Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  “How come this is the first I’m hearing about this?” I query, my tone picking up in conjunction with my attitude.

  My drastic shift in mood is not surprising. Abel has the type of aura that rubs off on you. I have no doubt even someone with a heart as black as Delilah’s would have a hard time ignoring his charisma.

  My girly giggle jingles around the washroom when Abel does a little jig on the spot. His dance moves are similar to the ones he broke out last week when he spotted Marcus carrying me over his shoulder as he raced to show me his newly constructed playroom. For a man his age, he sure can move.

  “I can’t reveal all my talents, Ms. Cleo. I don’t want to give Mr. Everett any more competition than he already has.”

  Heat blemishes my cheeks over his statement. If I’m being honest, my blushing response isn’t solely based on his brazen retort; it also comes from having two people in a small space.

  Suddenly, my mouth gapes as my spine straightens. “That’s why you knew how to fire a gun? From your years of service?”

  Abel winks, soundlessly confirming my suspicion. “Although it has been a few years since I’ve fired my gun, I most certainly enjoyed blowing out her old cobwebs.”

  I smile. “Bet that wasn’t an opportunity you thought my arrival would bring you.”

  Abel’s dance moves stop before his gaze meets mine. “You brought many things I never suspected, Ms. Cleo,” he confirms, his tone laced with unchallenged gratitude.

  I firm my stance, preparing for the physical blow I’m about to receive. It's lucky I trust my body’s intuition, as Abel hits me with my hardest blow of the week when he says, “You brought joy to my boy I thought I’d never see before my demise. You fulfilled the wish I’ve been pledging to accomplish for over two decades.”

  Abel cuts off my rebuttal by lifting his index finger in the air. “I’m not saying I’m going anywhere anytime soon, Ms. Cleo. I am merely stating a fact. Before you, Marcus was reserved, closed off. . .” My shock of him calling Marcus by his first name doesn’t register before he adds on, “controlled. You're changing him for the better. You’re making him the man he has always strived to be.”

  “That’s not by his choice, though, Abel. He is being forced to change by influences outside of his control.” I try to keep my devastation out of my tone. I miserably fail.

  “You can’t truly believe that, Ms. Cleo. I’ve seen him with you away from this.” He gestures his hand to the thick door that's unable to conceal the flurry of activity happening downstairs. “The man who had me trekking all over the city to find the exact wide tooth comb your wild mane requires is not a man influenced by others. He is man persuaded by his heart.”

  It's the fight of my life to ignore the prickling of moisture in my eyes, but I give it my very best shot. Abel has already seen me bare my stomach to the world; he doesn’t need to handle a blubbering Cleo as well.

  Realizing he has me stumped for a reply, Abel takes the empty seat next to me. In his black suit and crisp white shirt, he makes sitting on a cold-tiled floor look trendy. I feel the raging beat of his heart through his hands when he curls them around mine.

  “People often mistake the leaders of the community as being the most influential. I don’t. Power lasts for years, but influence lasts a lifetime.”

  6

  I stop packing Lexi’s Indian hipster dress into my suitcase when the hairs on my arms prickle to attention. After my discussion with Abel, I had every intention of taking a shower and crawling into bed. It was only when I saw my suitcase sitting open on the bed in Marcus’s master suite did my plans alter. I won’t lie; my eyes have welled with more tears than I can count the past thirty minutes. I wanted to believe Abel’s assumption that I was here via Marcus’s choice, but seeing my suitcase thrusted my imminent departure back to the forefront of my mind, effectively squashing any hope of believing I am here as Marcus’s guest. I am only here because he was strong-armed into bringing me here.

  My sweep of the room stops when my eyes lock in on a figure standing at the end of the walk-in-closet. Although my vision is hazed with unshed tears, I don’t need 20/20 sight to know who is standing there, gawking at me with a set of angry eyes. The way my breathing switched from ragged gasps to shallow pants is all the indication I need to know it's Marcus watching me.

  Resting my backside on the balls of my feet, I watch him span the distance between us. Like every moment we are together, the air is fired with heady lust. The only thing dampening the electricity is the desolate glint darkening Marcus’s eyes. Although his outside appearance is as well put together as it always is, his eyes show he feels just as tormented as I do right now.

