Follow Me Under

by HELEN HARDT

  “It’s easier for me to get what I need to get done here in the middle of the night. I have even better security at this penthouse than I do at the office building.”

  “I see.” Though I don’t. Why would he need so much security? Unless… “Braden, are you doing anything illegal?”

  He doesn’t answer for a few seconds. Then, “No, Skye. I can’t believe you would ask me that, but since our relationship is still new, I’ll indulge you and say this one time and one time only. I do not engage in anything illegal in my business. You said you trust me.”

  “Braden, I—”

  “The discussion is over. Either you trust me or you don’t.”

  “I trust you.”

  It’s the truth. The unadulterated truth. I trust this man. I’ve let him tie me up, bind me, blindfold me. I stayed with him after I found out he dumped Addie after she refused to do something in the bedroom, though I don’t know what it was. Might it have something to do with the hard limit he won’t talk about?

  And I believe he conducts his business legally and ethically.

  “Thank you,” he says. “Breaking the law is a hard limit for me.”

  “For me, too,” I say.

  “Then we’re on the same page.”

  “So what’s your hard limit in the bedroom?” I asked.

  “Nice try,” he says. “I’m still not going there.”

  “Then…what kinds of things do you do in Manhattan that you don’t do in Boston? In the bedroom, I mean.”

  And with whom? But I know better than to ask. We just had a conversation about trust, and anything he did before me isn’t my business, no matter how curious I am. I already promised myself I’d let it go. Or try, anyway.

  The limousine pulls up to a large building. In the darkness, it looks like any other skyscraper.

  “I don’t have to tell you,” he says. “We’re here. I can show you.”

  My heart pounds.

  Am I ready for whatever awaits inside?

  The chauffeur opens my door and helps me out of the car. Braden takes my hand, and together we walk toward the door of the building.

  “Good morning, Mr. Black.” A uniformed doorman tips his hat.

  Braden nods as we enter, and he leads me through an ornate lobby of marble and crystal. I blink against the barrage of light. When we reach an elevator, Braden slides a card through the reader. So far, same as his penthouse in Boston.

  We ride in the elevator, seemingly at the speed of light. My knees buckle at the upward thrust.

  The elevator finally stops, and the doors open.

  I blink.

  Then I gasp.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A bustling office greets me.

  Seriously. Men and women run back and forth from computers to copiers to phones.

  This is Braden’s home away from home?

  “Mr. Black, welcome.” A young man greets us. “We have the meeting set for an hour from now. Everything’s ready in the conference room.”

  Conference room? This is a mistake. This isn’t Braden’s Manhattan penthouse. This is his office space. Has to be.

  “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Braden turns to me. “Follow me, Skye.”

  He leads me through the front area to a door in the back. He slides a card through another reader, and we enter as he shuts the door behind us.

  The office sounds disappear instantly.

  This part of the penthouse is soundproof. Nice call.

  Another large area greets us, this one more like what I was expecting. It’s a living room decorated in a scant style. Seriously scant. Two wingback chairs, a sofa, and a coffee table. Odd, since his Boston place is decorated so completely. To the left is a kitchen, much smaller than his kitchen in Boston.

  “I know you must be tired,” he says. “I’ll help you get settled in the bedroom, and then I have work to do.”

  I nod. Tired is an understatement. I’m exhausted.

  He leads me down a hallway and opens the door. I drop my mouth open. New York at night greets me, and it is splendid. Braden does like floor-to-ceiling windows. Just like his Boston penthouse, only instead of the harbor, the glitz of downtown greets me.

  “Everything you need will be in the bathroom. Help yourself. If you’re hungry or thirsty, the kitchen is stocked.”

  “But what about you?” I ask. “It’s the middle of the night. You must be tired, too.”

  “Adrenaline,” he says. “This is an important deal. I’ll be fine.”

  I nod. I know better than to try to talk him into staying with me, maybe giving me that orgasm he promised. Not going to happen. Not tonight.

  He kisses my forehead. “Get some sleep.” Then he turns and walks out of the bedroom.

  I sigh. This is life with Braden Black. Oddly, I’m okay with it. I love this man. I want to know this man. And coming here, to his Manhattan residence, will help me get to know him better—especially if this is where certain aspects of his “lifestyle” reside.

  He said he’d show me. Apparently he meant later.

  He’s all business right now. An important contract. I have no idea why or how it’s important, but I take him at his word. He’ll see to business.

  But what of the lifestyle he was talking about? The lifestyle he keeps in Manhattan, never bringing to Boston?

  What does he mean?

  I walk to the door of the bedroom and glance down the hallway. Several other closed doors line the wall. Extra bedrooms? The conference room the young man mentioned? I have no idea. Yes, I’m curious, but exhaustion takes over. Sleep first. Tomorrow, I’ll look around.

  Maybe I can uncover some of his secrets.

  …

  I open my eyes. Gray skies greet me. Ugh. For a moment, I think I’m in Boston at Braden’s place. But I’m alone in the bed, and I remember.

  I’m in Manhattan.

