Their Discovery (Legally Bound Book 3)

by Rebecca Grace Allen

  She did have a system. A way to stack everything for maximum efficiency. She didn’t know he’d noticed.

  “And I don’t know how you know where everything goes in the cabinets without looking. It’s hard for me to keep track.”

  Sam frowned, guilt stabbing. He’d always had issues recalling things. It was why they’d met in the first place. Why was she never patient with it?

  Staring at his profile, she threw out some sarcasm to lighten the mood.

  “Well, silly. If you can’t figure out where things go, I’ll fucking tell you.”

  She wasn’t sure if he’d missed the lightness in her tone, or if he’d caught it and was embarrassed regardless, but from this angle, she could see his chin lower slightly as a swallow constricted his throat. It was a small tell, something he used to do when she was tutoring him, ashamed because he’d gotten an answer wrong.

  Back then she’d soothe him, put a hand on one of his giant arms and tell him it was her job to help him get things right. He’d blush and smile up at her, eyes sparkling and hopeful.

  He wasn’t smiling now. But a strange part of her…liked his discomfort.

  “I don’t mind telling you what to do, you know,” she added. “Being your wife is like training an excitable puppy.”

  Brady went rigid, his muscles tensing beneath his T-shirt as color rose on his cheeks. It had been a long time since she’d seen him react like that, even longer since she’d seen his brow wrinkle and his head sink down more, a surefire sign that he was turned on. It was what he’d do back in the day, when she’d taunt him for wanting her so badly. What he’d done every time she’d ordered him to her dorm room and teased that he must’ve sprinted across campus to have gotten to her so fast.

  When she’d ordered him over.

  Was that it?

  She stared at him. He was waiting, barely moving.

  “Maybe that’s all you need,” she said. “To be given a little—” she paused, testing out the effect of her words, “—discipline.”

  A noticeable shudder went through him.

  Holy shit. She’d read moments like this in her books. Scenes when the Dominant would give his submissive a command, and everything would change. Was that happening now?

  She wanted to push Brady harder. To see if she was right.

  Sam stood and padded slowly over to him, but he remained frozen, as if he were a helpless animal and she was a lioness stalking her prey.

  “You want to see me happy?” she asked, and even she was surprised at how soft and seductive her voice sounded.

  Brady didn’t look up from the sink. “You know I do.”

  Moving in behind him, she put her hands on him. His T-shirt was soft beneath her palms. His breathing went shallow as she caressed all those bunched muscles in his lower back. God, he still was a specimen, his torso thick, a dip at the base of his spine leading to the ass she’d once loved to grab and squeeze.

  She pressed herself against him. Her chin barely cleared his shoulder blades, but she rubbed her upper body back and forth, testing to see if he could feel her tightened nipples through her tank top and robe. There was the slightest buck of his hips.

  Humming softly in approval, Sam went up on her toes, got her lips as close to his ear as she could and whispered, “Then you go back to washing while I have a little fun.”

  Sam lowered her hands until her palms met the hem of his tee. She raised the fabric up with her fingers. Brady let out an unsteady breath when she found warm, bare skin.

  “I’m going to play,” she said. “And you’re not gonna miss a speck of food on those plates, understand?”

  He swallowed audibly. “Yes.”

  The word came out strained. Like he was trying not to beg.

  “And you’ll have to be quiet so the girls don’t hear. Can you do that?”

  Another swallow, with a quick nod of his head tacked on after it. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t them. Or maybe it was them, some ghostly past version coming back for one repeat performance. Mentioning it seemed dangerous though, as if it could break the spell, so Sam waited until Brady reached for a plate. He began scrubbing, and there was a slight tremor in his limbs as Sam moved her hands around to his belly. She had no idea if this was anything more than Brady being turned on, but the idea of making him her plaything sent heat rushing through her, made her skin tingle and her heart pound.

  She caressed that spot for a moment, enjoying the sensation beneath her fingertips. Brady’s skin had always been smooth, baby soft under the hair that ran a trail into his boxers. And what was at the end of that trail was a goddamn pot of gold.

