Restrained and Willing
Tiffany Bryan
Heather has met every personal goal she’s ever set. Except one. To make all the sizzling erotic fantasies she penned in her diary a reality. And the only man who can make that happen is the handsome, dominant hunk featured in every one of those thong-soaking scenarios. The only thing standing in her way is Pierce himself and his convoluted views on commitment.
Pierce loves women, but he’s never been in love. Everything changes when he finds and reads Heather’s diary. Page after page of raw, hot disciplinary sex between the two of them starts his lust raging. She’s the one person he shouldn’t want, but he soon discovers she’s the one he needs.
A Romantica® BDSM erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Restrained and Willing
Tiffany Bryan
Dedication
To my sisters, Chris and Diana. Avid romance readers and sisters extraordinaire who never give up on me or my storytelling abilities.
You hold a special place in my heart and my life would be so empty without you. Love you both.
Acknowledgements
Thank you so very much to the following people who read this book when it was so rough I don’t know how they got through it with a straight face or without pulling their hair out. You stuck with me through the final manuscript, never giving up on me, and for your unwavering faith in my talent, I will be forever grateful for your support and friendship during a time in my life when I needed it so very much. Solange Ayre, Doug Johnson, Kathleen Lash, Cathy Matuszak and Barbara Satow.
And last, but by no means least, the “Story Sluts”. An amazing sisterhood of authors and some of the very best friends a person could wish for. You chicks rock!
I would also like to extend my gratitude to my wonderful editor, Briana St. James, who never lost faith in me and whose sensitive, but relentless, encouragement went a long way in seeing this book completed.
A special thanks to Michelle B. for the beautiful, sexy book cover.
Chapter One
Little Heather Thompson was back home.
Only she was a far cry from little anymore.
A fact Pierce Layton was more aware of than he was comfortable with.
A master’s degree, a lucrative New York City marketing career and a recent broken engagement had molded her into a competent grownup with a sharp mind and curvy body guaranteed to induce lust in any male with a heartbeat.
And there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with his heart.
“This is the last of it,” Justin said from the truck apron.
“Umpf.” Sidetracked by his thoughts, Pierce barely caught the heavy box marked Books relayed out of the moving van by Heather’s two brothers. With little effort, he shouldered it.
“Thank God we’re done.” Breathing a huge sigh, Quinn picked up the shirt he’d discarded hours ago and ran it over his dripping face and sweaty chest. “Could the brat have picked a hotter, more humid day to move?”
“Quit your bellyaching, bro, and be grateful she hired a moving company to haul in the big-ass stuff last week.” Justin, the younger of the two by eighteen months, hopped down, and picking up the remainder of his water bottle, upended its contents over his head. “Damn. That feels good.” He shook his head and sent a fan of droplets in Pierce’s direction.
“Asshole.”
Justin’s shit-eating grin was momentarily hidden by his hands as he swiped up and over his face to smooth back his drenched hair. He looked up at Quinn. “Besides, ever since she wised up and dumped that doormat doctor she almost married, you’re the one who bugged the hell out of her to come home.”
“He was not a doormat.” Heather skipped down the steps of the concrete stoop and walked up to the back of the truck. “He was kind, caring and undemanding.”
Quinn rolled his eyes and jumped down from the truck. “In other words…borrring.”
Eyes narrowed, she popped him in the back of the head.
“Watch it, little sister. You’re not so big I can’t toss you over my knee and tan that disrespectful butt of yours.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sensitive. Joel was sensitive. A totally alien concept for you testosterone-riddled gorillas.”
“Hey!” Pierce held up his free hand. “Don’t include me in this family squabble. I didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe not.” Beneath finely arched brows, her deep-brown eyes sparkled up at him. “But I know what you were thinking.”
No, sweetheart, you don’t. If she had a clue about what he was thinking, she’d charge back up those stairs and throw the deadbolt on the damn door.
And if he had any survival instincts where she was concerned, he’d head out in the opposite direction. But her brother’s playful threat to toss Heather over his knee took on a very different connotation when Pierce pictured her soft body bent over his own lap. An arousing scenario for a man who was into sexual discipline as he was.
And didn’t that just scare the living shit out of him.
Christ, she was his best friends’ kid sister. The pesky, ponytailed tomboy who’d blackmailed her way into tagging along with them more times than he could count.
“Come on.” She turned toward the upscale loft she’d bought in downtown Cleveland’s refurbished warehouse district. “Pizza will be here in fifteen minutes and I have some ice-cold beers in the fridge.” She headed for the steps, leaving them to follow with the last three items from the truck.
Pierce should have let one of her brothers go ahead of him. Last thing he needed right now, after Quinn’s spanking comment, was an unimpeded view of Heather’s tight jeans-covered ass sashaying up the stairs. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to picture Heather bent over one of the padded benches at Freedom Club, her delectable bare ass glowing red from a paddling by his own hand.
He shook his head to clear the image. The toe of his running shoe caught the next step. He crashed into the wall with a thud.
“Shit!”
