by Ava March
Deliberately Bound
A short story
The Bound Series #3-1/2
AVA MARCH
Lord Oliver Marsden loves books, but what he loves even more is submitting to Vincent. A large purchase for his bookshop, however, puts Oliver in the mood to push Vincent’s boundaries in bed farther than ever before.
Lord Vincent Prescot is more than happy to have his lover home. Two days without Oliver were far too long in Vincent’s opinion. But before he can toss his lover onto the bed, he realizes Oliver has his own plans for the evening…
Deliberately Bound
Published by Ava March at Smashwords
Copyright May 2011 by Ava March
2nd Edition
Cover Art: Harper by Design
All rights are reserved. No part of this work may be sold, manipulated, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not construed to be real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely incidental.
Warning
This work contains sexually explicit scenes and graphic language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Intended for adult audiences only. Not intended for anyone under the age of 18. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
* * *
DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in this BDSM title without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. The author will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in this title.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Deliberately Bound
Thank You
Also by Ava March
About the Author
July 1824
Rotherham, England
Vincent followed Oliver inside the man’s bedchamber and shut the door. As he turned the lock, a sense of peace settled over him.
Two days without his lover. One would think it had been a month given how long last night had felt. It wasn’t as if he and Oliver spent every night together when they were in London. But at Rotherham… The country house had felt downright empty without him.
As Oliver crossed the room, he shrugged his black coat from his shoulders and flung it in the general direction of the narrow door leading to the dressing room. “It’s good to be home.”
“It’s good to have you home.” Vincent’s gaze tracked his lover as the man stopped at the bedside table.
Oliver glanced over his shoulder, fingers poised over the jade cravat pin at his throat. “Did you miss me?” A smile that said he had no doubt of Vincent’s answer played on his full lips.
Yet Vincent answered nonetheless. “Yes.”
That smile broadened. “Well, I certainly missed you.” Oliver turned his attention back to the bedside table. With a faint clink, he dropped the cravat pin into the silver dish. “But the appointment was well worth the trouble.” He let out a little sigh. The same little blissful sigh that had accompanied a detailed account over supper of the books he’d purchased on his visit to Wakefield.
As easy and unassuming as Oliver was, his dedication and attention to detail—when it involved the acquisition of books—was earning his shop a reputation as the place to go among the booklovers in London. Vincent had overheard more than one individual at White’s recently recommend Wallace’s Bookshop—the best selection of prime stock in the city. Certainly by now the shop warranted an expansion. Oliver couldn’t argue he did not have the funds at his disposal, yet he preferred to keep the shop small. He claimed he liked the intimacy, the quaint atmosphere, and didn’t want it to become so large it occupied all his time. Unlike Vincent, the acquisition of wealth had never been one of his priorities. Not that it showed a lack of ambition, but rather Oliver being true to himself. And Vincent wasn’t about to argue with Oliver over his decision. He very much preferred having more of Oliver’s time devoted to him.
“When do you need to return to Town?” Vincent asked, as he began to unbutton his navy coat. Since the post ensured business matters reached him in Rotherham, he could remain for a good month or more. Unfortunately, Oliver’s obligations and not Vincent’s tended to dictate the length of their stays in the country.
Oliver let his waistcoat slip from his arms, the garment falling to the floorboards, and shrugged. “Not for a few days. Perhaps Saturday."
Four days from now? That wouldn’t put them back in London for a week, making their absence from Town push three weeks in total. But Vincent held back the urge to question him with a firm reminder it was Oliver’s business and not his own. Oliver would know when he was needed back at his shop.
Vincent folded his coat and set it on the chair next to the dressing room door. “I’ll have word sent to the stables tomorrow to have the carriage prepared to depart on Saturday.” In any case, who was he to complain about having more nights than anticipated with Oliver in Rotherham, where not a single servant spent the night under their roof?
Where there were absolutely no worries anyone else would hear the full force of Oliver’s desire.
Lust spiked his senses, wound its way into his veins, settling in his groin. The candles on the mantel provided enough light so he could just make out the faint outline of the sleek lines of Oliver’s back beneath his white shirt. His fingers twitched with the need to rip the trousers from his lover’s body, to expose the firm round globes of his arse. To toss Oliver onto the mattress, bind him to the bed, and fuck every last “more” from his lips.
But he stopped himself before he took even one step closer to Oliver.
Patience. He repeated the word in his head.
The entire night awaited them. Many, many hours until his housekeeper arrived at dawn. No reason to rush at all.
Desire firmly in check, he set to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. A warm, summer night’s breeze drifted into the room, fluttering the drapes covering the window near the bed. Fabric swooshed softly as Oliver tugged his cravat from his neck, the sound amplified in the quiet room.
Oliver turned from the bedside table. A little smile curved the edges of his lips as he regarded Vincent. “Will you put yourself in my hands tonight?”
