Bound Page 2

  Checking over the black tea-length dress in the mirror is a joy. I fell in love with it the instant it was zipped. It hugs all my curves and flares in the most decadent of places. Reagan was more than happy with the color choice. She knows I’m partial to a little black dresses. It’s refined and classy. I feel beautiful. The bright red thong and barely-there bra are an added confidence booster.

  Of course, my aplomb falters the instant I step toward the door. He’ll be out there. I’ll be close to him. The wild gallop of my heart against my ribs propels me forward and into the early fall air. The crisp weather sends a chill across my exposed skin, cooling the fire burning in my chest. I see Reagan commiserating with the photographer, who is giving her a look at the pictures on her camera. Her smile brightens as she floats toward Caleb on a cloud of wedded bliss. A stab of jealously hits my gut, evacuating a deep huff of longing from my lungs.

  The desire for a man to regard me as Caleb does Reagan is foolish. He loves her. Completely. That girl could fall on her face this instant and he would pick her up, dust her off, and worship her. He would bow at her feet even more than he does now. And not in that let-me buy-you-something-pretty kind of way but in that you-could-have-the-flu-and-I’d-bring-you-tissues-and-make-you-tea kind of way.

  And she would do anything for him. She has done anything. Reagan made sure he had the best care money could buy, helped him work though the traumas of being injured in the line of duty, and navigated his family. She came through it all with a rockin’ ring and a day in a gorgeous lace gown.

  It’s a fairy tale. A dream that seems so attainable you crave it. Then, when Prince Charming grips the back of his maiden’s neck with enough pressure that her face tilts up to receive a passionate and possessive kiss, the fantasy shatters under a sharp reality. How can one person reigning over another be the thing dreams are made of? How can Caleb and Reagan make dominance and submission look so much like love?

  That’s why I can’t allow Blake Roman into my life. The BDSM lifestyle freaks me out. It’s too…restrictive. Reagan’s neck shimmers with white and blue diamonds. It’s her collar. It’s beautiful. I think about it around my own neck and feel a phantom pressure choking me. The idea of someone else owning me seems too much like indentured servitude. Like a slave.

  When she invited me to the celebration at Reign after their private collaring ceremony last weekend, I politely declined. I wrestled with my answer for over a week. She was disappointed. I still feel like shit for not being able to support my best friend.

  “Hello, Kat.”

  Two words uttered in that deep, velvet tone brings my self-deprecation to a screeching halt. It’s time to be on the offensive. Be cool.

  “Hey, Blake.”

  Oh yeah, Kat. That was freakin’ awesome…

  “You look like you’re trying to figure out a math problem.” His voice is low, cajoling.

  “Well…” I look out into the open courtyard in search of anything to distract the conversation, or just him. Why is there never someone with a tray of crab-stuffed somethings to shove in your face when you need it? “I do like to spend time working on the great mysteries of the world. String theory. Cures for cancer. How to keep the nation out of war and debt free.”

  The sound of his hands rubbing together, calloused fingers meeting the smooth back of his hands, sends a shiver down my spine. Those hands, large and powerful, meet the steel pipes he calls arms. Together they frame the outline of an athletic, sensual firefighter and create the structure that held me up when our best friends were caught in a cluster of illness and injury. The memories of my legs bent over the crux of his arms; back plastered against the wall is one I revisit more than I care to admit. I still touch the skin that wore the bruise of his affectionate nip, wishing the memory alone would make me feel the burn of his mark.

  “I never knew you spent your free time reflecting on such admirable and worthy needs.”

  I’m grateful for the moment that he’s behind me until I realize he’s probably ogling my ass. A jerky hand swipes down the back of my dress, eliciting a rumble from his chest indicating he’s happy with my discomfort or pleased I’ve given him a closer glimpse of the junk in my trunk.

  He closes the space between us, materializing at my side in the form of stunning male perfection in a classic tuxedo.