  I hate that I’m being so melodramatic. If I sat back and viewed the entire picture, I would have known this was bound to happen. This is the exact reason I’ve kept my distance from everyone the past four years, because I didn’t want to feel the pain when they left. My life has had a lot of ups and downs the past seven years, but indisputably the most horrific was losing my family. That hurt beyond description. It was a pain I’d never wish on my worst enemy. One I wish I’d never have to experience again. Unfortunately, that isn’t going to be the case.

  “Why are you packing?” Marcus mutters, his low timbre causing a chill to run down my spine “Abel was going to do that for you in the morning.”

  Although my heart warms at the mentioning of Abel’s name, it does nothing to ease the pain. Actually, it makes it ten times worse. I’m going to miss Abel more than I can express. Four days ago, he was a stranger; today, he is family. Our interaction in the washroom this evening was brief, but compelling enough to last a lifetime. He and his smooth dance moves are always going to have a special place in my heart.

  My eyes drift between Marcus’s heavy-hooded gaze when he seizes my wrists and lifts me from the ground. The squealing protest of my muscles signals I’ve been packing for longer than I realized.

  Remaining quiet, Marcus places his hand on the curve of my back and paces toward the master bathroom. When he did similar things the past week, sexual energy would crackle and hiss in the air. But not tonight. Don’t get me wrong, our natural sexual compatibility is still there, but for once, my morals are outweighing the desires of my body.

  The closer we get to the master bath, the more frantically my eyes bounce around our surroundings, vainly trying to find an excuse not to enter the bathroom. Even with my nerves balancing on a steep cliff, I know I can’t trust myself alone with Marcus. I can barely control myself around him as it is, let alone in an intimate setting where clothing is not a requirement.

  I roll my eyes when my fake yawn comes out sounding more like a yearning moan than a yawn. “I’m so beat, I’m just going to pop straight into bed. I don’t need a shower—”

  “Shh, Cleo,” Marcus interrupts.

  His deep tone returns the energy missing mere seconds ago with a vengeance. Lust hangs so densely in the air, I can barely breathe through its vivacity.

  My core tightens when Marcus mutters, “I’ve showered you every day we’ve been here, and I’ll continue showering you every day once we leave.”

  I don’t respond to his remark. I can’t. The briskness of his tone and the dominating verve vibrating out of him has shunted me into heightened stupidity. I don’t need to peer into his eyes to know who is standing before me.

  Master Chains has arrived.

  The lighting in the bathroom automatically switches on when Marcus swings open the thick Balinese door. My heart kicks into a mad beat, spurred on by an odd combination of anxiety and excitement. It grows in intensity the further we merge into the bathroom.

  Once we arrive at the side of the large double shower, Marcus’s hands shoot down to the hem of my shirt. His warm breath fans my heated cheeks when he whips my shirt off with a sense of urgency. My bra follows not even two seconds later. After discarding my shirt and bra on the floor, he switches his attention to the fastener on my skirt. Although him undressing me is nothing
new, he’s never done it with such urgency before. Usually, he takes his time, savoring every inch of my skin as if it's a gifted treasure slowly being revealed.

  I remain frozen in place, shocked and incredibly turned on when he begins removing his clothes with the same anticipation he had when stripping me. Morally, I know I should stop this before it goes too far, but I also know that will never happen. I am lost to this man. I’m so far gone, I’ll take any little piece he is willing to give me. I want him to sweep away my pain, to wash away the horrid thoughts plaguing me—some old, others new.

  Gratitude pumps into me when Marcus helps me into the shower. Warm water glides down my cheeks, successfully concealing an annoying rogue tear that unwillingly spilled from my eye. Although angry I can’t control my childish sobs, there isn’t much I can do about them. My eyes have been brimming with moisture all day, so it was only a matter of time before tears would eventually fall.

  As the steaming hot water conceals my tears, Marcus tugs an elastic band out of my hair, freeing my locks from their tight restraint. Once my hair falls to my shoulders, I close my eyes and lean deeper into the spray, allowing the water to wash dirt from my body as efficiently as it soothes my battered heart.

