Bound to Submit (Miami Masters Book 4)

by BJ Wane

  Bound to Submit

  Miami Masters Book Four

  BJ Wane

  Blushing Books

  Contents

  What’s Inside

  FREE Books for Amazon Customers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  BJ Wane

  EBook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  Blushing Books

  ©2018 by Blushing Books® and BJ Wane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Blushing Books®,

  a subsidiary of

  ABCD Graphics and Design

  977 Seminole Trail #233

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  is registered in the US Patent and Trademark Office.

  BJ Wane

  Bound to Submit

  EBook ISBN: 978-1-61258-728-8

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61258-678-6

  Cover Art by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  What’s Inside

  Hope had been comfortable tucked away against the wall and obscured by the dim lighting but moving up close to the different stations reminded her how excited she’d been when she and her friends toured the club in Atlanta. It had been the first time in her adult life when sex had appealed to her, and when that Dom had given her a taste of what she’d been witnessing, and she’d responded to the pain and exposure more than she ever had to intercourse with her fiancé, she’d discovered she wasn’t the cold fish Craig often complained she was. Maybe if he had screwed her in something other than the missionary position and added a little foreplay into the mix, she would have fared better.

  Just as before, Hope’s blood heated when Miles halted in front of a spanking bench and they were facing the red buttocks of the woman strapped face down on the apparatus. Her response was so quick, so fiery hot, she squeezed her thighs together to contain the rush of juices gathering at her entrance and leaned against Miles’ arm without conscious thought until he spoke above her.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.” His low, demanding tone brought out goosebumps along her arms and urged her to answer.

  Embarrassed, she shook her head and tried to shift away from him but should’ve known better. She knew enough about Doms to know they expected an honest answer to posed questions.

  “Hope.” Miles tightened his hand on her elbow and gave her arm a small shake.

  Hope didn’t look up at him when she said, “I’m wondering why the pain doesn’t turn her off.” Or me either.

  “It’s easier if you accept some people get off on it, and some don’t, without trying to explain it or find a good reason for it. If it works for you, go with it, if it doesn’t, try something else.”

  “You make it sound easy.” Doubt colored her tone.

  He raised her face with two fingers under her chin. “It can be, with the right person.” Dipping his thumb inside her lower lip, he pulled it down, his black gaze focused on her face as he skimmed over the soft, wet tissues.

  Hope imagined him doing the same thing to the sensitive nerve endings lining her pussy and a curl of want unfurled between her legs. She swallowed hard before taking a step back. Miles released her lip and took hold of her elbow again, steering her down the row until they came to a woman gyrating on a dildo attached in the center of a mechanical vault. The brunette’s soft mewls and tight grip on the pommel revealed her distress as the Dom standing at her side flicked a short leather strap on one, bright crimson nipple; the glistening dampness left on the condom-covered phallus each time she rose up proving she enjoyed his painful ministrations.

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  Chapter 1

  Leaning against the brick side of the building across the alley from the homeless shelter, Hope’s Crossing, at midnight had become a habit of late for Miles Cavenaugh. A consuming habit that should bother him but didn’t. The last person he had been so fixated on keeping safe was his mother, and given how he’d failed her, was it any wonder he had appointed himself Hope Wallace’s personal protector? He’d experienced lust at first sight before; what thirty-eight-year-old man hadn’t caught a first glimpse of a woman and felt his cock stir in immediate response? But the obsession that gripped him the moment he’d set eyes on Hope’s bruised face and saw the determined glint in her vivid blue eyes to protect one of the shelter’s guests she’d befriended, had been a new emotion for him, one that had stripped his control. That bothered him. He couldn’t afford to lose the hard-earned self-discipline he’d spent years striving to master. Every time he’d seen her since, he’d felt the need to dominate, to wrest his control back. She had all but ignored him, which only whetted his appetite to get to know her and, more importantly, to ensure no harm came to her. The first was a new experience for him, the second came naturally now.

  The light shining from the top floor window of the two-story, renovated old department store finally went out and Miles pictured Hope tucked safe and sound in her bed. He’d made it his personal responsibility to see she stayed that way, and that meant from him also, and his needs that were better suited to be met by women who were submissive to strict, dominant, sexual control. He’d only been inside the shelter one time, but his gym and loft apartment were in a similar structure two blocks away. While he couldn’t say for certain Hope resided on the upper floor, the same as he did in his
building, he felt it was a good assumption given the layout of the shelter depicted in pictures along the wall in the entry reception area.

