Bound and Determined

by Sierra Cartwright

  He pulled up the blankets and covered her naked shoulders.

  “Are you going to leave me naked and bound?” she demanded.

  “Indeed I am. I want a peaceful night’s sleep.”

  “If I can’t turn over or if I’m cold I won’t be having a peaceful night.”

  “More’s the pity.”

  “You’re seriously going to treat me like a captive and keep—”

  “Sub,” he interrupted, turning onto his side and gathering her close. He shaped his body to hers and placed an arm across her torso. His partially aroused cock bumped against her lovely behind.

  “Semantics.”

  “Cease your struggles,” he told her. “If you were a proper sub, you’d happily go along with my wishes because they’re my wishes.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “And that’s why you’ll be kept naked and confined for the rest of the night.”

  “Beast,” she said, but the word lacked real heat. She kept her body rigid for a few moments before slowly relaxing.

  He smiled against her hair. So, this was what peace felt like with this woman. He decided to enjoy it, knowing it wouldn’t last long.

  Chapter Seven

  “Top of the morning, Mistress O’Malley.”

  No one actually said that anymore. Not sincerely. So that meant Sinead was having a nightmare, a living, nasty, vicious nightmare. And Quinn was the centre of it all.

  “Wake up, vixen. Móraí would like to meet you.”

  His grandmother wanted to meet her?

  Sinead blinked against the grit in her eyes. Her head ached and her confined arm had grown numb.

  The memory of last night flooded back. On its wings were an illicit thrill and a sense of shame from being out of control, for asking him to do unspeakable things to her. No one, anywhere, anytime, had got the response from her that her mortal enemy had. She hated that.

  And damn it, she hated that he looked so devastatingly handsome.

  He wore a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a pair of trousers that accented his firm buttocks. The black suited him perfectly, with his dark Irish looks and lord of the manor attitude. “Unfasten me so that I can choke you.”

  “You truly are a ray of sunshine in the mornings.”

  “Does téigh transa ort féin mean anything to you?”

  “I’ll take go fuck yourself as an invitation to join you in bed and sample a few more of your delicacies? I have not, for example, put nipple clamps on you.” He shot a glance towards a partially open drawer.

  It was the one, she presumed, where he’d found the butt plug last night.

  Seemingly unperturbed by her behaviour or the fact he still had her tied to the bedpost, he stood near the bed and sipped deeply from a stout mug.

  “Coffee?” she asked. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Is that coffee? Not tea?”

  “Coffee. American. Hot.” He took a drink. “Strong. A splash of cream, a couple of spoons of sugar. It’s prepared just the way you like it, if I recall.”

  Despite herself, her mouth moistened.

  Damn it, it wasn’t just from the idea of coffee. It was from him. He stood there, a thick Aran sweater emphasising the breadth of his shoulders. She was mesmerised by him, his dark eyes, the hypnotic shape of his lips, the firm, square shape of his chin.

  She was all-too-aware of her nakedness and the way she’d so wantonly submitted to him. But it had been more than simple submission.

  Sinead turned her head to the side, looking away from him, trying to gather her wits.

  She’d been vulnerable and needy.

  She’d wanted his possession.

  Everything he’d given her had made her hungry for more.

  Who knew all that had been in her? Who knew her hated enemy was the one man to bring it to the surface, to make her scream out an orgasm and beg for more? “There’s more?” she asked.

  He took a few moments answering. Over the mug’s rim, he casually mentioned, “There’s a full pot downstairs. I brewed it for you.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll bring me a cup.”

  “Sinead, I’ll fetch you anything you’d like.”

  For a moment, just a moment, she believed him.

  “None too worse for wear?”

  “I’ll never be able to use my arm again. It’s probably pulled from the socket.”

  He put the mug on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the mattress. “I’ll need your word that you won’t run again.”

  “Quinn—”

  “Your word, Sinead.”

  “This is intolerable.” At this point, she’d do almost anything to be released from her bondage and for a cup of coffee.