  Just like he has done every day the past four days, Marcus commences nurturing me. He shampoos my hair before lathering my body with the soft heavenliness of a cashmere and seaweed shower puff. His loving nature has me double-guessing my initial assumption that I am in the presence of Master Chains. Usually, the man who showers me every day is Marcus. Master Chains only emerges in his playroom, or when mine and Abel’s taunting becomes too bothersome for him.

  When I pop my eyes open, I realize neither of my theories are accurate. I’m at a loss on who is standing in front of me. Although Marcus’s eyes are crammed with pussy-quaking dominance, and his sharp jaw is firm and rigid, he is nurturing me in a way I’ve only experienced in Marcus’s realm. It's like he is stuck between two parallels. He wants to dominant me and nurture me at the same time.

  My thighs squeeze together as an endless stream of wicked thoughts bombards me. Images of all things I could experience being in the presence of both Marcus and Master Chains hit me so hard and fast, my tiredness soon becomes a distant memory. I’m hot and needy in a matter of seconds, my hankering impelled by not only the roughish thoughts quickening my pulse, but also the glorious visual of Marcus naked. He is standing so close to me, the heat of his flesh scorches my skin more than the sweltering water pumping out of the showerhead. Just imagine, a caring, nurturing Marcus with an edge of dominance he usually reserves for a playroom environment? Just the thought has my astuteness severely wavering, and don’t even get me started on my race to climax.

  When Marcus catches me staring at his impressive erection, he places his hand under my chin and lifts my head. The tingling sensation hampering my sex doubles when my eyes lock with his commanding, yet hesitant gaze. He looks like a man who ordered every item on the menu, but he doesn’t know which decadent piece to sample first. I don’t care where he starts, he just needs to hurry before he discovers the true power he has over me. He truly is a Master. He hasn’t even touched me yet, and I’m already teetering on the edge of orgasmic bliss.

  With his eyes arrested on mine, Marcus rinses the shampoo from my hair. My horniness grows more rampant with every perfect massage his long, dexterous fingers inflict on my scalp. My breathing turns urgent when a few of his hearty kneads erotically tug my hair. He continues with his routine of gentle strokes and painful tugs until my hair is void of shampoo.

  My eyes pop open when Marcus switches off the water faucet and steps out of the shower. Confusion overwhelms me. This is not how our shower sessions usually end.

  Noticing I’ve failed to follow him out of the shower, Marcus’s eyes lift from the towel he is drying himself with to me. His brow arches into his hairline as he takes in my wide-eyed appearance. I can tell the instant he reads the expression on my face. Not only does the spark of dominance in his eyes grow tenfold, but the thickness of his cock also increases.

  My hope of him washing away the agony still encumbering my insides dissipates when he shakes his head. “No, Cleo. You make me too reckless; I don’t trust myself.” He continues shaking his head while handing me a towel.

  With my hands fisted at my side, I keep my eyes arrested on him. “Please, Master Chains,” I shamefully beg, leaving my dignity at the door. “You might not trust yourself, but I trust you.”

  I should be ashamed I’ve lowered myself to begging for him to converse with me, but I’m not. If this is my last chance of interacting with him in his private abode, I’m not above begging. For all I know, this could be our last encounter altogether, so I want it to be the best one we’ve had. Then maybe, when he returns here alone, he may think of me.

  The excitement making my skin a sticky mess fades when I spot the indecisiveness in his eyes. His eyes are still blazing with unbridled hankering, but its strength isn’t as great with its tinge of doubt.

  “Please don’t make me do this alone,” I barely whisper.

  The pulse throbbing Marcus’s neck merges into dangerous territory when my juddering hands cup my breasts. Marcus doesn’t have many weaknesses, but I know this is one of a very limited number. Fondling myself is nearly as effective as goading him when I want to unleash his dominance.

  I moan when my thumb and index fingers roll the stiff peaks of my nipples. Although you could construe my throaty moan as a ploy to force him to dominate me, that isn’t true. It was one hundred percent authentic. With the showerhead switched off and Marcus’s heated gaze scorching my breasts, my nipples are the most budded they have ever been.

