Restrain

by Shandi Boyes

  I still get the occasional gripe on social media about trapping Marcus by getting pregnant, then using his grief to sink my nails into him more deeply. But for the most part, the media and fans have welcomed me into the Rise Up family with open arms—mostly.

  Marcus’s obvious grief the two weeks following my attack was broadcast around the world. The loss of our unborn baby hit him harder than he’d ever admit, but his relief that I was spared any life-threatening injuries was also visible. Just like our first meeting, it was a beautifully tormented moment in time.

  The media played out the entire charade like some sort of morbid re-telling of Cinderella. I was cast the part of Cinderella and Marcus was Prince Charming. The fans gobbled it up, adoring that a modern-day harlot could have a prince whisk in and rescue her from her miserable, decrepit life. Although my feminist side hates the idea of being cast as a damsel in distress, I'll never express my disdain out loud, preferring headlines full of half-truths than ones entirely based on fiction.

  Realizing she has captured the attention of her daddy, Tatum blows a loud raspberry—her way of awarding him kisses from a distance. After scrunching up her nose and snarling a toothless grin, she attacks the silver spoon Aubrey gifted her with unbridled fury. Her teeth have been giving her hell the past week. No. Correction. Her teeth have been giving us hell the past week. Unlike her mother, Tatum doesn’t appear to be a fan of pain, which is very well, because that's one conversation I’d prefer to avoid in the future.

  Although I am an orphan, and Marcus has no contact with his parents, Tatum doesn’t notice the absence of her grandparents. Miguel and Janice, as well as Abel and Aubrey, have stepped into the roles so well, Tatum will never miss cherished family memories.

  I met Marcus’s parents the month following my near-death experience. It wasn’t a pleasant meeting, one I’d prefer not to share on the happiest day of my life, so it must wait for a future story. Serenity keeps them updated on events in Marcus’s life, but I’d expect to see pigs fly before a reunion occurs between Marcus and his parents.

  “Are you ready, Cleo?” Marcus asks before pivoting on his heels to face the wedding celebrant.

  “Uh huh,” I answer, smiling a grin that displays my utter joy.

  Although our wedding is occurring nearly a year after Marcus wanted, I’m glad I held my ground and adjusted the dates. I wanted to ensure I had time to lose my baby weight before squeezing into the gorgeous satin and lace gown Jenni handcrafted for me.

  While handing my bouquet of white roses to Lexi, I playfully wink at Serenity, soundlessly revealing I didn't miss her bug-eyed expression regarding the hottie seated three rows back when we arrived at the church. Serenity rolls her eyes before sticking out her tongue. Her nonchalant approach is blown out of the water when her wide gaze immediately returns to the man she hasn’t taken her eyes off the past ten minutes.

  “Try not to scare this one off,” I playfully chide to Marcus, moving to stand next to him.

  “If he grasps how to treat a lady like a lady, I won’t have to scare him away.” Marcus’s tone is a unique mix of commanding and nurturing.

  I smile, adoring his protectiveness of his sister, while also feeling sorry for Tatum when she reaches dating age. When Marcus slips his hand over mine, my smile enlarges. His palm is clammy and wet—he is just as nervous as I am.

  When I shift my eyes to peer at him, his massively dilated gaze meets mine halfway.

  “Are you ready to have the best of both worlds, Master Chains?”

  Marcus’s eyes flare as the corners of his lips curve high. He looks happy, intrigued, and if I’m being totally honest, smug as hell. The reason behind his pompous attitude comes to light when he slides his spare hand into his pocket to activate the tiny device he has hidden inside. My knees curve inwards as a ferocious wildfire ignites in my stomach. I stand perfectly still, praying our guests are clueless to the vibrating jolt turning my sex into a sticky, heated mess.

  Happy I’m on the brink of orgasm, Marcus switches off the device before drifting his eyes to me. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he croons, his voice causing even more dampness to puddle between my legs.

  There he is: the man I fantasize about every night.

  Master Chains has arrived.

  Epilogue

  Marcus

  “Slow down; anyone would swear you’ve been away from home for a week.”