  My phone sits on the night table where I plugged it in earlier. I grab it to check the time. Ten thirty a.m. Later than I normally sleep, but it was near four a.m. when I finally collapsed into bed.

  Coffee. Must have coffee.

  I rise, grab a robe from the bathroom, and pad out to the kitchen. At the Boston penthouse, Marilyn would already have the coffee ready. Here, apparently, it’s up to me. No problem. If there’s one thing I know how to do in a kitchen, it’s how to brew coffee.

  I get a pot going, and then I open the refrigerator. Braden was right. It’s fully stocked. Bacon, eggs, cheese, deli meats, bread, juice, milk. Even a tube of chocolate chip cookie dough. I smile.

  If Tessa were here, we’d have cookie dough for breakfast. Cookie dough and coffee, breakfast of champions. We ate that meal many times during our college years. I grab the cookie dough out of the fridge. Why not? It’s Sunday morning, and I have a meeting of a lifetime tomorrow. Why not indulge a little?

  I rummage through the drawers until I find a knife, slice off a nice hunk of the cookie dough, and pour myself a cup of fresh coffee. I take my gourmet breakfast into the living area and sit down on the couch, feet on the coffee table. I grab the remote control from the end table and click on the TV.

  Where is Braden? He can’t possibly still be in a meeting. He hasn’t had any sleep.

  Of course, nothing as mundane as a lack of sleep would keep Braden from taking care of business.

  Nothing illegal, he told me. I believe him. Braden values trust, and he wouldn’t lie to me.

  I bite off a chunk of cookie dough and wash it down with a sip of coffee. Will Braden approve of my choice? I laugh out loud. Cookie dough for breakfast is probably a hard limit for Braden.

  What is his hard limit in the bedroom?

  And why won’t he talk about it?

  The other doors in the hallway edge into my mind. I polish off half the cookie dough, drain
my coffee cup, and stand. No time like the present.

  I rise and walk back toward the bedroom. Shower first and then be nosy?

  No. My curiosity is killing me. I pad down the hallway clad only in the bathrobe and stop at the first closed door. I turn the knob.

  Inside is another bedroom, smaller than the master and decorated in olive green and ivory. The bed appears to be a queen. I move through the room, opening the door to a walk-in closet and then another to a full bath. Okay. Guest room. Nothing to see here.

  The next door offers a library with a desk and shelves covered in books. Everything from memoirs to science fiction. Does Braden read? He says he does, but when does he find the time? Or does he just like being around books? If that’s the case, why no library in Boston?

  Except there could be a library. He has another floor I haven’t explored at all, other than the bedroom he created for me. I walk along the shelves, sliding my fingertips over the spines of the books. I love books. Always have, and this room is a booklover’s paradise. The soothing aromas of leather bindings and paper waft toward me, and I inhale, closing my eyes.

  A few minutes pass, and I open them, exploring the vast array of titles once more. He has the classics, and I pull out Jane Eyre, one of my favorites. Has Braden read this? I’ll try to remember to ask him. I return the book to its place and walk to the next shelf, which seems to be mostly nonfiction. I scan the titles quickly, hoping to find a book about photography, but to no avail. He does have some National Geographic photograph volumes, and I move toward one when—

  Oh. My. God.

  The Art of Bondage.

  I pull out the book. It’s large—a coffee table book—and when I open it, I realize it’s not an instruction manual but a book of photographs. It truly shows the art of bondage. I’ve opened the book to the middle, and splayed across one whole page in glorious black and white is a woman, naked and on her knees. She’s bound with something that looks like regular off-white rope. Her ankles are tied together as well as her thighs, and her shoulders and arms are also bound, leading to her wrists, which are between her bound thighs and out of view.

  The knots in the rope are art. They remind me of a macramé planter. There is beauty in their simplicity, but the real beauty is the woman bound by them.

  She’s looking up at someone.

  The photographer, of course. As a photographer myself, I know this. But that’s not what this photograph is supposed to show its observer. She’s looking up to the person who bound her. Her lips are slightly parted, full, and painted dark. Dark red, I assume, though the photo is in black and white. That’s the beauty of black and white. It forces the observer to imagine, to see in her mind’s eye.

  And what I see is a woman, bound and eager to please whoever bound her.

  My nipples harden against the softness of the robe.

  I’m not sure why. Sex is impossible in this position.

  Except that it’s not.

  Her mouth is completely available to be fucked.

  Absently, I trail one hand under the robe and cover my warm breast, flicking the nipple lightly.

  Then, with my other hand, I turn the page.

  Another naked woman, this time in color. She’s on the floor—hardwood of some kind—and she lies in a mermaid position, her ass to the camera. She leans on one arm, and the other arm is bound tightly, upper arm to forearm, in an intricate knotted cuff. The cuff is attached to a braided rope that goes around her waist. Her calves are bound as well, also intricately, ending around the stiletto heels of her black pumps, which, other than the rope, are all she wears.

  I give my nipple a quick pinch, and shivers rack through me, my skin tingling. I’m getting wet. I can feel it.

  Has Braden ever bound a woman like this? Or does he just appreciate the art of the binding?