  “Cleo. . .” Marcus growls out in warning, his gravelly tone a clear indication of his waning decisiveness.

  “Please, Master Chains,” I beg again, lowering one of my hands to toy with the hardened bud of my clit. “I need to come, but I want you to make me come.”

  Marcus’s breathing is so heated, white puffs of smoke merge from his gaped mouth with every exhalation of air, but he maintains his quiet stance. If he is hoping the fury gleaming out of him will thwart my endeavor to climax, he has underestimated the power he has over me. The more his eyes rage with arrogant dominance, the wetter my pussy becomes.

  My knees shake when the pad of my thumb flicks the engorged bud of my clit. My body is so sexually excited, I’m moments away from shattering in ecstasy. “If you don’t want to bring me to climax, I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

  Staring into his eyes, I thrust two fingers into my dripping sex. My pussy clenches around my fingers, shocked by the sudden intrusion. Its pulsating clasps sync in perfect rhythm to the tick impinging Marcus’s jaw. My hand cupping my breast darts out to brace myself on the steam-covered glass door when a deep growl rumbles from Marcus’s hard-lined lips. The dominance beaming out of him in invisible waves has more effect on my libido than my penetrating fingers. It sends a jolting spasm rocketing through my core and causes my knees to buckle.

  “Do not come, Cleo.”

  I reply with a grunt since my race to climax has rendered me incapable of articulating words. With how tightly my muscles are stretched with both exhaustion and sexual exhilaration, every inch of my body is caught up relishing the tingling sensation running down my spine. I groan huskily when my thumb rolls over my clit on repeat. Every perfect flick has my race to climax gaining momentum. My coil tightens and tightens over and over again until I can no longer hold it back.

  Just before I topple into climax, the sweetest noise I’ve ever heard jingles into my ears, “If you want to play, you must first kneel.”

  .

  7

  I lock my brimming-with-lust eyes with Marcus as I lower to my knees. You’d think the pain of kneeling on a rigid, tiled floor would dampen my excitement. It doesn’t. It ramps it up to a never-before-seen level. Not only am I once again in the presence of a man I’ve had multiple fantasies about the past three months,
I’m also directly in front of his primed and ready-to-go cock.

  I lick my lips as an infinite torrent of excitement blazes my veins. The wetness pooling between my legs intensifies when Marcus paces toward me, only stopping to gather his tie left sprawled on the floor

  “What's your safe word, Cleo?”

  “Pineapple,” I mumble, my voice unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It's husky and robust, but with a dash of guilt that I’ve once again forced him to interact with me against his wishes.

  My lips twitch, preparing to recite my safe word again as I have done every time we’ve played together. A tinge of vulnerability plagues me when Marcus doesn’t request for me to repeat it. He merely stares into my eyes while demanding for me to intertwine my hands in front of my body. The extreme sexual connection between us hisses and cracks in the air when I do as instructed without a single qualm of hesitation.

  Remaining quiet, he uses his silk tie to bind my hands together. He fastens the impromptu restraints tightly enough I’ll never forget they are there, but not firmly enough to incite panic. The muscles in my thighs tense when he assists me off the floor. He steps us backwards until I am once more positioned under the large showerhead. My erratically panting chest thrusts forward when he raises my arms into the air so he can secure his tie to the showerhead dangling above my head.

  When he yanks roughly on his makeshift tethers, my body is stretched to its absolute limit. One more millimeter and I’d be balancing on my tippy toes. After ensuring I’m secured firmly enough I’ll have no chance to escape unaided, Marcus moves to stand in front of me. The throb of my pussy adjusts from barely contained to frenzied when the crest of his cock braces against my aching-with-desire sex. Just the thought of his thick, long, and mouthwateringly hard cock thrusting into me pushes my urge to climax back to the forefront of my mind.

  “No,” Marcus mutters as he places his knee between my legs, foiling my attempt to ease the uncontrollable throbbing sensation battering my pussy with a quick squeeze. “If your thighs touch at any stage, you will be punished,” he warns, his tone gruff.