Bound, #3

by Shandi Boyes

  Once the sting of his spanking fades, Marcus covers my dripping core with my dress, then sets me back down on the passenger seat of his car.

  “Now sit,” he instructs, staring straight into my eyes.

  Subdued and muted, I merely nod.

  18

  By the time we are five miles out of the city, the throbbing of my core has dampened to a slight simmer, and the tick of Marcus’s jaw isn’t as noticeable. When I adjust my position on his smooth leather seats to ease the burn on my backside, Marcus’s eyes stray from the road to me.

  “Are you sore?” he asks, his tone nothing like his earlier one.

  I give him a gentle smile before shaking my head. Although my backside is undoubtedly feeling the effects of his hand, it isn't a bad pain. This may sound stupid, but I was acting like a child, so Marcus treated me as if I were one. If I weren't so aroused by his spanking, I'd be disturbed by that statement, but like every moment I spend with Marcus, I’m realizing I hardly even know myself. I hated being spanked as a child, so why the hell do I love it as an adult?

  My silent vow doesn't give Marcus the assurance I was hoping. The remorse in his eyes continually grows until we pull into the long weaving driveway of his New York property. He parks his car in a garage at the side of his house before jogging around to assist me out. A crisp winter breeze whips up under the skirt of my dress, soothing the heat spread across my backside as we climb the platform stairs hand in hand.

  After throwing his keys into a crystal bowl on a glass entranceway table, Marcus guides me toward the curved stairwell on my left.

  "I thought I was going to prepare our lunch.” I motion my head to the ingredients I took out in preparation this morning. I wasn't being facetious when I told Dexter I had plans for lunch. Marcus and I have plans; we just aren't eating out.

  “We will have lunch after I’ve made sure you’re okay.”

  Hating his low tone, I mumble, “I’m fine, Marcus.”

  Marcus continues guiding me through his residence, his mouth tight-lipped. When we reach the master suite, he toes off his shoes and removes his suit jacket. After placing his wallet and showy watch onto the dresser on his right, we enter his opulent bathroom. My heart squeezes when he walks us to his sizeable egg-shaped tub. In silence, he commences drawing a bath, only leaving my side to pour some fragrant-smelling oils into the rapidly filling water.

  After removing his shirt, trousers, and boxer shorts, he assists me in removing my dress and bra. My panties are still sitting on the floor of his sports car. Once the tub is brimming with water, he steps in and rests his back against the edge before holding out his hand for me. My toes tingle from the contrasting temperatures when I dip my foot inside. The water is as heated as the fiery cloud brewing in Marcus's dark gaze.

  I don't need to peer into the large mirror next to the tub to know Marcus's handprint is on my backside. The hiss of air straining through his teeth when I spin around to sit in front of him is all the indication I need to know that I am wearing his marks.

  I sink down low into the tub, loving the way the oily water slithers against my skin like the world's most treasured silk. Assuaging quiet passes between us. Usually, I hate too much silence, but I can handle it in small batches when it does more good than bad. It gives me a chance to settle my nerves enough I can try and work out what the hell happened between our tryst on Marcus's desk to him spanking me in his car. I've been known for my drastic shift in moods in the past two weeks, but I've never seen Marcus act so reckless. I know he says I make him that way, but his recklessness has always had a sense of maturity. I've never seen him lose his cool before. Usually, nothing rocks his core.

  Five minutes of silence awards me with five additional minutes of confusion. Deciding there is only one person who can answer my questions, I carefully roll over to face Marcus. Water splashing over the tub surpasses the sound of his heart thrashing against his chest when I balance my chin on his sweat-slicked torso to peer up at him.

  "What's going on?" I ask, my voice a nurturing purr void of any judgment. I'm not angry. I'm more concerned than anything.

  Marcus's chest deflates when he exhales a deep breath. "I shouldn't have marked you," he breathes out slowly, his words choked with guilt.

  “And I shouldn’t have thrown my shoe at your head. We all make mistakes,” I counterbid. I keep my tone low, ensuring he can hear the honesty in my reply.

