Bound by Her Passion

by Mara Leigh

  “Do you?” I straddle his body and slide against him. “Do you really?”

  He puts his hands on my waist and lifts me, like he plans to toss me to the mattress, but before he can, I kiss him. Instantly, his hold on me changes, pulling our chests together and deepening the kiss.

  Swept up in the taste of him, at the pleasure of his thick tongue probing my mouth, I grow even wetter at the memory of the other things Rock did to me with his tongue. That night was amazing. Mind blowing, in fact. I want that again. I want to feel his tongue stroking and plunging inside me, but it won’t be enough—I want so much more from Rock.

  I want him to join our bodies together. I want to feel part of him. Him part of me. I want, I need to feel him penetrating my body, and no matter Rock’s size, I long to feel him buried deep and moving inside me. Both of us deriving pleasure from the act of love.

  I move my kisses to the morning stubble on his chin and neck as my hands stroke his torso, skimming over his nipples. He’s holding me against his chest, but up off his lap, and while the heat of his torso, the ridges of his abs, are delicious against my splayed legs and what lies between, I long to drop lower.

  His breathing rate quickens and a moan rumbles under me, driving me on, making my body undulate against him. I want Rock. I need him. I’ve never wanted anything so badly.

  I wiggle looser in his hold and slide down his body, longing to make contact with his cock—with any part of my body. I want to make him want me as much as I want him. I’ll prove to him that we’re compatible. If he makes me feel this way, how could we not be?

  My inner thigh finds the waistband of his pajama pants and I reach down to stroke my fingers low on his stomach. As I glide along the edge of the fabric, hair tickles my fingers and another moan rumbles from his lips into mine. Emboldened I let my fingers slip under the waistband.

  Before moving toward my target, I discover a strap that feels like leather. Is he wearing a jock strap? A leather thong? To bed?

  I slide my fingers lower to investigate.

  “No.” His body tenses. “Acushla, I told you. We can’t.”

  “I don’t like the word can’t.” I rub my body against his.

  “But do you understand the word no?”

  No I do understand.

  I slip off him onto the mattress, leaving one leg draped over his thighs. His hardness bulges under his pajamas, pulsing, the massive shape almost like a melon, or a football, and for the first time I wonder if he’s right about our incompatibility. But even if those parts of us won’t fit together in the conventional way, I want to make him feel good. Just like he made me feel good—so, so good.

  I graze my fingers over his bulge.

  “No.” He grabs my wrist. “Too much.” His voice is strained, like he’s in pain.

  “What are you wearing?” I accidentally graze the huge package again.

  He groans, but it’s more in pain than pleasure. “Nothing.” Veins pop on his face and he grimaces.

  “Rock. Tell me, please. What is it?”

  “Something to protect you.”

  “Protect me?”

  He’s breathing very heavily now, his tight stomach rolling with each quick breath, and sweat rises on his chest and face.

  I kneel next to him on the bed. “Rock. What is it? Show me.”

  He shakes his head.

  “Please.”

  He turns away from me. “Don’t look at me.”

  I grab his shoulder and tug back. “I won’t touch you. Not if you don’t want me to. I promise. But whatever you’re wearing, it’s hurting you. Show me, or take it off. Better yet, both.”

  Still facing away from me, he shakes his head. He tries to move his legs off the bed, but winces in obvious intense pain and stops.

  “Rock.” I clear my throat to swallow my sadness and concern. I need to sound firm. “Show me what you’re wearing. Take it off, right now, or I’ll never share your bed again.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “I’ll ask Gray to kick you out of his home.”

  He turns back to face me.

  As we make eye contact, I fight to show him I mean my threats. But we both know I could never go through with them. Still, in this moment I’m serious, and try to convey that with my eyes. I can’t let him hurt himself. Especially not for my so-called protection.

  He winces as he loosens the tie at the waist of his pajama bottoms. I reach forward to help him, but he shakes his head.