  I sling my arm into the air, too eager to return home to bother bantering with Cameron about my obvious excitement. I’ve been away from Cleo and Tatum for a week; I am well past eager. As I gallop down the stairs of my private jet, the flashing of bulbs in the distance flicker in the droplets of rain falling from the pitch-black sky. Unlike the Florida temperatures I’ve become accustomed to the past seven days, the night is cool and summer is now a distant memory.

  “Thanks,” I say to Tripp, one of the many men who work at the private airstrip I own on the outskirts of Montclair, when he throws a set of keys across my expensive pride and joy.

  My muscles sigh when I slide into the driver’s seat, appreciating the way the vibrating leather pads Cleo had installed relieve the tension of a long week. The past week has been the longest week of my life. In the past three years, I’ve never been away from Cleo more than a night, so to spend seven nights without her by my side, I’m not only restless, I’m extremely fatigued.

  With modern technology, I kept in contact with Cleo and Tatum as if they were right in front of me—but there is one thing missing no technology can replicate: their smell. Just like every other sensory outlet in my body, my sense of smell has improved since I met Cleo. Smell has a direct link to the limbic system. The limbic system is responsible for the processing of emotions and memory. That's why when I smell the scent of pollen on a dew-crisp morning, I can recall Cleo in crystal clear form: her beautifully plump lips, the generous swell of her breasts, her alluring curves that capture the attention of every man when she walks into the room. One smell and I’m trapped, caught between a man wanting to parade his most valuable asset in public for the world to see, and the Master who wants to possess every inch of her so thoroughly, she’ll feel me with every breath she takes.

  Tonight, I’m not stuck. I know exactly what I want.

  My tires lose traction on the wet asphalt when I increase the pressure on the gas pedal. I go whizzing toward the exit manned by a four security guard-strong team. Paparazzi rush toward the exit when they spot my sports car gliding down the pavement. I flash a grateful smile to the two security officers braving the wet weather to clear a path through the media circling me. With my family’s time equally shared between Montclair and Bronte’s Peak, the paparazzi isn’t as dense as normal.

  I’m thrusted into my seat when I spot a clearing between the flashing lights. My engine roars to life, showcasing its power with a grunt every man loves. There is only one purr more intoxicating than the rumbling of my high-powered engine: my wife’s.

  My excessive speed has me eluding the paparazzi by the time I’m halfway home. I lower my speed to a more appropriate level, but it remains above the designated limit marked on the road, my eagerness too powerful to contain.

  As I roll down the curved driveway of our family home, my eyes scan our palatial mansion for any signs of life. With a live-in nanny, a housekeeper, and two bodyguards, I’m surprised to find my residence plunged into blackness. I can’t often escape the constant bustle that has become my life the past three years. Silence is a hard limit for Cleo—meaning I am forever surrounded by noise. I’m not going to complain. After living the first sixteen years of my life restrained with silence, I relish every beautiful sound. The whispered I love yous, the screams of ecstasy torn from my wife’s mouth, and the coos of my daughter when she covers my chin with slobber. I cherish every perfect noise. To me, they are more beautiful than any song I’ve produced.

  I park my car at the edge of our entranceway, my patience too thin to park my vehicle in the garage. Dots of rain fall o
n my suit-covered shoulders as I climb the stairs of the home I bought in the months following Cleo’s recovery. It's a large estate nestled in a gated community of Montclair. This town is my wife’s home; it was her refuge after having all the sounds she loved cruelly torn from her, so it was the right place for her to recover after the loss of our unborn baby.

  As I toss my keys on the wooden table in the entranceway, my eyes catch sight of the Roman numerals on my wrist. “One day, little man, one day,” I murmur to myself, reminding our son we will meet again one day.

  The tapping of my feet as I take the stairs two at a time booms into the eerie silence filling my house. Years ago, I would have panicked about a lack of fanfare for my arrival home, but now, I appreciate that Cleo has her hands full chasing a toddler and manning all the charity organizations she boards as part of Chains’ charity efforts.

