Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  “If only the rumors of him being gay were true,” Gerard snickers, his gorgeous French accent on full display.

  He tugs on my ponytail, announcing his annoyance with a hint of the playfulness he has shown all day. Gerard would be at least in his mid-fifties, if not sixties. His black and white peppered hair is short at the sides but has a big loop on the top. It kind of reminds me of Johnny Depp’s hair in Cry Baby. His rich chocolate eyes are barely seen over the thick-rimmed glasses he wears halfway down his straight, prominent nose. He is handsome and an absolute hoot. I’ve laughed more the past three hours than I have the past three years of my life.

  When Gerard first sauntered up the front entrance of Marcus's residence in a fitted black suit and an aura of authority, my initial guess was that he was Marcus's manager, Cormack. It was only when he circled me like a shark stalking its prey as his eyes absorbed my air-dried hair and makeup-free face did I realize who he was.

  "Fabulous," was all he said before he looped his arm around mine and dragged me into the master bathroom where I have stayed for the past three hours being groomed, pampered and tortured.

  Although Gerard hasn’t said he is in the BDSM lifestyle, the wicked grin on his face when he waxed my legs has my suspicion piqued. That and the fact he called me Marcus’s sub at the beginning of our exchange. Although I stuttered like a fifth grader, I handled his incorrect reference with more maturity than Lexi handled Anna’s minor slip up.

  My focus strays back to the present when Marcus inconspicuously slips a small purple device into his pocket. My insides clench as I recall in crystal clear detail how that tiny butt plug and Marcus’s hand awarded me one of the most dramatic orgasms I’ve ever experienced.

  I noticed the plug sitting next to the sink Marcus washed it in the instant Gerard and I entered the bathroom, but I was too mortified with embarrassment to do anything but stare. Thankfully, the truckload of makeup Gerard arrived with soon concealed the plug, which, in turn, snapped me out of my frozen haze.

  I’m going to be brutally honest. I thought my session in the playroom last night would have ended the way it began—with a foreign object probing my backside. It didn’t. Don’t get me wrong; it concluded in the most brilliant way you could imagine, but I just assumed it would follow the path it started on.

  It was only when washing the sticky almond oil off my skin did Marcus advise that we have to build up to anal sex. It isn’t something you just dive straight into. Supposedly, that purple plug is one of many he has in his chest of goodies. They range in sizes and colors, going from the width of my pinkie finger to the size of Marcus’s cock.

  After ensuring I enjoyed my first taste of anal play, Marcus explained we would work up to the bigger, more exciting toys before he fully "claims" me as his own. Yes, that's the exact word he used. When he said that, excitement and fear quivered through me at the same time. It’s not that I fear Marcus hurting me—I know that will never happen, and I can't wait to be claimed by him—but once I merge out of the haze of lust, part of me panics about how wickedly evil I am being. Like is it normal to be excited at the prospect of having anal sex with your boyfriend? If you had asked me that same question three short months ago, I would have said no. Now. . .I’d probably lecture you on how it's your body, and only you can decide what to do with it.

  Gerard pinches my chin, drawing my attention back to him. “No gaga faces, the drool will ruin your lipstick.”

  He runs his eyes down the length of Marcus’s body, his avid gaze way below what could be classed as acceptable. “Me, on the other hand, I can ogle all I like; I’m not wearing any lipstick.”

  My soft giggle secures Marcus's utmost devotion. Although he continues to have a quiet word with Anna, I can feel his eyes on me the entire time. I sit quietly staring at my reflection in the mirror as Gerard runs a wide comb through my hair, removing every kink of my curls. It feels foreign having my hair pulled back so tightly. My makeup is done in a similar palette I usually use, but my hairstyle completely alters my look. It's like an imposter is staring back at me. Thanks to my Latin heritage, I've always had voluptuous curls, so they are second nature to me. Taking away my curls is like switching Marcus's gorgeous chocolate skin to white—too odd to comprehend.

  After he has finished his conversation with Anna, Marcus paces over to stand next to me. A sultry grin curls my lips high when he leans down and presses a peck to my hairline. The scent of his ravishing skin lingers into my nostrils as he lifts his eyes to Gerard.