  She struggled to sit up, and he was there, silently helping her, lending his strength and his support. The sheets slipped, exposing her breasts and her hardening nipples.

  The colour of his eyes seemed to darken.

  As if he couldn’t help himself, he leant forward.

  Her back was against the headboard. Her arm was still tied. She had nowhere to go.

  She knew his intent—it was telegraphed in the set of his jaw.

  He cupped her left breast. Despite herself, her pussy moistened. What is it about this man? He squeezed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

  “Perfect for clamps,” he told her.

  She shuddered.

  He tightened his grip and her hips jerked.

  He kept her breast cupped in his palm. He moved his head forward. After slowly releasing the taut nipple, he sucked the nub into his mouth. He gently bit, then he used his tongue to press the flesh against the back of his teeth.

  “I could come from just this,” she confessed.

  He shook his head.

  Denied the orgasm, she irrationally tried to scoot farther away, as if that would diminish the demanding need. But she was trapped, at his mercy.

  He tightened the grip of his hand and plumped her flesh.

  “I need you to stop, or I need permission to come.”

  He showed mercy.

  With agonising deliberation, he released her, first the pressure on her nipple, then he moved his tongue completely away then he uncupped his hand.

  It was then that she realised he’d showed no mercy.

  She was totally hot for him. Her breaths were ragged. She curled the fingers of her free hand into a fist. The need for an orgasm throbbed an unrelenting demand.

  He was a master, skilled at seduction. He knew exactly what he was doing.

  “Where was I?” he asked. “Letting you go so you can come downstairs for a cup of coffee? Or tying your other arm and your legs and putting nipple clamps on you and watching your writhe as I use a lash lightly on your swollen cunt?”

  Coffee was forgotten as that torturous image pushed her even closer to an orgasm. Her lips parted. “You really are a perfect sub. After coffee, I’ll get out the clamps.”

  She nearly whimpered her disappointment.

  “Before I release you, I’ll have your word that you’ll behave yourself in front of my grandmother.”

  “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am,” she snapped. “I will treat your grandmother with respect.”

  He nodded. He probably realised that was the best he could hope for.

  It took him only a few seconds to unfasten her wrist. “Move slowly.” He rubbed her wrist.

  She gasped. A sharp pain shot through her arm. She hadn’t been bound tightly. He’d left her plenty of slack so that she could move, but she was shocked by the pain of returning circulation.

  He soothed her, stroking her hair. Then he completely distracted her by stroking her pussy.

  She dug in her heels, arching towards him.

  She’d rather have him an enemy than this. Kindness she didn’t know what to do with.

  “You’re slick. In a word, perfect.”

  She didn’t want to think of herself as his submissive. But her body objected to her mind’s decision. Her body felt
wanton. She craved his domination.

  He continued to care for her until her arm felt nearly normal again.

  This was a paradox she didn’t know how to solve. He tied her, but he comforted her.

  He helped her from the bed. “I’ll give you five minutes in the toilet,” he said. “Leave the door cracked open else I’ll remove it from the hinges.”

  She pulled a sheet from the bed and wrapped it around her.

  Sinead dashed for the bathroom. He brought his foot down, hard, on the sheet. The material floated to the floor. And damn him, the scowl she cast over her shoulder didn’t seem to impress him at all.

  In the bathroom, she collapsed against the wall.

  Her emotions were topsy-turvy, her body ached. And thoughts of Jack Quinn crowded out everything else. They were sworn enemies, but more and more, she was having difficulty remembering that. How could a man so hated make her so weak?

  Sinead took every moment of the allotted five minutes, and threw in an extra few seconds for good measure.

  “Sinead?” He pushed the door open.

  “Patience is not a virtue in your clan?”

  “In the clan, aye. In me? No.”

  “And privacy?”

  “Submissives receive none.” He curved his hands around her upper arms and pulled her nude body close, then closer still. “For example, I want to fuck you thoroughly. Not just arouse you, mind you. I want to have my cock in you.”