  I'm not upset about him marking my skin. I love wearing his marks as much as I love him. I just hate that we reached a point in our argument he had no other choice but to spank me to calm me down. We've done so much communicating the past two weeks, I thought we had reached a stage where we were comfortable enough to express ourselves without needing to lash out or act juvenile.

  "I also shouldn't have walked to Links," I continue, swallowing down my absurd declaration of love before I accidentally blurt it out. I do love Marcus, but it's way too early in our relationship to admit that openly. "After everything I put you through in Florida, I should have been more courteous about how that would make you feel. I just wasn't thinking straight. Dexter caught me unexpectedly, and with my head not screwed on right, I had an error in judgment."

  Marcus scrubs his hand across his tired eyes, but his lips don't move an inch. His silence worries me more than the anger growing in his narrowed gaze from the mention of Dexter's name, but it doesn't stop me from saying, "The way this works is, when someone admits they were wrong, you're supposed to acknowledge their mistake and admit your own. Such as, ‘I shouldn't have bugged your cell, Cleo. That was wrong of me to do.'"

  Marcus drops his hand from his face. “So I should apologize for something I’m not sorry about?” he replies.

  If I didn’t hear the genuine confusion in his voice, my spikes would hackle from his reply, but remembering this is all new to him, I let his snippy comment slide—this time.

  "You don't have to apologize, but it would be nice if you at least explained why you thought that was appropriate." I grit my teeth when my voice comes out with more annoyance than I wanted to express.

  After tracing his index finger over the faint scar on my top lip, Marcus locks his eyes with mine. "I'm trying to keep you safe, Cleo."

  “No. You're trying to keep me contained. I’m not a sub, Marcus, so you shouldn’t be treating me as if I am.”

  If the water didn't ripple, I'd be none the wiser to the sudden clench of his fists.

  Pretending I can’t feel the wrath of his gaze, I continue with my endeavor to keep our relationship on an even playing field. “During our negotiation, you said you couldn’t give up control in the playroom. I accepted that, but you aren’t keeping your end of our deal. You’re trying to control our interactions both inside and outside of the playroom.”

  I expect him to voice anger at my admission, or at the very least, deny my accusation. He does nothing. He doesn’t speak a word.

  “Say something,” I murmur as my eyes dance between his.

  “What could I possibly say?” he snarls. “‘You’re so hell-bent on making sure you aren’t forced into submission you’re making stupid mistakes?’ Or perhaps, ‘I’m sorry I care enough about you that the idea of you getting hurt rips me open?’ Would either of those be a suitable thing for me to say in a non-controlling way?”

  My backside rests on the balls of my feet when he abruptly stands from the tub, steps out, then leaves the bathroom without a backward glance. With my heart smashing against my ribs, I rest my back on the edge of the bathtub, pretending the trickling of moisture rolling down my face is from the steam trapped in the bathroom and not tears.

  I stay in the bath until the water becomes too cold to ignore. After wrapping a towel around my shuddering frame, I trudge into the master suite, my steps slow and shaky. The pain tearing me in two simmers when I notice Marcus has laid out clothing on the bed for me. They are sitting next to the bottle of ointment he used to soothe the sting of my first spanking.

  After app
lying the ointment to the welts on my bottom, I get dressed, then make my way downstairs. With a tired headache thumping my temples, I’m tempted to crawl into bed and sleep away a few hours, but Marcus laying out clothes for me has altered the direction of my course. He’s trying to make amends, so shouldn’t I put in the same effort?

  I find Marcus five minutes later in the kitchen, cooking the meal I prepped earlier. His eyes lift from the eggplant he is grilling when he senses my presence. A ghost of a smile graces his lips as he gestures with his head for me to sit at one of the stools he has set up for our meal.

  My first instinct is to help him prepare lunch, but I soon realize he knows his way around the kitchen. He doesn’t even follow the recipe I printed out this morning. He just mixes the garlic-cumin vinaigrette with feta and herbs before serving it on top of the grilled eggplant.