  “Leave Cleo’s hair down,” he instructs him, his tone ensuring there is no mistaking his request was not a suggestion.

  Gerard scoffs. “You want to hide that face with a mop of curls?” he asks, incredulous. “That's ludicrous, Marcus. Oh. . .I thought I had taught you well.” He drags his eyes down Marcus’s body, his peeved expression growing for every second ticking by. “Clearly, I did not.”

  Ignoring Gerard’s snippy comment, Marcus returns his eyes to me. “I don’t want to hide Cleo’s face. I want the first thing that captured my attention to frame the face that ultimately stole it.”

  Gerard stares at Marcus, blinking and confused. I'm not confused; I know what Marcus meant by his saying. My untamed hair was the first thing he saw when I fell into the elevator four years ago. It was also what I used to shelter my tear-stained face when he comforted me. That day was my worst day, but Marcus sees it as his best. It was the day we officially met. It was also the day he decided to become a Dom. To some, that may not seem like a big deal, but to a man who lives his life in the spotlight, it was a mammoth decision. One I supposedly helped him make.

  "Fine!" Gerard huffs when Marcus's unforgiving glare becomes too much for him to bear.

  He continues muttering in French as he picks out the hundred or so pins he used to contain my hair. The instant he tugs the elastic out of my hair, I shake my head, loosening the firm hold his brush made to my wavy locks. After raking my fingers through my hair, and twisting some strands around my finger, I lift my eyes to the mirror. There’s the Cleo I remember. Uncontained. Natural. A brat.

  Marcus must be in full agreement. Clasping his hand around mine, he plucks me from the beauty chair and makes a beeline for the door.

  “Attendez! Nous sommes pas fini!” Gerard shouts in French, his voice as high as my excitement.

  Marcus ignores him and continues hightailing it out of the room. His movements are so swift, air ruffles the satin dressing gown slipped around my naked body. The buds of my nipples harden more when Marcus notices the curve of my breast his hasty pace exposed. His gaze is so hot, a bead of sweat forms in the gulley of my breasts.

  Marcus works his jaw side to side before lengthening his strides. “The quicker we go, the quicker we can return,” he mutters to himself.

  We continue moving through his property until we enter the guest bedroom positioned across from his old sub room. Anna’s head lifts to the door when its creak gives away our arrival. She smiles as her eyes absorb my face and body.

  “You look beautiful, Cleo.”

  “Thank you,” I reply shyly, unaccustomed to getting compliments.

  My breath catches in my throat when I spot a striking green dress hanging on a full-length mirror across the room. The daring V neckline that cinches into a rhinestone buckle in the middle adds the touch of sexiness I was aiming for, while the free-flowing skirt that leads into a modest train will hide the parts of my body I am less comfortable with—mainly my curvy hips and ass. It's a classically elegant dress you'd expect to see on A-list celebrities walking the red carpet. It's truly stunning.

  “Are you ready to try it on?” Anna asks when she recognizes the excitement blazing my face.

  I turn my eyes to Marcus, seeking his permission. When he nods, I follow Anna into a small dressing nook set up in the corner of the room. I’m so excited, my knees clang together with every step I take.

  A tiny satin G-string the same shade as my dress sits on a small wooden chair in the corner of th
e nook. Wanting to maintain a small snippet of my modesty, I slip the panties up my quivering thighs before removing my dressing gown. Anna aids me into the dress before working on the tiny buttons running down my spine. I’ve always wondered what it feels like for a princess to get ready for the ball; I just always assumed I’d be in Anna’s position when it happened.

  After waiting for Anna to finish latching the back of my dress, I spin around to face her. The modest-sized train swishes on the floor as I pivot the best I can without treading on the gorgeous satin material.

  The humble twinkle in Anna's eyes detonates into a blinding spark of admiration when I ask, "Does it look okay?" It feels like it fits perfectly, but with no mirror in the dressing nook, I can't be sure.

  "Oh, Cleo, it suits you perfectly. You look beautiful." She clasps my hands in hers; the shudder of her arms rattles all the way up mine. "No matter what anyone says tonight, don't ever forget that."