  His arousal thrust against her belly. If it weren’t for his trousers, she suspected he’d take her as he promised, as he threatened, despite the fact his grandmother awaited them.

  He nipped at her right ear lobe.

  “Quinn,” she protested.

  He laved the tiny hurt with the tip of his tongue.

  Her nipples had remained hard. Her pussy still throbbed. He cupped a breast, as if weighing it. Juices flooded her.

  At each turn, she proved him right. She was naturally submissive to him.

  “Get dressed, lass, ‘afore I change my mind.”

  “Maybe I’m hoping you changed your mind.”

  He laughed. The sound was as rich and intoxicating as the man himself.

  “Your clothes are in the bottom two dresser drawers.”

  She pulled away from him and hurried to the corner of the room where he’d left her baggage. She was all-too-aware of him standing there, legs spread shoulder-width apart, arms folded as he watched her every move.

  “If it ‘twouldn’t shock máthair Chríona, I’d keep you naked.”

  She donned a bra then pulled on a T-shirt.

  “What fresh hell is this?” he asked, reading her the writing across her chest. He raised his brows.

  She refused to be embarrassed. “It’s not what I would usually select to meet someone’s grandmother. Next time you kidnap me, buy me some clothes.”

  “The naked thing is sounding more tempting than ever.”

  A deadly, wicked gleam entered his blue eyes.

  Quickly she wriggled into a skirt, just in case he was serious.

  He held open the bedroom door and preceded her down the stairs, evidently not taking any chances.

  She noticed that the front door was still bolted.

  With an outstretched palm, he indicated she should precede him into the breakfast room.

  The room was as striking as the rest of the home. Watercolours of outdoor scenes hung on the walls. There were several floor-to-ceiling windows with heavy drapes pulled back. Sunlight streamed in.

  He announced their presence.

  When the woman turned from one of the windows, he said, “Móraí, may I present Sinead O’Malley. Sinead, my grandmother, Catherine Quinn.”

  When he addressed his grandmother, his voice held a tender note. Móraí was an affectionate term, one he’d likely used since boyhood. It revealed another side she found dangerously appealing and endearing. The man was making it more and more difficult to hate him.

  “Sinead. It’s my pleasure.” Tall and regal, Catherine Quinn resembled a warrior princess. Even though she leaned on a cane for support, the years had been kind. With grace and a simultaneous air of command, she crossed the room. She stopped in front of them and smiled brightly. The corners of the woman’s eyes crinkled in genuine welcome.

  Sinead was taken aback again.

  She’d spent her life despising the Quinns and resenting their success and wealth. And yet the clan’s matriarch seemed warm, holding no hostility.

  Catherine leant on the cane with her left hand and extended her right hand, saying, “Thank you for accepting my invitation. I’m afraid I spent several sleepless nights afraid you wouldn’t come.”

  Sinead fired a scowl at Jack. “I was given little choice in the matter, ma’am. It wasn’t phrased as an invitation.”

  “Oh?” She shot her grandson a stern look. “Is that right, Jack?” Catherine asked.

  He ran a finger beneath his collar.

  Jack had warned her to mind her manners and she’d also been raised to respect her elders. But she couldn’t fight her innate sense of fair play. She wanted his behaviour on the table. She didn’t want Catherine believing she’d issued an invitation and that it had been cordially accepted. That would be dishonest.

  She accepted Catherine’s extended hand. “It seems your family has a history of kidnapping O’Malley women.”

  “Kidnapping, is it?” Catherine asked her grandson, her head cocked to the side.

  “Sinead…” His soft word of warning was wrapped in a sheath of anger.

  “He warned me to mind my manners with you,” Sinead told Catherine. “I think I’m in for some terrible trouble now.”

  “Nonsense. My grandson is as kind as the day is long.”

  During winter in Siberia.

  “Right,” he agreed.

  Catherine used her cane for support as she lowered herself into a high-backed chair at the head of the table. “Do not dare,” she told Jack when he tried to assist her. “Men in this family,” she said to Sinead. “Think they can solve everything for their women.”