  She etched a nail along the cotton waistband of his sweats. Brady’s breathing hitched, his belly rising and falling. Why he was suddenly so responsive when they’d had months of nothing sexual at all was beyond her, but she wasn’t going to ask now. What she was going to do was dip her hands beneath the elastic, beyond that patch of curls and to the prize beneath it.

  “Stay quiet,” she reminded, and slid her hand downward until she found rigid flesh.

  Brady held himself still. Body poised. Waiting. Obedient. Silent. The muffled shudder that came out of him was almost as rewarding as the feel of him in her fist.

  “Look what I found,” she teased, singsong, and gave him a long, languid stroke.

  He was hard. Harder than she could ever remember him being, and that was saying something. She’d been shocked at the size of his erection the first time she’d seen it. He was thick enough for her fingertips to barely meet when she wrapped a hand around him. He always got bigger the closer he got to coming, too.

  Sam grinned, a faded memory coming back—a night years ago, after a winter-break separation. Their reunion had been all hands and very few words, and she’d worked him until he was on the brink of orgasm, then stopped to marvel at his size. He hadn’t complained. He’d just grunted and stared at her. At her mercy, he’d waited for her to take the lead, obedient and silent.

  Sam blinked. Was she reading this right?

  “You want that again?” she asked, her voice low.

  He nodded—a quick, desperate move.

  “Say please.”

  His shoulders shook. “Please.”

  She blinked again. Was Brady a submissive? Could he always have been? He’d behaved like one in college, but somehow she’d never connected the dots. She’d never entertained the idea that she was a Domme either, for all that she’d been turned on reading about BDSM, but here she was, her own breathing sharp and short as she watched Brady shake with need. She could be imagining all this, pretending that some inherent, unspoken need in him was answering some unrealized, intrinsic need of hers.

  She needed to find out.

  Experimenting, she slowly stroked that gloriously rigid flesh, fingers slippery with pre-come as she skated a thumb over his tip. She found a rhythm, and his breathing quickened. He put down the plate he’d been rinsing and gripped the sides of the sink with shaking arms. Sam immediately stopped stroking.

  “I thought I told you to finish those dishes,” she said, somehow pulling off harsh and playful in the same breath.

  His head bowed, and his cock pulsed in her grip. “You did,” he gritted out.

  “Well if you want more of this—” Sam stroked him again. His head sank back. “—then you’d better do what I say.”

  “God.” Brady’s voice broke on the word. Hands trembling, he retrieved the plate, rinsed it, and placed it in the dishwasher. As he reached for another one, Sam felt an insane, giddy rush. Power crackled through her like a snapping set of fireworks. It was electrifying, seeing him weak like this.

  She wasn’t imagining a damn thing—not his reaction, nor her own.

  She waited until he’d rinsed off another dish before sliding her other hand into his boxers. As she resumed stroking him with one hand, she reached the other one lower, cupping his balls and tugging gently.

  He huffed out a breath. Struggling to keep quiet. But he was behaving.


  “Good boy,” she whispered.

  Brady’s entire body went taut. “Oh, fuck. Sammy.”

  The breath rushed out of him. He pumped his hips, then held painfully still. The high it gave her was almost too much. She needed to be touched, too, but there was another problem that needed to be addressed first.

  “Oh fuck?” she asked mockingly. “Brady Archer, something’s gotta be done about your mouth.”

  He groaned, listing slightly. Sam pushed the cotton of his boxers out to make room for her palm and flattened it over the tip, rubbing circles against his slit. He was positively drenched, and she shivered at the slickness she found there. His hips moved in time with her hand, his movements hungry, eager.

  Desperate.

  “I didn’t tell you to move.”

  She released him, pulling her hands out of his boxers and letting his waistband snap against his tummy. His tiny whimper of disappointment made her grin widely.

  “There you go again,” she said. “Whining like a little puppy.”