  In one violent movement, he lifts his hips and slides the pants down to his knees.

  I gasp. His penis and balls are strapped down by some sort of leather binding. Dark red flesh presses out between the straps of the cage-like contraption, and the organ itself is bent at what must be a painful angle. It’s pretty much doubled over. No wonder the bulge looked like a melon.

  “Rock…” I can barely make my voice work. “What? Why?”

  His eyes fill with shame and he looks away.

  “Take it off. Please.” My voice breaks as I choke out the words. “It’s hurting you. I can’t stand to see you in pain.” If I still had tears, they’d be streaming down my cheeks.

  “Get away from me,” he says.

  “Rock…”

  “Please. If you won’t leave the room, move away from me. You’re making it worse. If you care about me at all, you will do this for me.”

  “Care about you? Rock. I love you.”

  He turns to face me. Joy flashes for a brief second, striking away the pain, but the moment passes and the look on his face rips through me—agony and…and shame. Rock’s pain is so much more than physical.

  I shift back, backing away from him until I’m off the bed.

  He undoes a buckle over his left hip. The instant the buckle’s released, the contraption shifts like a coil’s been released. His penis lifts away from his body, but it’s still tightly wrapped and distorted at a bent angle. At least, I assume it’s distorted.

  When he said we weren’t compatible, I figured he meant his size. Could it be more than that?

  But right now, none of that matters. All that matters is that Rock is clearly in pain. Pain he inflicted on himself—because of me.

  Hissing, he unties a knot securing a leather lace at the base of his cock, but before he gets the knot fully open, he tugs at the thin leather strap. It tightens, instead of loosening, and he roars, his back arching off the bed, his face turning red.

  I lunge toward him, wanting to comfort him, to help, but I stop myself before I get there. I don’t want to make it worse, or take the risk he’ll change his mind about taking that thing off.

  He adjusts the knot at the base, then slowly starts to loosen the tie that’s laced along his cock and holding together the rings of leather that constrain him.

  “Let me help.”

  He shakes his head, closing his eyes as he continues to loosen the laces. The rings of leather wrapped around him remain tight and flesh pushes over their sides.

  Finally, the bend in his appendage starts to unfurl. He tugs at the edges of the lacing and I realize that the leather ties loop from the top back down to the base. Not only is his cock tightly bound, the head was purposefully bent back toward his balls, while the strap around his waist held the entire business hard against his body.

  I try to imagine how this looked when he did it, presumably while his penis was flaccid. Because he’s aroused, the leather cage doesn’t come close to fitting and the pain must be blinding.

  He continues to loosen the lacing, working his way back down the other side, and it’s so elaborate, so cruel. Who does something like this—to himself?

  I want to know why he did this. What kind of pain he feels inside that would drive him to inflict so much self-damage.

  He stops for a moment, panting, moaning.

  “Are you okay?” I ask softly.

  Without looking at me, he nods, then slowly he starts to nudge the rings of leather up. As he forces the first one over the head of his penis, h
e cries out, his entire body contracting then relaxing.

  One by one, he works the rings up to the tip and off the end.

  The process gets easier because the rings lower on his member are larger in diameter, but only slightly, and I can’t stop staring at the engorged red flesh as it’s released, as the blood flow fully returns, as his veins rise and pulse. His balls, too, are encased in leather sacks—at least, I assume that’s not his actual skin.

  His erect member must be three and a half or four inches in diameter and it’s more than a foot long. There’s no wonder I first thought it was part of his thigh.

  When the last ring slides off the head, he slumps back, but his erection stands straight, the weight and size of it defying the laws of logic and gravity. His body’s slack now, unmoving against the mattress except for his breathing, and his chest and belly rise as he fights to slow his hearts’ rates down.

  I watch, mesmerized, my mouth dry. All I did was observe, but I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I’m both spent and out of breath. And in spite of observing this horrific scene, still turned on.