  “Thank you,” I murmur when he places a generous helping of eggplant onto my plate.

  Once he fills our two wine glasses to the brim with crisp white wine, he takes the empty seat next to me. I cough to clear my voice of nerves before saying, “I’m—”

  “Shh,” Marcus interrupts, his voice firm yet void of anger. “Anything we need to say can be said after we’ve eaten.”

  Leading by example, he picks up his fork and consumes a large chunk of eggplant.

  With an arched brow, he glances into my eyes, encouraging me to do the same. Not trusting my swishing stomach, my first bite is a lot smaller than Marcus’s. The instant the deliciously aromatic food hits my taste buds, my hunger returns as rampant as ever.

  Once we've finished our lunch, Marcus and I clean the kitchen in silence. Although worry is still hanging heavy on my heart, every little brush of his body against mine as we work in sync eases the weight. Tension is firing the air, but unlike in the bathroom, it isn't from anger. The hefty aroma of lust soothes the snip of anxiety left over from our disagreement.

  The hem of my shirt rides up high on my stomach when I stretch onto my tippy toes to place the wineglasses back into their rightful spots. Whoever designed this kitchen must have been a giant, as no average-sized person could reach that cabinet without straining. I'm not tall by any means, but I'm relatively sure my five-foot-five height isn't uncommon.

  After placing the wineglasses in the cupboard, I spin around to face Marcus. My steps falter halfway around when I spot his amorous stare watching me intently. The shift of tension in the air is so quick, it nearly knocks me onto my ass—literally.

  “Can I show you something?” Marcus asks, his tone low.

  Not trusting my voice not to crack from the unease of his words, I nod. I feel the surge of his pulse through our conjoined hands as we walk into his office. When we reach his desk, he gestures for me to sit in his leather chair. After pinching the material on his trousers, he takes a seat on the edge of his desk. Unlike his big bulky desk in Florida, this one is glass and extremely flimsy. Not flimsy enough it couldn’t handle our rigorous activities this morning, but definitely not as bulky as his desk in Florida.

  Marcus’s voice has a snip of anger to it when he says, "The phone call I took yesterday afternoon was in regards to an incident that occurred at Links the night before. Last Wednesday, the Links hotline took a call from a woman distressed about her neighbor harassing her. The counseling staff at Links handled the call as they were trained to do. They offered the anonymous caller shelter at Links and contacted the authorities on her behalf. They did everything by the book, and it still wasn't enough."

  His throat works hard to swallow before he continues, “After being questioned by police, the accused went to the complainant’s house to confront her about her accusation. Their altercation ended with her fighting for her life in the ICU.”

  My hand shoots up to cover the shocked gasp expelled from my mouth. A rush of moisture burns my eyes when Marcus swivels the mouse on his computer, bringing up horrifyingly similar images to the ones Shian showed me last week. Nearly every inch of the dilapidated studio apartment displayed on the screen is covered with photos of a female with platinum blonde hair and dark brown eyes.

  Although this level of stalking is miles above the caliber of Richard’s, I can understand Marcus noticing the similarities between the two cases. There are photos of the unnamed blonde sleeping, eating, and even doing something as mundane as laundry—just like Richard had of me.

  “You see my protectiveness as if I’m trying to control you. I’m not, Cleo. I’m trying to stop something like that from happening to you.” The pain in his words cuts me raw.

  “I’m not her, Marcus. What happened to her is terrible, but she isn’t me. I’m not lying in a hospital fighting for my life.” My distress for the unnamed lady resonates in my low tone.

  "No, you aren't," Marcus agrees as the pain in his eyes doubles. "But you could have been. You went with Richard—willingly." His nostrils flare as his eyes dance between mine. "So did Sylvia. Her stalker convinced her if she'd just give him a chance to explain, she'd realize it was all a big misunderstanding. It wasn't. He was stalking her for years. When she didn’t take the news of his infatuation as well as he was hoping, his anger went above what anyone could have predicted."