Vincent’s fingers stilled over the last button on his waistcoat. Apprehension pinched his stomach. He knew exactly when he’d last seen that confident little smile. And the way Oliver had phrased the question—never mind the cravat he had yet to drop to the floorboards—led Vincent to believe he wanted something more than taking him. Not that merely being taken by Oliver held no cause for at least some concern. Oliver had only buggered him twice. Once seven months ago, and second time in early spring. Oliver hadn’t asked then, and neither had Vincent. The man had somehow sensed though, exactly what Vincent had wanted on that particular night.
Tonight though…
“Is that a no?” Oliver asked, the smile diming a fraction.
“I’m not certain.” There was no point in trying to dissemble with Oliver. His lover had an uncanny ability to see right through him. “Care to enlighten me as to your plan for the evening?”
“I’d rather not. You’ll think on what’s to come, and it would take some of the…enjoyment out of it. And I believe you will enjoy it. We both will,” he added with an all too eager spark in the dark depths of his eyes.
Oliver indulged his whims most every night, submitting so beautifully he never failed to hold Vincent in awe. He should let his lover do as he pleased with him on occasion. And it
wasn’t that he was completely against the idea. He could still remember the strength of his climax from four months ago, an intense slam of sensation that had left him utterly boneless. Not something one tended to forget. The mere memory made his cock jump against the placket of his trousers. Yet…
His gaze was drawn once again to the rumpled cravat in Oliver’s hand, the long length dangling from his closed fist.
“If you want to stop at any time, you can simply give the word, Vincent.”
He took a deep breath and nodded. He trusted Oliver, and if Oliver pushed him beyond his comfort, he’d call a stop to whatever Oliver had planned for the evening. The thought calmed the knot in his stomach.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes,” Vincent said, doing his best to appear perfectly composed.
Oliver’s smile broadened into a damn grin. “Thank you, Vincent. You can take off your clothes while I gather a few things.”
A few things? Vincent’s brows drew together as he watched that cravat flutter to the floorboards. His gaze snapped to Oliver as the man opened the top drawer of the dresser and reached inside. He knew exactly what Oliver was after.
The key.
Oliver dropped to his knees before the small trunk beside the dresser. He fit the key into the brass lock. The click as the lock opened echoed in the room.
“I thought about nothing but you on the drive back from Wakefield." Oliver lifted the lid and reached into the trunk.
The journey would have taken a good six hours. Vincent suddenly wished the village wasn’t such a long distance away, for Oliver obviously had too much time with nothing but his own thoughts. Thoughts which had taken a decidedly wicked turn if his lover’s plans involved something from that trunk.
And Vincent knew exactly what that trunk contained, as he had selected each item for their holiday in Rotherham from Oliver’s bottom dresser drawer.
Oliver stood, holding a pair of leather cuffs in each hand that answered the question pressing heavily on Vincent’s mind and spawned a good dozen more. Cuffs were typically used to restrain. To keep one immobile. The buckles and metal rings on the cuffs clanked as Oliver set the items on the dresser, and then he dropped back down before the trunk. Vincent shifted his weight. The floorboards creaked.
Oliver glanced over his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to undress?” He righted his wire-rimmed spectacles, pushing them higher on his nose. “Or have you changed your mind?”
“No, no. Well, yes, I’ll undress. No, I haven’t changed my mind.”
“You’ll enjoy it. I’m certain of it.”
While Vincent thoroughly enjoyed seeing those cuffs adorn Oliver’s wrists and ankles, he wasn’t so sure he’d enjoy them on his own. His prick, however, didn’t completely object. It pressed, semi-erect, against his trousers.
“And it will be good for you,” Oliver added, turning his attention back to that damn trunk. The dark waves of his untidy hair fell forward, obscuring his face, as he rummaged around for whatever the hell he was after.
“In what way will it be good for me?” Chain clinked. Vincent’s breaths stuttered.
“You don’t always need to be in control. At least not with me.” His lover got to his feet. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” The words fell from his lips without conscious thought.
Oliver set a familiar length of leather line on the dresser beside the cuffs, then turned back to Vincent and arched a brow.
“Yes?” Vincent asked, meeting Oliver’s expectant stare.
“Your clothes?”
He fought down the surge of frustration at himself and instead focused on untying the knot of his cravat. “Yes, of course.”
Oliver merely stood there as Vincent removed his clothes, the weight of his gaze a physical force branding every inch of Vincent’s skin as it was exposed. Vincent pushed down his drawers and pulled them from his feet, then he set his clothes on the chair with his coat.
He had stood bare before Oliver countless times, yet how was it possible to feel even more naked now?
“Do you plan to remain dressed?” Vincent asked.
Oliver smirked. “No. I’ll see to that in a moment. First…come here.”
Vincent forced his feet to take him the short distance to stand before his lover.
“Hold out your arm.”
The request jarred an old memory. Vincent hesitated before complying. Had it been really only a little more than two years ago when their positions had been reversed, and he had been placing the cuffs on Oliver’s wrists for the first time?