  He reaches down to his package and my insides contract, thinking he’s going to stroke himself, something I’d love to witness. But instead he undoes a lace at the base and, as I suspected, the sacks covering his balls slide off. That part of him is large too, like two encased peaches.

  I take a small step forward. “Rock.”

  He half sits and holds up his palm toward me. “Don’t come any closer.”

  “Please, Rock. Let me help you.” I might not be able to get that inside me, but I can stroke it, lick it, suck on the head if I can open my mouth that wide. The heat and wetness inside intensify. I can barely keep still.

  He shakes his head. “Stay there. I need to get ready for work. I can’t go in like this.” He grunts.

  “Then you definitely need my help.” I smile, hoping to lighten the mood, but instead his mood seems to sink under a hundred-ton weight.

  “I’ll take care of it in the shower.” He swings off the bed to stand. His erection bounces and, as he takes it in his hand, he hangs his head as if ashamed.

  “Let me watch you,” I say, my voice unusually husky.

  He crosses to the en suite in two long strides, but he leaves the door open. Is that an invitation?

  I hear the sound of the shower and slowly approach the bathroom door and step through.

  Leaning against the back wall of the stall, away from the controls, he holds his massive cock in one hand as the other rests against the tiles. The water sprays on his back, and his chest heaves as he draws long hard breaths, as if fighting to gain control over his body.

  I sit on the edge of the large, freestanding bathtub. I should make sure he knows that I’m in here. It’s an invasion of privacy. But my desire to alert him is overwritten by my fear that he’ll make me leave.

  Even his large hand can barely encircle his member as he strokes, gently, against what must be unbelievably sensitive skin after that constriction.

  His head turns. He sees me. His hand stops as his eyes open wider. But instead of stopping, he turns away again and continues to rub himself—hard.

  His grip tightens and the speed of his strokes increases, his head resting on his forearm against the glass wall of the shower as he uses the other hand to vigorously pleasure himself, pulling and tugging so hard I fear that he’s causing more pain than pleasure.

  Still, even with the hint of punishment in the action, watching Rock jerk off is the hottest thing I have ever seen, and I squirm on the edge of the tub, my insides throbbing with heat and desire.

  I come. A massive orgasm, without so much as touching myself, and my insides contract as I squeeze my legs together and watch him.

  Rock shouts, more like roars, and his arm slams against the shower wall so hard I fear he’ll break it, and then his come paints the glass, spurting out of him over and over as his hips convulse.

  I come again. My body has never felt so responsive, so orgasmic.

  He drops his spent cock and slumps against the back wall of the shower, recovering and letting the jets of water clean the sweat and semen off his body.

  His eyes open. But the expression I see isn’t lust or relief—it’s sadness and shame.

  “Thank you,” I say, hoping my voice carries over the sound of the shower. “For letting me watch. That was…amazing, erotic, beautiful.”

  Shaking his head, he looks down. He grabs a bath sheet that’s hanging at the far end of the shower, wraps it tightly around his waist, then steps out onto the bathmat.

  I push up off the tub, moving toward him. “Rock—”

  He lifts a palm toward me. “I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice is sharp, his expression hard. He glances up at me, then down at the floor again. “I’m sorry, Selina.” His tone has softened but he still won’t look at me. “I can’t.”

  Chapter 10

  Selina

  Rock refuses to look at me as he gets ready for work. Worse, we barely say two words to each other. He made it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about that strange chastity belt, or whatever you call what he was wearing, and he really doesn’t want to talk about his reaction to my seeing him jerk off in the shower. But those things completely occupy my brain, leaving no space for anything else.

  The weather. Maybe we could talk about the weather?

  I follow him down the stairs to Gray’s huge foyer, staying a few feet back as he heads for the door.

  “I’ll come to the bar as soon as it’s dark,” I tell him when he’s got his hand on the brass doorknob.