“You okay?” Heather swerved around, her voice filled with concern. And an annoying hint of humor.
“Fine.” He motioned for her to continue up the stairs.
Once in the spacious living room area, she directed the men to the appropriate rooms to offload their burdens.
Just his rotten luck. The box of books he’d hauled up was slated for her bedroom.
He looked at the spiraling two-story staircase and groaned.
“Don’t be such a wuss,” Heather mocked with a too-sweet smile, misinterpreting his reaction. “A piece of cake for a big…strong…macho man like you.” She wrapped both hands around the biceps of his free arm and squeezed.
He felt the warmth of her touch all the way to his bones and could easily imagine her small, delicate hands wrapped around his engorged cock as she pumped slowly and dipped her head to take his heated flesh between her sweet lips.
Damn it, he needed an ice-cold shower. Not that he held out any hope it would douse the sudden, unexpected combustion of lust she provoked.
Not trusting himself to speak, he moved toward the staircase. He shifted the box to a two-handed grip to accommodate the confining space and wound his way to the second floor.
At the top, he scanned the huge room he never in a million years expected to set foot in.
No lacy frills for their little tomboy.
Spacious. Uncluttered. Or at least it would be once all the moving boxes around the room were emptied and their contents stowed. The walls were a dark green. Saturated by the megawatt sunlight that blasted through the solid multi-paned wall of glass facing a calm Lake Erie. An inviting view. Although, not nearly as inviting as the king-sized bed plunked down smack in the center of the room. Covered by a thick off-white sprea
d that screamed comfort, the king-sized mattress was sandwiched by hefty wrought iron.
Given the sturdiness of the head and footboards, it wasn’t a far stretch to envision Heather sprawled out naked, her silky splayed limbs manacled to the solid frames, the square black pillows at the head of the bed wedged under her shapely ass. Putting her sweet pussy at just the right level. Open and available for…
Pierce broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with hauling boxes and furniture for the better part of the day.
Enough, idiot! Dump the box and get the hell out of here.
He noticed an available spot along the far wall and headed there. Five steps into the room, the bottom of the box broke open. Books flooded out, hit the thick white carpet and scattered.
He glared at the dangling bottom flaps. Fuck. One piece of tape. Figured.
After folding and leaning the empty carton against a stack of others, he looked down at the array of dark-hued covers at his feet.
Holy shit! The only time he’d seen more naked flesh was at Freedom Club.
Kneeling, he began stacking the explicit novels off to the side, shaking his head at some of the titles.
Bound and Determined
Punishing Rose
Power Exchange
Dark Fantasies
Mistress in Training
Midnight Taming
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Don’t go there, he counseled himself. Just leave it alone. So what if Heather indulged her free time by reading erotic romance books. Lots of women did. It didn’t mean they actually wanted to be dominated…disciplined. They just wanted to experience it vicariously in the nice safe environment of their imaginations.
The only hot thing waiting for him downstairs was a friggin’ pizza.
And a mind-numbing ice-cold beer, which he desperately needed at the moment.
He gathered the rest of the books, trying his best to ignore the suggestive titles slashed across the fronts of the paperbacks. Halfway done, he noticed a trail of novels that disappeared beneath the hem of the bedspread. Lifting the fabric, he reached under the bed and scooped them out.
Among the dark covers was a smaller pale-blue one. No picture. No author’s name. Just My Fantasies embossed in fancy gold lettering across the front. He picked it up and turned it over.
Totally blank on the back.
He flipped it open and was smacked by two pages of neat handwriting.
Not a book. Heather’s diary.
It would be wrong on so many levels for him to read it. These were the brat’s private thoughts. He should bury it among the others. Stack them neatly into a pile and head downstairs.
His good intentions were shot to hell when he saw his name.
* * * * *
She was alone in her condo, the men had been gone for over an hour. Heather strolled through her loft apartment.
It felt so damn good to be home.
More important, it was damn good to leave the façade of her perfect life behind in New York in preparation for meeting the life she’d fantasized about, craved, for what seemed an eternity, head-on. Why she’d denied her own sexual needs for so long was a worthless attempt at self-analysis. She knew what she wanted and Pierce was the man who could give it to her and she was prepared to pull every feminine weapon, fair or foul, from her seductive arsenal to snag him.
Apparently time and distance wasn’t all it was cracked up to be since it hadn’t diminished her desires for the one man she’d always pictured spending the rest of her life with, but had convinced herself was unattainable.
Unfortunately, her ex-fiancé was not that man. Joel, bless his romantic over-accommodating heart, was going to make some lucky girl a very faithful, very safe husband.
Safe wasn’t a word Heather equated to sex. Except in terms of her physical and mental safety. Modern liberation aside, when it came to her body she wanted to be put through her paces, pushed to her limits and beyond.
She let her thoughts drift back through the years and the numerous times her brothers had lectured that her insatiable curiosity would be her downfall.
She chuckled.
Hell, what they’d actually said was her snooping was going to land her in deep shit someday.
