Whisper (The Voice trilogy Book 1)

by Noelle Bodhaine

  “She pales in comparison to you,” he whispers hotly in my ear before taking my mouth with conviction. After a long silence, I let my mind wander and my curiosity gets the best of me.

  “Tell me about your cross.” He picks up the delicate gold cross and twirls it between his fingers.

  “It is the only thing I have that is real. It keeps me connected.”

  “I don’t imagine you at church.”

  “It’s more about family for me.” He locks me in his sights and doesn’t let me go.

  “Family? I thought it was just you and your dad.”

  “My father’s family, most of them are back in Ireland. I spent quite a bit of time there when I was young. My aunts practically raised me. I grew up alongside my cousins. We all went to Catholic school, I was an altar boy. I loved everything about it. It is the purest place on earth.”

  “You were an altar boy? Forgive me, but I cannot imagine it.”

  “I have been many things, Sophie. I can be anything I need to be. But that is as close to the real thing as I am ever going to get.” He puffs lightly on a newly lit cigar. The smoke swirls in the air, a ghostly tendril reaching high above our heads. The moonlight bounces from the mirrored wall casting dancing shadows around the room. The molten ember of his cigar casts a light across his placid face. It strikes me as I watch him, his revolving demeanor, adaptive behavior. The calm he exudes, like he always knows what to expect, what will come next. Like a magician manipulating his audience, he creates the reaction and controls the room. It is all smoke and mirrors. Nothing is as it seems.

  Looking into his clear green eyes, I want to believe that he is safe. I want to trust him. I know I want to make him happy. And I know he was disappointed earlier when we debated the issue of the ropes. I am suddenly overcome with curiosity, fantasy. I want to know what it would be like. I want to surrender to him, I can do this. I move out of his arms and make for the dresser.

  “What are you up to?” he asks with a perfect devious grin wide on his face. I pull the bottom drawer open and retrieve the folded length of red silk rope that he unceremoniously abandoned just a few hours earlier. It is smooth in my hand, cool and strong. I pull it through my fingers, sending a shiver down my spine. Yes, I want this. His eyes are wide with excitement. I bite my bottom lip, lower my eyes and walk slowly to the bedside, keeping my eyes cast down. I place the rope across his lap, running my fingers across the tops of his thighs and step back. He takes a deep breath, swings his legs to the floor and pulls me to him, his hands gripping my hips tightly. He tips my head up with his finger and searches my eyes. I am clear, and sure. Confident. And the smile that spreads across his face sets me on fire.

  “What do you want, Sophie?” his voice is rough, but quiet. I look down into his face pondering the now familiar question. His lips part and he swipes that bottom lip with his tongue. It ripples through me, I need this.

  “I want you to have your way,” I whisper.

  “And?” he demands. He will take his pound of flesh now.

  “I want you to tie me up.” I look him dead in the eye, watching the fire rise in his blood. Surely I can allow his excitement to eclipse the faint shock of fear that sits in my heart.

  “And?”

  “I trust you,” I mouth, breathless and excited. That was what he needed to hear. Grasping the hem of my tee shirt, he whisks it off over my head.

  “We will start slow.” He drops the rope on the floor and moves to the dresser and a smaller drawer. He pulls a shorter length of black rope and tosses it to the bed. The weave is open, the feel is soft. It is not nearly as menacing as the long red ropes, but still ignites a spark deep in my belly.

  “I do want to push you, Sophie, but slowly.” He weaves the black rope between my wrists, over and under, until they are clasped together in a beautiful, symmetrical chain, he is meticulous, careful. “I will not tie you to the bed. We will save that. For now I will just bind your hands, and you will get the idea. What it feels like to be bound, to let go.” Several tight, intricate knots run up the inside of both arms, my hands bound together tightly, blood pulses under the ropes. He moves me to the head of the bed.

  “Lie down.” I lay back on the pillows and he raises my hands above my head. “Grab a hold. And do not let go.” I do as I’m told, grasping the cold metal scroll of the headboard. I wrap my fingers tightly, knowing that I will want to let go. My pulse is racing, my mouth is dry and he looks like an excited child. My hands are raised above my head, anchored by rope and will. He pulls me by my feet, so that I am stretched across the bed. Hooking his fingers into my panties he peels them off, slowly, making a meal of it. He winds his hands around the back of both of my ankles and yanks my legs open, a look of awe and hunger on his face.