  Pushing away from the wall, Miles strode toward the alley entrance. This area of downtown Miami didn’t draw too much trouble at this time of night, but his experience in running with a gang when he’d been an angry teenager had taught him those intent on criminal activity enjoyed spreading their dirty deeds around. The taxing summer camp for juvenile delinquents he’d spent three months of his fifteenth year residing at may have given him a start on the attitude adjustment he needed at the time, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten the life lessons he’d learned both before and after that summer.

  As he neared the seedier part of downtown and peered down another alley, he huffed out an exasperated sigh. It looked as if he would be putting those life lessons to work again tonight. The adolescent handing over cash to the rough-looking older kid couldn’t be more than twelve, if that. The two stood with their backs to him as he moved with quiet stealth down the alley. The dealer caught sight of Miles first, and before he could get hold of the punk, he took off without looking back.

  “Hey! Let go, man! He’s got my money!”

  Holding the kid up by his collar, Miles added a slight shake to his skinny frame with his admonishment. “Pipe down or I’ll call the cops.” That threat seemed to do the trick as the kid stopped thrashing and the whites of his wide eyes showed he feared the police more than him.

  “Don’t do that. Let go. I won’t do nothin’, promise.” The Hispanic juvenile sent him a pleading look, one that tightened Miles’ gut. The fear on his face wasn’t of him, or from his interference, and the bruises lining his skinny arms weren’t caused by the dealer. He’d bet his last dime on it.

  “Who are you picking up drugs for? And don’t give me anything but the truth.” Miles set him on his feet but didn’t relinquish his hold.

  “How’d you… I ain’t sayin’ nothin’.” The mutinous set to his mouth would’ve been more effective if the kid’s lips weren’t trembling.

  “Okay. Let’s try this. Who gave you these?” He ran a light finger over the arm he held up, the dim glow from the street corner light turning the bruises a sickly shade of yellow. “Your dad, uncle? Maybe one of your mother’s johns?” The kid’s initial panic over losing both his money and the drugs it was supposed to buy had taken a back seat to self-preservation. Since he remained stubbornly mute, he’d left Miles with no choice.

  Reaching into his back pocket with his free hand, he’d already hit Detective Jake Sanders’ private number by the time he brought the phone around and the youngster saw he was out of options. “Sorry, kid. I’m too tired tonight to mess with you.” Ignoring his pleas and watery eyes, Miles spoke with his friend who worked with juveniles and got an ETA of ten minutes. Clicking his phone off, he returned it to his pocket and hustled the pre-teen out to the street. “Want to tell me your name?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Fuck, no.”

  “Tsk, tsk, such language. What would your momma say?” Sadness replaced belligerence on the kid’s face, a look Miles could commiserate with. He hadn’t been much older when he’d lost his mother. As Jake pulled up to the curb, Miles reached into another pocket and handed the kid his card. “Detective Sanders is a good guy. He can help you, if you let him. That’s my number. If you want a better life than where you’re headed, you call me, or tell Detective Sanders you want to talk to me. Don’t blow this chance. It may be your one and only.”

  Jake sent Miles a rueful look as he opened the passenger door and pointed for the kid to get in. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  Miles shrugged. “I was headed that way when I came across him and a dealer who got away. Take care of him.”

  Jake nodded. “I always try, you know that.”

  Miles watched him drive off. Yeah, he knew his friend tried to get these kids away from their neglectful homes and into decent foster care, just as he knew more times than not, the caregivers were granted second and third chances. He made it back to his gym later than usual but wasn’t surprised when he let himself in the side door and found Ed still up and waiting for him. Some things never changed.

  “Out stalking your girl again or trying to steer some kid back onto the straight and narrow?” the older man asked in a gruff tone.

  “She’s not my girl and I’m not stalking her.” Was he? Hell, if he knew of anyone else spending time late at night loitering outside a woman’s home or place of business, he’d label them a stalker. “Why are you still up?” Miles flipped off the hall light and followed his mentor through the darkened gym as Ed shuffled toward his rooms at the back of the building. Even ten years after Miles had bought Ed out of the martial arts facility to pad his retirement, the old man still insisted on using just the small, renovated two rooms for his living quarters.