Regardless of the way the warning was couched, she preferred to view her present circumstances as a long-awaited rebirth.
And she knew who she could trust her sexual resurrection to.
The man she’d lusted after for as long as she could remember.
Pierce.
It had taken a box of books to get him into her bedroom. Had he liked what he saw? Had he given any thought to her newly purchased head- and foot-boards?
She plopped down on her large tan leather couch and took the tortoiseshell clip out of her hair. A quick shake of her head set free the long, twisted brown strands from atop her head.
With a sigh, she stretched out, let her head sink into a downy accent pillow and let her mind wander as she stared up at the slow-moving ceiling fan two stories above her.
She couldn’t wait to find out what Pierce thought of the heavy-duty hooks embedded at varying heights in the wall behind the ebony lacquered screen opposite her bed. Or his reaction to the collection of items concealed in the hidden compartment in her walk-in closet?
She closed her eyes and smiled.
She’d been up in her bedroom earlier. Had seen the neatly stacked erotic romance books in the far corner. He hadn’t mentioned them, even jokingly, when he’d rejoined them for pizza and beer. If he had, her brothers would have teased her without mercy.
Instead, Pierce had been unusually quiet. As if something were weighing heavily on his mind. Had he been shocked by her choice in literature? Or did the highly suggestive covers spur his imagination? Launch his lust into tempting forbidden territories? Like they did hers?
After being in his enticing company for the better part of the day, seeing the impressive flex and bulge of his muscles, being treated to the intoxicating combination of sweat and a fading scent of soap, she’d gone in search of her diary. The events of the day, her lust-filled thoughts, the way her pussy throbbed when he was within ten feet, all definitely note-worthy.
When a short search proved futile, she had a pretty good idea where it had disappeared to.
Slipped into the back waistband of Pierce’s well-worn jeans, covered by his T-shirt, the thin volume would have been easy to conceal. Not the first volume she’d filled with her licentious fantasies. But by far, the most descriptive. Voraciously reading erotic romance books had taught her the allure of detailed description.
Most women would be furious that a man was privy to her deepest, darkest thoughts. Feel it was a breach of privacy. Heather was ecstatic.
Fate couldn’t have had better timing.
She let her head fall to the side, a grin easing across her lips.
As a teenager, she’d rifled through her brothers’ rooms, read her fair share of their girlie magazines. She even hid under Quinn’s bed once when they and Pierce had watched movies from their hidden stash. Once she’d discovered their hiding place, she’d secretly watched them on her own.
At eighteen, she’d stumbled across a movie that set her maturing hormones bounding off in a direction she’d never imagined. Although the sibling half of her mind shied away from the fact it was most likely filmed by her brothers, there was no shying away from the main character. A twenty-five-year-old Pierce. Mouthwatering. Lust-inducing. Deliciously half-naked, his upper body ripped. Testimony of his longstanding love affair with fitness. Defined musculature he wore as casually as some men wore a well-worn T-shirt.
The two women in the movie with him had worn masks. But there was no masking the pleasure they were deriving from what was being done to them.
She sighed, thinking of the copy of the video she’d burned, safely tucked away upstairs.
Maybe, if she were very, very lucky she’d watch it with Pierce one day. Entice him into a remake,
with her as his leading lady.
A delighted shiver rushed through her.
The fact that she was invading the men’s privacy never entered her curious, unrepentant mind.
Raised in a household of men after her mother’s accidental death in a car crash, there was a decided lack of feminine counseling. Sitting through one bumbling male attempt to explain a woman’s bodily functions convinced her to take matters into her own hands. Never one to tiptoe to a goal, she’d decided to take the fast track to sexual education. Snooping.
A habitual pastime that had netted her the the mother of all prizes a few days before she’d been packed off to Yale.
Three membership contracts to a place called simply Freedom Club.
After a couple of frustrating hours and an inept sleuthing gift for following obscure threads of internet information, she’d found the site for the exclusive, membership-by-invitation-only sex club. Complete with pictures.
Her breath quickened at the memory.
She reached down, slid her jeans and thong off in one quick shove, tossed them to the floor and spread her legs.
One foot on the floor, the other hooked onto the back of the butter-soft sofa, she sucked her fingers into her mouth to moisten them and without hesitation, drew her hand down and plunged her fingers deep inside her wet, aching pussy.
Played out in her mind innumerable times, the vivid picture was easy to replicate.
Pierce. Sophisticated. Half-naked. Leather spanking paddle in hand. Muscular chest, gleaming with a fine sheen of sweat from his exertions. In total control. Of her.
The slightly longer hair on the top of his dark head smoothed back. His permanent five o’clock shadow giving a slightly sinister look to the delineated angles of his handsome face, his green eyes lit with a sensual fire that ignited a roaring heat between her legs.
Heather picked up the rhythm of her plunging fingers. Moaned as the envisioned scenario played out.
Bent over a padded bench. Completely open. Helpless, unable to deny… No, not unable. Eagerly willing to do whatever Pierce demanded. Anything to please him.
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