Bound to Please(101)

“When you’re on tour we need to see each other at least once a month.”

“Or more.” His hand was spanning her hip, and she shivered.

“When I ask you how your day went, I want a real answer. None of this ‘I’m too tired to talk’ crap.”

“Fine.”

His fingers were inching closer to her aching center, and she spread her thighs. “No matter what I say during our fantasies, you don’t own me,” she whispered. But when she felt his fingers spreading her labia so he could slip a finger into her pussy, she knew her words were false. She belonged to him, heart and soul.

“E-mail,” she said, trying to concentrate. “You have to e-mail me every day.”

“E-mail, text messages, phone calls. Postcards. Whatever you want.” He slipped a second finger inside her and her eyes fluttered shut. “Hell,” he said. “If I thought you’d agree, I’d tell you to quit your job and just come with me. But I know you’d never go for it.”

“No, I wouldn’t. But I can make my own schedule. Travel.” She could barely think, not when he was kissing her, toying with her nipples, her clit. She let him bring her arms together over her head. He had her so out of her mind, she barely noticed him tying her wrists together with the silk scarves that had been restraining him only minutes ago.

Or maybe she didn’t care that he was taking charge. She stretched her body, arched her back so her breasts peaked for him. He tied her to the headboard and she smiled, loving it.

Fingering the silver lock on the necklace around her throat, he gazed down at her. “But you’re mine right now, aren’t you, Ruby?”

She nodded. “Yes, Mark.”

“And I’m yours.” He kissed her softly before breaking away to get a candle and some matches. “But, as I said earlier, payback is a bitch.” He struck the match, lit the candle, and blew out the match flame. The scent of sulfur drifted up in a puff of smoke.

She caught the gleam in his eye, and a delicious wave of desire washed over her; she wrapped her hands around the silk scarves, pulling tight.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She smiled, giving him her sassiest look. “Bring it, Mark Rufus St. Crow.”

With a wicked grin, he did.