  A heavy exhale shook his frame along with a low groan. What was this? She had a million questions, but it was a struggle to think beyond the haze of desire, past the throbbing in her clit and the need to come herself.

  “Shut off the water and turn around,” she said.

  Brady did as he was told. When he moved to face her, his eyes were bright blue, focused and steady, a hulk of a man panting and waiting.

  For her.

  How had she missed this? Was it because she’d been looking everywhere but at them? Looking at their friends’ kinky dynamics instead, at fictional characters instead of her husband and herself? She wanted to ask Brady if this had always been there, but she didn’t know how. Not now anyway, with both of them on the edge of whatever this was. Her chest rose and fell, his only movement the opening and closing of his fists, arms close by his sides. She wanted him. Wanted his hands on her now, doing her bidding until she shattered.

  “Brady—”

  “Mom!”

  Sam froze. Allegra’s night terrors didn’t come as often as they used to, but when she woke up and her anxiety kicked in, it meant another repetition of her bedtime ritual was needed.

  “Coming, honey,” Sam yelled.

  Sam blinked hard, attempting to rid herself of the longing that was still coursing through her. She had to shift from sexpot to mom, from this temptress she’d suddenly become into the person who messily attempted to solve her daughter’s problems.

  She didn’t want to. Not yet.

  And Brady was twisting his wedding ring around, not looking at her.

  “I’ll finish the dishes,” he mumbled.

  Sam’s stomach dropped. Whatever they’d recaptured moments ago, it had vanished, and she didn’t know how to reclaim it.

  “Okay,” she said. “Come up when you’re done?”

  He nodded, but he didn’t appear upstairs, not even hours later. Lying in the dark until she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore, Sam fell asleep waiting for him.

  8

  Watching the action on each end of the air hockey table, Brady leaned over and readied his striker. The puck was slingshotting from one player to the next, lightning quick. As soon as it flew his way, Brady took his shot. It ricocheted off the opposite corner and straight into Wendell’s goal.

  Brady didn’t need to shout out his score. The sound of the alarm and the noise of applause did it for him. He tossed his striker on the table in victory and grinned.

  “You suck,” Wendell said.

  “You’re just jealous of my epic hand-eye coordination skills.”

  Wendell gave him the finger. “How’s this for hand-eye coordination?” He motioned for someone to turn the lights on. “Brady Archer, ladies and gentlemen—your undefeated champion for three weeks running.”

  Nick set down his striker. “I think I should get a runner-up prize.”

  “Runner-up?” Brady asked. “You don’t even work here.”

  “I jumped in when you were short a player. Best-friend status makes me a legal substitution.” He gestured toward the table. “Besides, for this, I’d learn some friggin’ computer shit. This thing is awesome.”

  Brady grinned. “Hell yeah, it is.”

  The new four-player Galaxy Collision QuadAir table had been a worthwhile business expense. The work-hard, play-hard environment at Helios was the closest thing he’d had to a team since his Terrier days, and the basement weight room, gamer den, and newly minted hump-day air hockey tournaments made their employees more productive and just plain happier.

  Air hockey was the only game Brady played on his feet these days. He tried to stay active, did as much as he could with dumbbells and a bench, but he was basically a recreational athlete with a creaky knee. The sewn-together ligaments bothered him when the weather was bad, and the snow today was getting his old injury as worked up as his brain was.

  He was still wrecked by what happened with Sam last night. Half a day later, he still hadn’t figured it out.

  Paul looked at his score—a solid electronic zero—and frowned. Brady walked over to his side of the table. “Don’t be bummed. There’s always next Wednesday.”

  “Thanks Mr. Arch—Brady. Thanks.”

  The onlookers broke up, heading back to their desks or lunch. Nick grabbed his coat. He’d slung it over a chair when he’d shown up, offering to step in and play since Myles was out sick. “Ready for lunch?”

  “I’m starved. Burgers?”

  Nick wrinkled his nose. “They got anything with actual vegetables?”