  As per Cleo’s request, I remain the sole owner of Chains. Except now, instead of having one BDSM club cloaked by secrecy, I have fifteen well-represented clubs dotting the coastline from New York to Florida. The exclusivity and guarantee of privacy are still two of the utmost priorities of my clubs, but having a safe, sane, and consensual place for people of my community to play will always be my number one focus.

  My brisk speed down the dark corridor of the main residence of my property slows when I stride past a fluorescent pink-painted door. Although I’m dying to smell my wife’s indescribable scent, I carefully pry open the ghastly-colored door and step into the room. Tatum is sleeping in the top corner of her crib, sucking on her thumb. She stirs softly when I run my hand over the sprout of black curls on top of her head. Other than her angelic face, Tatum is the perfect mix of both Cleo and me. She has her mom’s curls and my black hair. Her skin tone is a mix of us both, and her eyes are the perfect combination of Cleo’s and mine. She truly is the best of both Cleo and me mixed into one adorable little package.

  I snag the fluffy rabbit Cleo arrived home from the hospital with when she was a baby and tuck it under Tatum’s arm before exiting the room. Eager to slip into bed with Cleo, I remove my suit jacket and tie as I finalize my strides down the end of the hall. My steps halt midstride when a surge of adrenaline roars through my veins. I stop just outside our bedroom door when a flicker of light in the corner of my eye garners my attention.

  The heat thickening my veins migrates to the lower half of my body when I turn my head in the direction the light is coming from. There are four small candles dancing around a room that makes my chest puff with smugness every time I enter it. Although the candles are dim, they are bright enough to erotically showcase the visual of my naked wife kneeling at the entrance of our playroom. Her chin is tucked into her chest, and her hands are resting on her bare thighs, palms side up in offering. Although she is perfectly still, I know she has sensed my presence as the hairs on her nape are prickling with attention.

  When I pace into the room, my eyes swing sideways. Just as I had suspected, Tatum’s baby monitor is sitting on the drawers above the chest of toys and gadgets we’ve made good use of the past three years.

  My cock thickens painfully as I turn around to close our playroom door, not only blocking out noises from outside, but also locking Cleo’s erotic screams inside the soundproof walls.

  As I remove my clothing, my eyes drink in every delectable curve of my wife. The smug grin on my face turns into a genuine smile when I spot a splatter of paint on the ball of Cleo’s foot. Although I offered to have an interior designer return Cleo’s family home to its prior glory, Cleo was adamant she wanted to do it herself. Because it's a feat of love more than a chore, she has spent the last year sanding and painting every wall herself. Her love of her family shines through in that property, as it does with our daughter’s name. Tatum is named after Cleo’s little brother, Tate.

  If security wasn’t an issue, I would move us in into Cleo’s family home the instant Cleo finishes her renovations, but with her and Tatum’s safety my utmost priority, my dream must remain precisely that—a dream.

  Once my clothes are removed, folded and sitting on top of Cleo’s nightgown, I move to stand in front of her. She is kneeling next to a cart Aubrey generally serves breakfast on every Sunday, but instead of it being covered with scrumptious savories, it's filled with even more delicious products. Nipple clamps, vibrating butt plugs, a riding crop, and a pinwheel are a small handful of the instruments she has laid out.

  Placing my hand under her downcast chin, I lift her head. The thrill of the hunt scorches my veins when her beautiful chocolate eyes lock with mine. Cleo’s eyes are the reason I’ve grown an obsession with blindfolding her. They are my eternal weakness, potent enough to unravel me with a single glance. I’ve learned to limit my need for control outside of this environment, but in this room, there is no compromise. Although Cleo continually breaks the boundaries outside of this domain, she is well aware of the rules associated with this room.

  Cleo hates the title of submissive, but she has many submissive qualities. She loves being dominated and pleasing her Master. She is cautious of the rules and is eager to explore the BDSM lifestyle, and she challenges me to be the best Master I can be. She is the perfect submissive—the best I’ve ever had, even without the official title.