  His back expands, growing by what looks like several inches, as he inhales. “Only come if Grayson can come with you.”

  “Rock, I—”

  “Please.” He turns back toward me, but keeps his gaze down. “I get that you don’t want to feel trapped, but promise you won’t go anywhere without Grayson.”

  “I can take care of myself.” Nerves squirm inside me. I’m not sure why I’m arguing about this with Rock—arguing about anything, given what happened.

  Still shaken, I have zero desire to go out into the city on my own. But I don’t want to spend the entire night inside, either.

  “Pike released you,” he continues. “But we don’t know why, or if he’ll try to take you again. Not to mention Xavier himself.”

  I shift my weight back and forth, feeling restless. “Astrid’s informant said Xavier won’t take another shot at me, not for a while.” I wish I felt as safe as I’m pretending to be.

  Rock shakes his head, still refusing eye contact. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Fine,” I say a little more sharply than I mean to. “I won’t come to the bar unless Gray can come too.”

  He nods, then turns back to the door. When he’s about to close it behind him, he turns toward me again.

  “I’m sorry about before.”

  “No, I’m sorry.” I step forward.

  He shakes his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just—”

  For a split second, his gaze lifts to meet mine, and the eye contact makes my heart stutter, my insides squeeze.

  “None of it is about you,” he says, with so much pain in his voice. “It’s my problem. Mine alone.”

  “It’s okay, Rock. We can talk about it later.” My chest tightens as another fear springs to mind. “Will you come back here tonight—tomorrow morning, I mean—when the bar closes?”

  What if Rock decides to move back to his apartment? And what if Gray can’t go over to the bar with me tonight? It could be more than twenty-four hours before I see Rock again.

  The thought makes me panic, and my breaths come too fast. Pike kept me from Rock’s bed for two nights and I’m not going to miss another one. “Please come back here after work?”

  “I need to pick up some things at home,” he says softly. “But I will come. Four o’clock at the latest.”

  “Thank you.” I exhale, hard.

  “I’ll see you
then.”

  “If not before,” I add.

  He nods slightly, then closes the door behind him.

  “What in the holy hell is going on with you two?” Gray’s voice comes from above.

  I turn to see him standing in the upstairs hall. He jumps over the railing and lands on the floor beside me.

  “Walking down a set of stairs too much effort?” I smile as I shake my head at him.

  “Anything to get to you more quickly.” Kissing me hard, he slides his hands down, squeezes my butt and pulls me against him.

  Desire erupts like a volcano inside me, but I push away. After what happened with Rock, this feels disloyal. Strange.

  “Come on then.” Gray looks at me with unexpected compassion in his eyes. “Let’s talk this out.”

  He leads me into the smaller of the two sitting rooms, plops down on a plush velvet sofa and pulls me down next to him. I curl my legs up to the side and lean into his chest as he wraps his arm around my shoulders.

  “Trouble in paradise?” Gray asks. “Why did Rock need to apologize?”

  I chew my bottom lip, trying to decide how to respond.

  “Did he hurt you?” Gray’s expression hardens. “I heard some mighty roars earlier.”

  I shake my head. “He didn’t hurt me. He would never.”

  Gray nods, then beckons for me to continue.

  I don’t want to embarrass Rock further by sharing the intimate details, but I do need to talk to someone about this, and a man might have a better understanding of what happened.

  “First,” I say firmly, “you’ve got to promise that you won’t tell Rock we talked about him.”

  His fingers guide my chin around so we can look into each other’s eyes. His expression is fierce. “You sure Rock didn’t hurt you?”

  “He didn’t.” I shake my head vigorously. “Not physically…”

  “Good. Because, princess, if he did, or ever does, I will rip him limb from limb.”

  I pat his chest and lean back. “Hey, if the three of us are going to live here together, there will be no limb ripping, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best.” He winks. “No promises.” His expression has turned mischievous now, and I settle my head back against his chest.