  Brady rolled his eyes. “Yes, health freak. Let’s go.”

  A few minutes later, they were squinting against the wintery mix pelting the ground and crossing the street. Brady’s stomach growled when they got inside the gourmet burger bar. He’d skipped breakfast and gone into work early, not ready to face Sam. It was a shitty thing to do after avoiding her last night, playing video games in the living room until he was sure she’d gone to sleep, but he’d had to.

  Brady walked up to the tablet on the counter and punched the box next to a triple patty. With cheese.

  Nick looked over the counter toward the kitchen. “Does anyone even work here?”

  “Of course. Somebody’s gotta cook the food.” Bacon. He needed bacon, too.

  “But it would be nice to, you know, talk to a person.”

  “Why? People screw things up. A computer can’t.”

  Brady wished he’d been a computer last night, with a simple on/off switch. Then he could’ve rebooted his sex drive. He slid his credit card into the slot on the tablet, signed with his finger and grabbed a cup. “You need a soda?”

  Nick pulled a water bottle from his jacket pocket. “I’m all set.”

  Brady nodded and went to the electronic drink machine. He stared at the fountain as it poured the sugary liquid into his cup. What the hell had happened last night? First he and Sam were arguing, then he was trying to do the things she wanted, and the next thing he knew, she was setting his body on fucking fire.

  He couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched him like that. It wasn’t so much her touch as it was her words, or maybe it was both—the mocking, the ordering him around, speeding him up and crashing him back down again. Then she’d called him good boy and he’d lost it.

  Had she known what she was doing?

  She couldn’t have. He’d kept this part of himself hidden, stunting his desire at any cost. He was sure bringing it up would be the final nail in the coffin—the thing that would end their marriage and drive her away for good. But last night she’d teased him. Taunted him. Tortured and humiliated him. Why would she have done that if she hadn’t known?

  Fuck, he had to stop thinking about this. Not only was he getting a boner in the middle of a burger joint, but he’d also stopped paying attention to the drink machine and soda was about to spill everywhere.

  Nick was sitting at a table and scrolling through his phone when Brady sat across from him.
“You wanna go out tonight?” Nick asked.

  “Dude. It’s Wednesday.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’ve got a job and kids and responsibilities and shit.”

  “I’ve got responsibilities, too, dickface.”

  “You’re a photographer. You run your own business.” And had free time at odd hours, like the middle of the day on a Wednesday.

  “So do you,” Nick replied. “Your argument is invalid.”

  “Well, it was easier before.”

  “Before what?”

  Before my wife grabbed my dick while I was washing the dishes and nearly made me come in my pants.

  Brady stared at the kitchen. How long did a freaking burger take?

  “Before things got tough with Allegra,” he answered.

  Not the truth but not a lie either.

  “I thought she was doing better. With the new meds and all.”

  “Depends on the day.”

  And most days, not so much. He’d tried to introduce her to coding in the hopes it would help her focus the way it had for him, but she wasn’t interested. Football was even less of a draw. The one time he’d tried to get her to watch a game on TV she’d declared it boring and left the room.

  The kitchen door opened, and Brady glanced up, hopeful. A server carrying a triple bacon cheeseburger and a veggie patty wrapped in lettuce walked to their table.

  “Thank God.” He ripped into his sandwich and eyed Nick’s lunch. “Why you gotta be so damn nutritious?”

  “’Cause we’re not that far away from forty and I don’t want to die of heart failure.” Nick nodded toward Brady’s food. “You could stand to do the same.”

  “What are you mother-henning me for?”

  “Practice.”

  “For what?”

  “Nothing. I’m just saying, we can’t eat like we used to.”

  Brady chewed through another mouthful and glared. He could only fuel his burger-and-pizza addiction when Sam wasn’t looking. His lunch was probably three thousand calories, but whatever. He’d burned a ton whooping everyone’s ass at air hockey. And he’d been able to eat like this when he’d been tossing a ball every day.