  My brows stitch as confusion engulfs me. Before I can ask what she means by her statement, Anna gathers the train of my dress in her arms and nudges me into the main part of the room. All thoughts vanish from my mind when my eyes lock in on Marcus standing across from me. He has put on his tuxedo jacket and secured his bowtie around his neck. Even if I hadn't seen his tailor measure him earlier this week, I'd still know his tuxedo was handcrafted specifically for him. It showcases every magnificent detail of his body in panty-wetting detail. My god, he is. . . I can't think of just one word. Perfect. Gorgeous. Beautiful. Mine.

  Marcus’s eyes reveal a similar set of words passing through his mind as he absorbs my body with passionate devotion. They also disclose his every want, need and desire. Mercifully, I appear to be his drug of choice.

  Marcus locks his eyes with Anna standing behind my shoulder. With a dip of his chin, he excuses her from the room. I mouth a silent thank you to Anna as she gathers her belongings from a dresser on my left before exiting the room.

  After breathing out my tension, I drift my eyes back to Marcus. Remaining quiet, his eyes scan my face, memorizing every tiny pore. The palpable sexual friction between us builds with every silent second that ticks by.

  Once he has studied every minute detail of my face, he locks his eyes with mine. “Come here.”

  My first step toward him is shaky, hampered by the throb hammering my yearning sex. The heat spreading through my veins like molten lava intensifies when Marcus pushes off his feet, meeting me stride for stride. The reckless hunger bristling between us is so dense, it glistens my body with a misting of sweat and sends my pulse racing.

  The moisture pooling between my legs grows as Marcus places his hand on the curve of my back and guides me to the full-length mirror my dress was hanging on. Tears prick my eyes when I see my reflection for the first time. This may be conceited of me to say, but I truly look beautiful. I feel beautiful too.

  After gathering my hair to one side, Marcus carefully removes my chain link necklace he gave me on my birthday. He places it onto a sleek glass table on his right before gathering an item out of a black velvet pouch. My lungs work hard to achieve adequate oxygen when he slips a beautiful diamond choker around my neck. The choker is made up of small brilliant cut diamonds that are four strands wide. A large circular pendant sits in the little groove of my neck, and four strings of diamonds erotically drape down the gulley of my breasts. The daring neckline of my dress showcases the stunning piece in the most brilliant light adding even more glamor to my risqué garment.

  My breath snags when I notice a hidden chain link in the choker’s pendant. It matches the one nestled in the O-ring of my dress. I can barely catch my breath when the cuff of Marcus’s tuxedo jacket rises high enough to expose two chain links engraved on the silver cufflinks of his shirt.

  I drag my teeth over my bottom lip when Marcus runs his hands down the trail of diamonds nestled between my breasts. Two of the strands are the perfect height, stopping right above the swell of my breasts, but the other two are too long, extending halfway down my stomach.

  “Is that the design?” I ask, my voice relaying my sheer pleasure at our matching accessories.

  Marcus smiles a grin that sets my pulse racing. “No. Let me fix it for you.” He moves to stand in front of me.

  Goosebumps form on the nape of my neck when he brushes my hair off my shoulders. His touch is only brief but intense enough to instigate a reckless yearning. I level my breathing to ward off my excitement, but it's a pointless endeavor when Marcus's hand slips beneath my gown. My nipples bud painfully when the heat of his hand cups my naked breast.

  Smirking at my body's alert response to his touch, Marcus’s other hand secures one of the strands of diamonds draped in front of my quivering stomach. My pupil widens when he lifts it high enough I can see the tiny clamp-like contraption attached to the end. The air in my lungs is brutally evicted when he secures the clamp to my throbbing-with-need nipple. Just like the clothespins weeks ago, a weird pulling sensation draws through my breasts, sparking a wild recklessness to engulf me.

  Once he has the clamp on my left nipple adequately concealed by my dress, he devotes his attention to my right breast. He toys with my nipple until it's puckered as hard as its clamped counterpart. Happy it's budded firm enough to attach the clamp, he snags the second row of diamonds draped down my stomach and fastens it to my engorged nipple.