  “Take a deep breath and blow it out,” he commands. I do as I’m told. I pull air deep into my lungs and release it. Rhys pushes my legs up high above my head as the breath rushes from my lungs. My feet are pressed against the headboard on either side of my hands. I fold in half. His arms stretched over the backs of my legs, holding me flush, his face hovering directly over my waiting sex. I am curled, with my ass in the air, when I feel him. The brush of his lips as he smiles, then his tongue runs like satin all the way across my seam. Like a lollipop, he licks me slowly from top to bottom, and back again, all the while holding my legs above my head. My hands are tied and anchored and my legs are like jelly. I have no choice but to absorb each gentle lick, every urgent flick. I could let go of the headboard, but I don’t want to.

  The sensation of the ropes and Rhys’ mouth all over me are more than I can handle and I shatter like a delicate piece of crystal. Fireworks explode behind my eyes, but I do not let go of the headboard. My hands grip the iron as my body rocks and rolls under Rhys’ wicked mouth. His tongue rolls around my clit as his fingers pump in and out of me. He curls them into me and begins to stroke a button deep within that spikes my blood and sends me falling over the edge. The orgasm rips through me, shredding my senses, leaving me breathless and twitchy. The energy continues to build, higher and higher until a vicious explosion rings behind my eyes and I scream out for mercy, for more, I don’t know. My body pulses around his fingers as his tongue continues to press and circle my nub. My ears are hot and filled with bright white noise and my hands grip the headboard for dear life. Afraid that if I do let go I will fall. He slowly lets me down, rolling my hips back onto the bed with a cheeky grin as he brings his fingers to his lips and sucks my essence from them. Before I can fully regain myself he shoves his fingers into my mouth.

  “Taste yourself,” he demands, pressing his fingers to my tongue. I am salty, sweet, musky and surprisingly pleasant. Moaning as I suckle at his fingers, I am shocked at myself, shocked at my wanton, dirty behavior. And more shocked that I love every minute, and want more. He pulls his fingers from my mouth with a pop and flips me over like a rag doll.

  “Don’t let go,” he whispers hot against my ear before gasping as he thrusts his hard cock into my dripping pussy. His fingers dig into my hips as he pulls me back onto him. Each thrust deeper than the last. He is like an animal, lost in me, lost in his passion. I buck against him, pushing off and sliding back, slapping my ass against his chest as he growls. I feel him press his chest to my back and the weight on me feels amazing. Sinking his teeth into my shoulder, I arch my back and focus on my grip. His fingers slip from my sweat slicked hips as he rises up and flips me back over.

  He drives himself deeper until we become one, liquid and replete. Piercing the celestial heavens with the heat and intensity of our lust for one another, the big bang erupts all around us and we are nothing but energy. Every cell in my body is alive, humming with electricity, reaching for him. Our auras are surely mingled as we are sucked into a vortex in which only he and I exist. The world is alight with our lovemaking, the sun jealous of our heat. He collapses in a sticky mess on my chest. His damp forehead pressed between my breasts. Breathing ragged and clipped.

  “God, Soph
ie.” His lips move against my skin, and he shudders again, the final tremor pulsing through him as he empties himself into me. He jerks and stills, exhausted and spent. We are joined by body, by mind, by sweat and tears. So tied up in each other it’s no longer clear where I end and he begins, and it feels amazing.

  Curled against his chest, I lay silent and satisfied to a degree I did not know was possible. His arms wound around me like possessive, creeping vines. Our fingers laced, twisted in knots. He draws slow circles on my palm, hypnotizing me. The ropes still securely wound up both of my arms, he fingers the silk, murmuring to himself, appreciative, admiring his handy work. It really is beautiful, I suppose. The silky black rope woven from my wrists to my elbows, it lays flat and smooth against my skin. Each cuff has a long chain braid running down the inside of my arm. The knots are intricate, finely made, it’s clear that he has had ample practice. I run my finger across the rope, the throbbing in my arms evident under the sensitive nub of my fingertip.