Was this how Oliver had felt? Nervous as all hell yet determined to see the evening through? Using the last available notch for the buckle, one that had never seen use before as Oliver’s wrists were smaller than his own, Oliver secured a cuff to Vincent’s wrist. The leather felt strange against his skin. Thick and foreign. Was Oliver planning a repeat of their first night together? The memory of leather cracking through the air echoed in his head.
He stiffened.
Oliver secured the second cuff. “Relax, Vincent. I’m not going to whip you.”
Letting out a huff of self-disgust, he rolled his eyes. I’m as transparent as damn glass.
After grabbing the other two cuffs from the dresser, Oliver dropped to his knees. The position was so familiar Vincent’s hand had started to reach out to palm the back of Oliver’s head before he recalled himself and pulled his arm back to his side.
“What do you plan to do?”
Oliver merely shook his bowed head and secured the cuffs to his ankles. Vincent would bet the Rotherham estate that the man had a smirk affixed to his lips.
“You are enjoying this immensely, aren’t you?” Vincent muttered.
“Indeed.” Oliver stood. Crossing his arms over his chest, he took a step back. The remnants of that smirk turned into stark appreciation.
It was rather difficult to feel ridiculous when his lover looked at him with such unabashed hunger. Oliver’s cock tented the placket of his trousers. A faint flush tinged his cheeks, his breaths quickening. Vincent’s own prick began to harden once again; an instinctive response to his lover’s arousal.
After what felt like a never-ending moment, Oliver reached for the leather line. “I won’t keep you in suspense on every detail. After I tie you to the bed”—his gaze dropped to Vincent’s groin—“I’m going to suck your cock.”
Vincent’s attention was drawn to Oliver’s mouth, to those soft, full lips that felt like heaven sliding up and down his prick.
“First though, the bed.” Oliver tipped his head in the direction of the four-poster bed.
Fully focused on getting that beautiful mouth on his prick, Vincent complied. He knew exactly where Oliver would want him on the bed, as he’d put Oliver in the position many times. He lay on his back, shifted slightly to the right, putting himself directly in the middle of the deep green coverlet, and then lifted his arms over his head so his knuckles grazed the spindles spanning the width of the headboard.
The mattress dipped as Oliver kneeled beside him. With the leather line in his hand, he reached toward the headboard. Through sheer force of will, Vincent resisted the urge to tip his head back and watch.
Fingertips brushed his wrist.
“Stop.” The words burst from Vincent’s throat.
A heavy furrow on his brow, Oliver rocked back onto his heels. Oliver opened his mouth, but before he could give voice to a single word, Vincent spoke.
“No. You don’t need to stop. I just wanted to…check.”
“You doubted I would stop if you asked?”
“No, of course not. I just…” Ah, hell. Now he felt ridiculous. He let out a breath. “I’m not very good at this,” he admitted.
Oliver smiled, indulgent and understanding. “It’s only your first time, Vincent. You should not expect perfection of yourself.” He leaned down and brushed his lips against Vincent’s. A fleeting ghost of a kiss that still somehow managed to calm Vincent’s racing pu
lse. “If you promise not to move, we can make do without the line.”
“No, I want you to tie me.” He could do this. Was determined to prove to Oliver that he could do it. He had asked it of Oliver enough times that it only seemed fitting he allowed his lover the same liberty.
Oliver was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “All right.” Rather than reach for the headboard again, he scooted off the mattress and bent down. When he returned to Vincent’s side, he held not the leather line but his wrinkled white cravat.
This time when fingers brushed his wrist he didn’t even flinch.
“Hold this,” Oliver whispered.
Vincent opened his hand, and then closed it around what had to be the end of the cravat. Tipping his head back, he looked to the headboard. Oliver had tied the cravat to one cuff, passed the length through a ring on the other, and secured him to one of the spindles with a simple loop knot, the end of which now rested in Vincent’s palm. His lover had put the means to untie himself in his own hand.
No doubt at all. Oliver could see right through him.
“Now that you’re tied to the bed, what comes next?” Oliver asked, trying but failing to keep the pleased smile from his lips.
Vincent narrowed his eyes. “Suck my cock, boy.”
A visible shudder went through his lover. That agile tongue darted out to sweep across his full bottom lip. “Well, I do believe you’re correct,” he said without even a hint of a tease.
After setting his spectacles on the bedside table, Oliver moved to kneel between Vincent’s spread legs. He wrapped a hand around Vincent’s length and lowered his head.
It took no time at all for Oliver to coax his cock to full attention. Soft lips slid up and down his length, fluid and effortless, as if Oliver had been born to suck his cock. The crown bumped the back of Oliver’s throat with each stroke as he worked his fist in counterpoint. The heavy, wet suction of his lover’s mouth had the hint of an orgasm teasing Vincent’s ballocks. Rather than pull back, Oliver pressed onward. Sucking harder. Stroking faster.
