the intensity of his climax and I feel his body curl around me, like he needs to pull me inside his chest.

  Like he needs me to be part of him.

  Like I need him.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Where is he?”

  Jared’s face is ashen, his phone pressed to his ear. Early dawn light tells me we’ve slept a few hours at least, but already Jared is in motion: out of bed, into the living room, returning fully dressed as he clicks off his phone.

  “It’s Conover. He’s in the hospital.”

  I bolt up in bed. “What happened?”

  “We don’t know yet. Maybe a stroke. He passed out be
tween his car and his front door.”

  I jump up, reach for my robe. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. Stay here, Grace. I’m going to try to make the next flight.”

  I follow him back to the living room where he sweeps his laptop and papers into his bag, stuffs his tie inside it, and shoves his arms into the jacket lying rumpled on my floor.

  “Jared—” I take two steps toward him but his posture is warning. I can’t kiss him goodbye, even though I want to. Desperately. So I settle for a quick embrace, feel the brush of his stubble by my cheek, and he’s gone.

  ***

  “I thought you were out until noon?” Trey greets me as I enter my office.

  He’s on his first coffee. I let it slide. “Change of plans.”

  He narrows his eyes, inspecting me, but my suit is fresh, my long curls tamed, and there’s nothing to suggest my hasty exit from his apartment last night was anything scandalous except my sleep-deprived puffy eyes.

  “So your calendar I cleared for Mr. Bouquet?”

  “Fill it back up.”

  I take a seat at my desk and scan Internet headlines across several news sites. Nothing about Conover yet. It’s only been two hours since Jared got the call. I’ll give them ’til noon.

  “You’ve got Darrow in ten,” Trey calls from the outer office.

  “Which one?”

  “Lauren.”

  Lauren Darrow breezes into my office precisely on time, looking like a queen visiting an orphanage. I direct her to sit in the chair facing my desk and she offers a tight smile, as if I’ve asked her to sit on an overturned bucket.

  Get over it. I’m in a government building with government-issued furniture, so I can’t expect my office to live up to her fabulous taste that’s become legend in home decorating magazines.

  “Thanks for meeting with me today—Trey said you had a last-minute cancellation?”

  I smile without parting my lips, refusing to go into the details.

  “I’m sure you know about Senator Conover’s unfortunate ailment,” she begins.