  I turn the page once more.

  Then—

  “See anything you like?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Braden.

  I close the book quickly, my cheeks and chest warming. “I wasn’t…”

  “Yes, you were. Don’t lie to me, Skye.”

  I look down at the book lying on the floor. “Your library is beautiful.”

  “Thank you. I like it.”

  “So…I guess I should take a shower.” I rise.

  “I don’t think so,” he says. “I think I’d like to fuck you right here in my library, among all these books.”

  I part my lips, my body on high alert.

  “God, you have the sexiest mouth I’ve ever seen.”

  The urge to smile overwhelms me, but I hold my lips in their parted position. For some reason, my lips drive Braden wild, and right now I want him madly wild and passionate.

  He yanks the bathrobe off me, and in a second, it’s a white puddle on top of the Turkish rug.

  “I’ll answer all your questions, Skye, but first I’m going to take what I need. Do you have any idea what it does to me to see you caressing your breasts while looking at that book?”

  Am I supposed to answer? I already know. The book did the same to me. My nipples are erect and ready, yearning for attention.

  “Yes,” I say.

  He grabs my hand and leads it to the bulge inside his trousers. “I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours, and I’m exhausted. No other woman could get me hard under these circumstances. Do you know that?”

  “No. I mean… Yes, I guess.”

  “You guess?” He pushes my hand farther into his crotch. “Do you seriously think I could be lying to you?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “On your knees,” he says gruffly. “Take out my cock and suck it.”

  His command turns me on more than he even knows, given the first image I saw in the book. For an instant, I wish I were bound like that woman in black and white, so that all I can do is suck him. I drop to my knees quickly and unbuckle his belt. I slide his pants and boxer briefs over his hips, and his dick springs out. I lick the tip and savor the salty drop of liquid.

  He groans, and I look up at him. His gaze is blue fire.

  “Do you do those things, Braden?”

  “Damn it, Skye. We’ll talk later. Right now, I want my cock in your hot little mouth.”

  I don’t question him. My body has already burst into flames, and I want this as much as he does. I take him into my mouth about three-quarters of the way before I pull back.

  His groan fuels my desire, and when he grabs my hair and shows me the rhythm he prefers, I don’t hesitate. This isn’t a blow job. This is him fucking my mouth. I never realized there was a difference until now. With a blow job, I’m in control. With a mouth fuck, he is.

  The soft sucking and slapping sounds dance around me. I’m hyperaware of them after Braden’s lesson in hearing. His cock head hits the back of my throat with about every other thrust, and I take it. I take it because it’s what he wants. Because I want what he wants.

  He thrusts and he thrusts, and soon I know he’s close to release. He said he would fuck me in the library, and though this isn’t what I expected when he said it, this is still a fuck.

  “Damn it, Skye. Going to come. Going to come in your mouth. Fuck!” He rams into me and pulses as he releases.

  I suppress the choke as best I can and take it. I take it all. All of him. All of Braden.

  I ease my mouth away when he’s done and inhale a much-needed breath. A few minutes later, he adjusts his underwear and pants. Then he pulls me to my feet.

  “I needed that,” he says. “I’m aware of your needs, too, Skye. We were interrupted last night. You’ll get your reward. Anticipation makes it better.”

  I nod, my core throbbing as I force myself not to look down at the book still on the floor.

  “I’m sorry for being nosy,” I say.

  “No apology necessary.
If I wanted to keep you out of this room, I would’ve locked it.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “So what do you think? Of the book.”

  “Honestly? It’s amazing. The photography, I mean.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’m not asking you your opinion as a photographer. What do you think of the subject?”

  I bite my lip. “I’m not sure.”

  “You’re hedging.”

  “Braden, I’m not.”

  “You were playing with your nipple when I walked in here, Skye. You were turned on.”

  “I admit that. That doesn’t mean I’m sure about the subject matter.”

  “Fair enough,” he says.

  “Do you…do that?”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “Practice bondage? You already know the answer to that question. I’ve bound you many times.”

  “Not like in the book.”

  “Of course not. The bondage in that book is not for beginners.”

  “I get that. I know I’m a beginner. But just how far advanced in this bondage have you gone?”

  He gives me a half smile. “I can say this. I haven’t tried everything in that book.”

  “The book is an inch thick, Braden. I’m not sure anyone has tried everything in there. You know what I’m asking.”

  “Do you want to tell me every detail about your previous dalliances?”

  “There’s not much to tell, but if you want to know, sure.”

  “I’ll tell you this much, Skye. From the first time I saw you, embarrassed by a condom, your cheeks and chest red and your full lips parted in that way that drives me slowly to burning passion, I imagined you bound intricately for my pleasure.”

  I gulp. Loudly.

  “Surely that doesn’t surprise you.”

  Does it? I’m not sure.

  “You like the idea. Your chest got noticeably pinker when I said the words.”

  He’s not wrong. And I only saw two pictures. What other delicacies lie between the pages of that book?

  “Is this what you meant when you talked about the part of your lifestyle that stays here in Manhattan?”

  “Partially.”