  Ed snorted as he opened the door into the combined living room and kitchenette. “What would you call it, boy? Still don’t know why you don’t just ask the girl out.” He looked up at Miles out of tired eyes that held a gleam of fondness Miles hoped would never dim.

  “I don’t date. You know that, and you know why. Go to bed and sleep in for a change. You’re retired, remember?”

  “Then fuck her and be done with it. This obsession of yours ain’t healthy, and you know it.” Ed’s rough comment bore a note of concern.

  Miles knew how bad he had it for Hope when just the mention of fucking her could stir his cock. From the sardonic tilt to Ed’s mouth, he hadn’t hidden his quick, automatic response to the carnal image Ed’s simple statement thrust into Miles’ head. “Good-night.” Pivoting on his heel, he stalked over to the elevator, not needing a light to slam his hand against the button. He wasn’t irritated with Ed so much as himself, because, damn it, the old man was right.

  The elevator opened into his main living area and the glow of the moon shining outside the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows offered the only light he needed to find his way across the concrete floor to the small corner bar. Pouring one shot of whiskey, he capped the bottle and downed the taste in one fiery swallow. He rarely drank, preferring a sweaty workout in the gym to exorcise his demons rather than numbing his senses to them. But on the nights he knew Hope’s bright blue eyes and lush figure would keep him awake, a shot came in handy.

  Ed was right, he admitted as he strode down the hall to his bedroom, stripping off his tee shirt on the way. He could be labeled a stalker if he wasn’t careful. The shelter Hope ran may cater to homeless women and children, but he knew she took in desperate men also. Some of the women, he suspected, were on the run or hiding from abusive relationships. Hadn’t he and his mother spent more than one night in a similar shelter when she’d tried running from his father? Dave Cavenaugh had never failed to find them, and eventually she’d quit trying.

  Shoving those memories aside, Miles shucked his jeans and sprawled face down on top of his bed, turning his head to the wall of windows he’d paid a fortune to add to this room. The color of the full moon made him think of Hope’s white blonde hair framing her attractive face. He shut his eyes against the image, but haunted blue eyes that held painful secrets he itched to learn still conjured up sweaty, erotic dreams that woke him the next morning with a tight grip around his raging erection.

  Cursing his weakness, Miles flung his arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the glare of early morning sun dousing him with additional heat. He squeezed his rigid flesh, hoping the discomfort would work to lessen the pulsing need brought on by the fantasy of binding Hope for his pleasure. Of course it didn’t, just the opposite, in fact. The surge of pleasure ricocheting up from his sac only increased the hot flow of blood to his groin. As he maneuvered his hand up and down his shaft, he could feel the thick veins pumping in steady throbs against his palm. He cupped the smooth mushroom cap and circled his hand over the damp seepage oozing from his slit to aid in easing his return journey downward.

  Miles’ perspiration
slick skin grew clammy as he sped up his strokes. He locked his jaw, drawing his arm off his eyes and down between his legs so he could cup his sac in his other palm. A head to toe shudder ran through him as he rolled his balls and tightened his fist. Needing to end his own self-imposed torment, he jackhammered his hand on his cock in rapid, tight-fisted strokes until he let go with a loud groan of pleasure and shook with his release. As the sweeping pleasure of his climax abated, he slowed his hand and loosened his grip to lightly fondle his now semi-erection. Shit. Even with his cum spewed on his stomach, his breathing still labored and his senses still working to come down off the high, his damned appendage wasn’t completely appeased.

  Thirty-eight years old, and still ruled by my dick. Rolling off the bed, Miles stomped into the attached bath and flipped on all three shower heads in the black-marbled shower. Growing up, he’d spent a lot of time in dark rooms, hungry and cold. When he’d converted the third floor into his private space, he made sure every room allowed for the sun to shine in, all three bathrooms were capable of producing never-ending hot water and he’d installed a restaurant-size refrigerator and huge walk-in pantry to store food enough for ten at any given time. His friend Sean would say he was ruled by his past, and he’d be right. Some things, he’d discovered as he reached adulthood, were impossible to escape or fight his way out of. The shrink had a way of seeing each of the gang of seven’s struggles when their troubled childhoods came back to haunt them.