  “What's this?” I ask, my voice throaty as I struggle to ignore the heat of her lust-filled gaze hardening my cock even more.

  Cleo licks her lips as she follows my gaze to the instruments laid out on the cart. “We only got halfway through our list last night, so I thought we could finish it tonight, Master Chains.” I feel the soft purr of her voice all the way to my balls.

  “We are well overdue to adjust your hard and soft limits, but that's not usually done while utilizing the instruments associated with them.”

  “Why not?” Cleo questions, returning her eyes to me. “It will be more fun this way.”

  “Eyes,” I demand when her amorous smirk instigates a wild recklessness to run through me.

  Only Cleo can make me throw caution to the wind. I’ve never been as heedless with another woman as I am with her. I have had subs who went above and beyond to please, ones who never wanted to leave my side, and ones who would bend to any will to keep me as their Master. But there has only ever been one woman I altered the rules for. She was the one who walked into my world and amazed me with her strength and determination. She was the one who truly proved I can have the best of both worlds. She is my wife.

  A husky growl rolls up my chest when Cleo drops her eyes to her hands the instant my command leaves my mouth. See—perfect submissive.

  “Because I am feeling generous, I will approve your request.” I don’t need to see her face to know she is smiling. I can feel it deep in my bones. “But be warned, I am restless, so my patience is thin. Today is not the day to test me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master Chains,” Cleo replies without delay.

  Her agreement makes me want to pull her into my lap and ravish the mouth I’ve been dying to taste all week, but I won’t. The day I became her husband, I not only promised to love and cherish her every day of my life, I also promised that every time we stepped into this room, her every desire, wish, and craving would be fulfilled. Cleo loves being dominated; so much so, I’ll push aside my need to fuck her hard and fast on the floor she is kneeling on to ensure she is dominated in the way she needs.

  “Very well. Move onto the Saint Andrew’s Cross.”

  “Yes, Master Chains.”

  Keeping her head tucked into her chin, Cleo stands from her kneeling position and moves to the Saint Andrew’s Cross in the middle of the room. Her pert tits lift high on her erratically panting chest when she stretches out her arms to rest them on the polished wood. Her legs soon follow suit. After gathering a blindfold from the chest on my right, I pace toward her, my strides purposely slow so she has plenty of time to see how hard she has made me.

  Just as she has done every time I stand before her naked, Cleo’s eyes run over my body, categoriz
ing and memorizing every inch of me as if it's the first time she has seen me naked. Her attentive gaze makes me even harder. For every step I take, the shimmer between her legs becomes more apparent. She is so wet, her arousal glistens on her thighs.

  My hands twitch to touch her when I stop to stand in front of her, but I keep them balled at my side—barely. Cleo’s eyes remain arrested on mine as I shackle her wrists and ankles with the leather cuffs on the cross. I restrain her tightly enough her skin gets the pinch she loves, but not firmly enough to hinder the little squirms she makes. Happy she is safely locked in, I crank the handle on the cross until she is inclined to a forty-five-degree angle.

  I take a step back to appreciate the beauty of my wife bound and erotically staged in front of me. The Saint Andrew’s Cross is the perfect instrument to expose every inch of her gorgeous body. The rosy pinkness of her nipples, the beautiful little ripples in the bottom of her stomach from growing our daughter, and the angry scar that reminds me every day of how lucky I am to still have her in my life. She is undoubtedly beautiful—perfect in every way.

  Incapable of waiting a minute longer to touch her, I move to stand in front of her. Cleo’s minty breath fans my hungry lips when I slide a blindfold over her ravishing eyes, dampening the firm grip she has on my balls and throat.

  A trail of goosebumps follow in my wake when I track my finger down her blemished cheek, then over the chain link nestled in her neck, before dropping it to the swell of her breast. Her thighs squeeze together when my fingers’ trek over her body has me reaching the bare mound of her glistening pussy.

  “Spread your legs wider,” I demand as my finger glides through the wet folds of her soaked sex.

  The pants of her breath grow as she does as instructed. “Good girl,” I praise as I slowly inch my index finger inside her.