  “Physically.”

  She heard his growl.

  “Please have a seat, child,” Catherine said, indicating the chair to her right. “And you,” she told Jack, “can pour our guest a cup of tea, if you will.” She indicated the sideboard, with a lovely teapot in a colourful cosy. An assortment of pastries was arranged on a two-tiered serving plate.

  “Coffee, please,” Sinead managed, as she took the seat. “The promise of a cup was the only thing that got me out of bed.”

  “Anything for your highness,” he asked, clearly annoyed by her behaviour and his grandmother ordering him to fulfil host duties.

  She smiled sunnily. “Of course. Perhaps a scone or croissant, as well. Chocolate something or other.”

  “The coffee is in the kitchen, I believe,” Catherine told him.

  “Yes, I know. I brewed it already.”

  Catherine cleared her throat. “Go on with you, my boy.”

  He clearly saw what his grandmother was about and he didn’t like it. Well and all, wasn’t that too bad? Sinead wanted a minute or two alone with the clan matriarch as much as Catherine seemed to want time with her.

  “He’s not a bad sort, actually,” Catherine said after he left the room. She picked up her china cup, the nearly translucent porcelain appearing delicate in her grip.

  “If you go for brutes.”

  The cup didn’t even rattle as she returned it to its saucer. “He’s a brute, is he?”

  “Terrible.”

  “And you haven’t blackened his eye?”

  Sinead laughed. Suddenly she liked the older woman, especially as she hadn’t raised a brow at Sinead’s attire.

  “He’s terribly protective of me. And since the silver comb on my pillow…” She spread some butter on a cream cracker. “I’m afraid he’s certain I’m going to pop off.”

  His tenderness towards his grandmother threatened, again, to melt Sinead’s
heart. She knew how irrational thoughts could be when love was involved. Hadn’t she rung her mother incessantly until she dragged the woman from her bed? “The comb was on your pillow?”

  “Aye, it was.”

  “But it shouldn’t mean anything. The Banshee follows my family.”

  “There’s more to the legend,” Catherine said.

  Jack re-joined them in a clatter of china and silver, interrupting the conversation.

  Instead of sitting across from Sinead, at his grandmother’s left hand, he took the chair next to Sinead.

  He placed a mug of coffee in front of her then offered a plate containing a flaky croissant.

  He moved his chair close to hers. Hoping to control her? Maybe use his presence to threaten her? Either way, he was in for a shock. Sinead wasn’t easily intimidated. She tore off one end of the pastry. “Your grandmother wants to know why I haven’t blackened your eye.”

  He choked on a drink of coffee.

  “I’ve wondered the same thing. But since you’ve brought coffee, I’ll tolerate you another few minutes.” She took a sip. “Fabulous. Thank you. A bit more cream might have been nice.”

  “As you would say, wombat, bite me.”

  “Jack Neil Quinn,” Catherine warned.

  “Jack Neil Quinn,” Sinead repeated. “That must be the name they call you when you’re in trouble.” Unaccountably she was enjoying her visit much more. “I’ll bet you’ve been called by your full name rather frequently.”

  He dragged her chair ever closer to his. Uncomfortably close. Impolitely close.

  Sinead inhaled the scent of him, that of Irish countryside and the hint of autumn rain.

  He put his hand on her bare knee and squeezed.

  It wasn’t a polite touch, or even a warning grip. It was a promise of forthcoming retribution.

  She didn’t heed the warning, though, fool that she was.

  As she took another sip of coffee, he tightened his grip.

  She tried to stay still; she tried not to flinch. But damn it, in his grandmother’s ancestral house, in the formal breakfast room, Sinead’s pussy moistened.

  She enjoyed goading Quinn. Part of her wanted to see how far she could push him. What in the name of creation was wrong with her? He intoxicated her. Since she’d had a taste of him, she wanted more. She wanted his punishment. She wanted him.