  I had been so distracted by what he was doing to me; I forgot to notice how tight the ropes are. My arms begin to throb more violently, blood pulses from through my veins, struggling against the tight black rope, fighting to get to my hands. I wiggle my fingertips, as they are beginning to numb. Rhys rolls me onto my back and pulls my hands to his mouth. He places a gentle kiss on each wrist, and begins to untie his artful knots. With every unwinding of the rope, blood rushes under my skin, satisfying, relieving. I rub my wrists and find that the sensation is sensual, erotic. Running my fingers along each line, I revel in the rush of blood and electricity. The evidence of his hunger, his passion is written all over my arms. I muse to myself about the possibilities the ropes represent. How else could he tie me in knots, what else could he do to me? How much can I take?

  “Where did you learn to tie knots like this?”

  “Just something I picked up.” A sly wink raises the corner of his lopsided mouth and I giggle like a silly school girl. We spent the better part of the night chasing exquisite tiny deaths. He pushed me beyond the limits of my imagination, pushed Nadja out. But my body is in shock, unable to recover. My skin is sticky and hot and raw. A brush of his hand and I may burst into flames or turn to dust. I am spent and deliciously achy. He rolls off the bed, taking his magical hands with him.

  “I need a shower. Join me?” He holds his hand out for me, but I cannot even raise my arm. I smile sleepily at him and nod, unable to peel myself from the bed, unable to take another sensual assault, which is surely what will happen if I get in the shower with him.

  The shower roars to life and I decide to escape to the kitchen while he reluctantly showers alone. My body has been twisted and turned in ways I could never have imagined. I am sore and stiff from being tied up, something that frightened me until the first sensual twist of the rope. I rub at the rope marks that are seared into my skin. The indentations so fresh and tender, row after row of gentle bite, the braid of the rope still evident in my flesh. The slightest pressure and I can feel him all over me again. Anchored to the bed, unable to do anything but absorb all he could give me. He spread me open and made me feel powerful when all my power had been taken away. The rope marks will fade, but I will never forget that. I shake it from my mind and set to work gathering ingredients for waffles. Nothing better than a little sweet carb kick for recovery.

  “What are you doing?” He shines like a god, freshly showered, inky black hair still wet, gently curling at his forehead.

  “Making waffles. You earned it.” I smile before turning back to my work, grabbing a block of sharp cheddar I found hiding in the back of the fridge. I grate the cheese over the bowl of waffle batter.

  “Waffles at two a.m.? Do you know that you are putting cheese in my waffles?” he asks, wrapping his arms around my core, squeezing me tightly before kissing me gently on the shoulder. I shudder under the weight of his kiss. My body is still buzzing from each and every encounter, the intense high building upon itself until I go into some sort of sexual fit. He has turned me into a fully possessed white-hot flame of a woman. I don’t think I will ever be satisfied, he just makes me want more. He makes me utterly greedy and licentious.

  “It is my Mom’s recipe. She always put just a sprinkle of sharp cheddar in her batter, said it made the syrup taste sweeter. She would always make them for my Dad after he went fishing.” He stills behind me, pausing at the mention of my parents. I back up into him, circling my hips against him, wiping the comment away.

  “I feel honored. Can I put on some cooking music for you, Beautiful?” Sweeping my hair out of the way he places a heavy kiss against my neck.

  “Yes, please.”

  Skin still glistening from his recent shower, black silk pants dangle from his hips, torturing me as he walks across the kitchen to the bay of cabinets that houses a nerve center of technology. He grabs a small remote and closes the cabinets. He turns to me with a wolfish grin. Head cocked to the side, he starts the music and saunters towards me with his hands extended for a dance while Louis Armstrong croons for a kiss.

  “Is this appropriate music for waffles?”