  I try to think of a comeback, but I’m at a loss for words. I did go with Richard of my own free will. It may have been under the guise of protecting my sister, but it doesn’t change the facts. If things didn’t work out the way they did, my outcome could have been as horrendous as Sylvia’s.

  While Marcus shuts down his computer, I sweep my hand across my cheeks, removing a handful of tears my eyes couldn't hold in. Once my cheeks are dry, Marcus's hand catches my wrist, lifts me from my seat, then takes my place. I nuzzle my head into his broad chest so I can listen to his heart thumping, hoping it will help to ease my twisting stomach. It's so knotted up I'm afraid my lunch is about to see daylight.

  No—make that is going to see daylight.

  Diving off Marcus’s lap, I sprint into the hallway. I only just make it into the washroom at the side of the living room before my lunch exits my body in the ghastliest way.

  19

  When the ear-piercing shriek of the microphone roars through my ears for the third time the past two minutes, I give up on my endeavor to become a rock star and exit the recording booth tucked into the corner of Marcus’s home studio.

  “Did you get anything decent?” I ask Marcus, who is sitting behind a massive deck of instruments and gadgets that are too technical to explain.

  His face screws up. “I wouldn’t quit your day job,” he teases.

  Well, I assume he is teasing, but his low monotone makes it hard for me to 100% testify to that.

  “Too late,” I reply with a waggle of my brows.

  A girly giggle topples from my mouth when Marcus seizes my wrists and pulls me to sit on his lap. My laughter switches to a moan when my backside rubs his impressive groin. With my mood carefree, I grind against his crotch unashamedly. When his cock twitches from my playfulness, I do it again, and again, and again until his animalistic growl rumbles through my shuddering chest.

  My internal chuckles come to an immediate halt when Marcus mutters, “Does your goading need another session in my playroom?”

  I freeze as a spark of lust combusts in my sex. I'm not freezing in fear; I'm freezing with excitement. After coasting over our little bump Monday morning, things have been surprisingly smooth for Marcus and me the past four days. Our routine hasn't altered much from the one we had in Florida, except this time, we're doing it alone.

  I’ll be honest; I miss having Abel as a sparring partner against Marcus, but it's also nice having Marcus all to myself. I don't have to worry about sashaying past his office door stark naked when he is on conference calls with his record label, or being busted serving him breakfast with a few essential elements of my body parts on the menu. I also haven't had to keep my heightened excitement on the down low for the fear someone will hear my lusty screams. It has been perfect, better than I could have ever
predicted.

  The only thing I've had to worry about is reminding Marcus I am not Sylvia Broadbent from Unit 23, W. 34th Street. I am here; I am fine, and I'm not fighting for my life in the Intensive Care Unit.

  You'd think that part of my obligations would be an easy fix, but it hasn't been. Marcus is in the entertainment industry, but he will never be an actor, as his acting skills are weak. Don't get me wrong, he plays the part of a Dom very well during our scenes in his playroom, but it's when he lets go of his need for control do I discover a very caring and intelligent man hidden beneath his hard outer shell.

  Sylvia's incident rocked his core more than he'd care to admit. He tries to say he isn't comparing our two predicaments, but I know he is. Not just because every time he gets an update on Sylvia's condition his mood swings toward the negative; but because when he spots the very faint scar on my top lip, the pain in his eyes almost becomes too much for me to bear. Although his attentiveness is something I've always dreamed of, I'd give anything to wash the pain from his eyes permanently.

  “What are you working on?” I ask Marcus, trying to keep my focus away from my sappy thoughts that will have us christening his recording studio for the third time this week.

  Although I'd never deny Marcus, for the past four days, I've been striving to keep our interactions even between sexual contact and intellectual conversations. Let me tell you, it's been a very tiresome few days. Don't misinterpret my admission; Marcus is an extremely intelligent man who has no qualms participating in a range of conversations. It's me who has the problem. Just hearing him speak hits every one of my hot buttons. My attraction to him is so intense, I doubt a hundred years could dampen it.