  With both nipples erotically clamped, the wetness pooling between my legs becomes unmissable. I'm practically panting, my excitement too great to control.

  Stepping two paces back, Marcus locks his eyes with mine and commands, “Walk.”

  Curious, I take a cautious step forward. "Oh. . .Jesus," I mumble when my wobbled stride causes the clamps to tug my nipples. It isn't a painful sensation, more an imitation of Marcus's teeth grazing over them.

  Smiling at my flustered expression, Marcus takes another step backward before nudging his head for me to follow. Fighting the desire to squeeze my legs together from the dominance brewing in his eyes, I take a step forward, closely followed by another, and then another.

  We continue our routine until we cross the expansive floor of his guest suite. I swear, I’m gasping so hard, anyone would think I just ran a marathon.

  Stopping next to a studded suede chaise, Marcus sits down. A grin curls onto my lips when he flips off the lid of a shoe box at his side to expose a pair of gravity-defying black stiletto heels.

  “Come.”

  He holds out the shoe for me like Prince Charming does for Cinderella. My cheeks protest about the sudden incline of my smile as I finalize the last few steps between us. Gathering my dress with one hand, I use my other to grip Marcus’s shoulder for balance. Ignoring the way his muscles bunch from my meekest touch, I slip my foot into the tiny opening of my shoe.

  Goosebumps follow the trail his hand makes when he runs it down my freshly-waxed leg to secure the latch at the side. After attacking the latch like a man intimate with women’s shoes, he switches his attention to my other foot. A rush of excitement sparks in my core when he lingers a little longer on my left leg than my right. It starts so high, the back of his fingers brush the area begging for his utmost devotion. It's as smooth and as shimmering as my glossy legs.

  “Did you wax your pussy, Cleo?” Marcus asks. His words are so deep, I feel the heat of his breath through the layer of silk and lace covering my yearning core.

  I squeeze my legs together when his dark, commanding eyes lift to my face. His heavy-hooded gaze bores into mine, demanding an answer to his question. While grazing my teeth over my bottom lip, I shake my head. I’d like to articulate a more confident response, but his heated gaze has turned my brain to mush, and I can barely stand, much less speak.

  “Good girl,” he praises, gratefulness in his tone. “I don’t know if I could have waited twenty-four-hours to tear you out of this dress.”

  His response awards me with a boost in confidence. . . and a dash of vulnerability. I’m not hesitant about him wanting to shred my dress of
f me. It's purely based on his extensive knowledge on the wait time after waxing. This is one of many sandbox moments I’ve had in our short relationship, because I’d rather stick my head in the sand than discover how he knows the stipulated wait time after waxing a sensitive area of a woman’s body.

  After attaching the clasp of my left shoe, Marcus stands from the chaise. With the height of my heel, we meet eye to eye. All apprehension plaguing my stomach with horrid unease calms when he runs the back of his fingers down my flushed cheek. His attentive touch continues when his hand slides down my collarbone before skimming past my clamped nipple.

  “You look ravishing, Cleo,” he compliments, his voice as hot as molten lava. “Ravishing enough to eat.” He pauses as his eyes flick between the door and me. “If only we didn’t have people waiting for us downstairs.”

  I angle my head to the side as I arch my brow. “People are waiting for us?”

  “Yes. The band,” he replies like it's common knowledge. It isn’t. This is the first I am hearing of it.

  “We always arrive at the gala together as a way of showing our support to Slater,” Marcus explains to my baffled expression.

  Warmth blooms across my chest. On paper, Marcus and Slater couldn't be any more opposites if they tried, but when you see them together, you realize they have an incredible bond. I just wish Marcus could see how much his bandmates love and respect him. Then he wouldn't need to continue leading a double life. He could be who he truly is—him!

  22

  Every step I take down the elaborate platform stairs of Marcus’s entranceway adds another bead of sweat to my nape. It isn’t capturing the devotion of one of the most prolific bands known to mankind that has me uncomfortably perspiring; it's the clamps on my nipples tugging with every shaky step I take. Marcus remains quiet, but I know he has perceived my body’s response to the blissful tugs, because the corners of his lips curl higher with every harmonized step we take.