  “Yes, I believe it is.” I move into his arms and I’m swept away. Around the kitchen, we sway, moving across the cool marble floors, in our bare feet. Like Fred and Ginger. His strong arm wrapped around my waist, fingers tugging at my warm flesh. His eyes are locked on mine, his hand pulling me closer to him, pressing me into his freshly showered skin. His fingers travel down my arm and stop at my wrist. He brings it slowly to his mouth and kisses the line of each rope mark, gently rubbing the pad of his thumb across the tender flesh.

  “I think this may be romance. A girl could get the wrong idea.” I look up into his eyes, clear green pools, safe and warm. He rests his forehead against mine, presses his hand to the small of my back and pulls me closer.

  “Oh, I already have the wrong idea, Sophie. Perhaps I have decided that it is in my best interest to sweep you off of your feet.”

  “I believe you have successfully done that already. Several times in the last two days.”

  “Really?” He seems genuinely surprised. “You hold your cards tightly. How am I to know?” I am once struck by his inability to read me as I had assumed he could, and his ever burgeoning self-doubt.

  “How about the fact that almost every time you touch me, I fall flat on my back.” He smirks and twists his head.

  “I think your waffles are burning, Beautiful.” He turns me towards the stove and pushes me towards the smoking waffle iron. He laughs at me, removing a piece of coal in the shape of a waffle. “It’s bad luck to eat the first one anyhow. Throw it away and start again.” I manage to make two perfect waffles while he tries his damndest to distract me with his body, his eyes, his mouth. But I am focused on a hearty breakfast so we can get back to bed.

  He sets the marble bar with woven black placemats, basic white china and silver, pours orange juice and watches me flip the last waffle out of the iron. I walk around the bar and take the stool next to him. He winds his arm around my waist and pulls me closer, stool and all. Pulling my hand to his mouth, he brushes hip lips along the deepest rope mark. It travels up my wrist from the base of my hand to my inner elbow. His lips are soft and generous, planting feather light kisses on the sensitive skin inside my elbow. The effort echoes in my groan and I shift slightly on my stool.

  “I love these,” he muses, running his fingers along the deep rope marks that mar the delicate flesh of my other arm. “All right, little lady, let’s get a taste of these cheddar waffles. I have never heard of such a thing, but here we go.” He takes the first bite drizzled with dark maple syrup and pauses. He turns to me and a wide grin spreads across his surprised face. “These are delicious!” He declares

  “Careful now, I might change your life,” I tease, taking a syrupy bite. He stops and watches me intently, willing me to surrender my full attention. The intensity in the set of his shoulders sizzles and I nearly choke, taking a long, slow sip of juice before daring to make e
ye contact. When I look up he is pensive, watching me. Waiting.

  “I have never been with a girl like you, Sophie.” I don’t know what to say, he has caught me in his cross hairs, unprepared, speechless and electrified by his casual confession.

  “What does that mean? A girl like me?”

  “Someone who makes me waffles at 2am.” We eat in silence, savoring the sweet treat. His hand rests on my leg and my foot rests on his stool.

  “This is nice.” Looking up into his eyes, I am struck by how comfortable and familiar we have become in such a short amount of time.

  “What?” he asks, his mouth half full of the last bite of waffle.

  “This. You relaxed, not looming like a force of nature. Me, like this. It just feels good. I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.” He puts his fork down on his empty plate and turns to me. His eyes sharply focused on my face.

  “I loom?” His brows knit together and I suddenly hope I didn’t cross a line or hurt him. I drop my eyes and my voice follows.

  “You can be very intense,” I peek up through my lashes, hoping for a calm and kind reaction, “always flexing that alpha male muscle. This is a different Rhys.”

  “It’s you, Sophie.” He brushes an errant curl away from my face, his finger lingering at my ear. “You have blurred all the lines. I am breaking my own rules.” My heart skips a beat as a rush of pleasure surges through me at the casual manner in which he can talk this way with me. But, I never meant to blur any lines or force his hand in any way. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that little old me could affect a man such as him in such a way. It’s not who I am, not how the world sees me, not how I see myself.

  “Well, thank goodness for air travel. One more day and I will be out of your hair and all will be as it once was. Lines restored, rules reinstated. Tidy, just like you like it.” I watch his face fall slightly before he collects the empty plates and drops them in the sink.