  During the ceremony, I did my best to focus anywhere but on him. Now, I can’t avoid him. He stands close, crowding me in the narrow hallway, staring down at me with piercing blue eyes framed by dark brows. His hair is longer on the top than the sides, freshly trimmed, and the color of pure darkness. He’s a blackout. If I didn’t know about his wild side, he’d look angelic.

  “What did you come up with?” he asks.

  “Huh?” I reply, caught off guard by his overall hotness.

  “Your musings. Figure out a cure yet?” His perfect lips curl into a smoochable smile.

  For you? Nope. “I’m working on it. Greatness takes time.” I do my best to sound airy and casual.

  Blake’s head rocks back and forth. “Are you going to play me like this all night?”

  His directness jars me, pissing me off in the process. “Play you like what, Blake?”

  “Like you don’t want anything to do with me.”

  Dude, you have no idea.

  “I never said that,” I snap, battling with the parts of me that want to push him to the floor and shred his tux to ribbons. If I’m going to try to correct years of picking the wrong guy, I need to start now.

  “You’re right.” His eyes survey my body, I shift under the weight, alternating between wanting to hide and wanting to show him every inch of what I have to offer. “Are you going to ditch Dudley Do-Right?” he asks, a wicked grin curling his mouth.

  I want to rail at his nickname, but it’s perfect. I squelch the snicker and pray I can take a mature stance. “His name is Dane and no, I won’t be ditching him,” I state, crossing my arms. “Where’s your date?”

  “I’m looking at her, but she doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary to return a call or text. I’m hoping she’ll still take me up on my offer.” The statement must have been practiced. It’s polished, precise, and the most arrogant thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

  “Let me get this straight, you know I’m here with a date, that I didn’t return your call or text, or the invite to come here together, and you’re still hoping to be with me?”

  He considers my rehash of his maniacal plan. “Yeah.” He nods in agreement. “Pretty much.”

  “You’re insane!” I yell.

  “You’re stunning,” he counters, the devil playing in his eyes.

  “You’re a—”

  “Hey, you two, can we get pictures with the best man and the maid of honor?”

  I look out into the courtyard. The Dunns are watching us, the photographer holding up her camera reminding us of her role. All of them wearing quizzical looks with the exception of Caleb, who is giving Blake a look that screams “bro code” communication.

  Before I can object, we are moving toward the happy couple. Blake’s hand is gently wrapped around mine, warmth infusing my palm. The heat seeps up my arm before fanning across my chest, winding dangerously close to my heart and around the depths of my belly.

  For the better part of thirty minutes, we are posed and primped. The entire wedding party becomes marionettes in formal wear. Caleb and Reagan look regal, his tux a sharp contrast against the lush green landscape, Reagan sparkling in the sunlight, like light bouncing off a beautifully calm stream.

  The majority of the pictures require us to sandwich the bride and groom. I’m grateful for the physical distance, but I can still smell him. His masculine scent saturates the air, drugging my better senses. It’s the same intoxicating musk from the morning I woke up in his arms. It’s the fragrance I’ve been craving but can never seem to find.

  Miss Paid-To-Snap-A-Lot photog gives us a short reprieve from smiling and I duck into the small vine-covered alcove away fr
om the sun. I need to breathe fresh air, clear my head from the pheromone overload. Three deep breaths are all I get before I feel the heat of his body warm the dim portico.

  “Do you need a drink, doll?” His voice is so…caring.

  Yes, vodka. “No, thank you.” The response is tight. It has to be. “I’m fine for now. I’ll grab a bottle of water in the limo.”

  He stares at me, leveling a glare.

  “What?” I ask, hands thrown up in resignation.

  He snorts before walking away. His exit is a welcome relief until the mental castigation for wanting to pull him back takes over. I look down, nudging the perfectly trimmed edge of the courtyard’s lawn with my shoe, beating myself up for even falling into that janitor’s closet with him in the first place.

  We’d both been in bad spaces and it had been a mistake. A mind-blowing mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. You can’t resolve feelings of hopelessness and uselessness with fucking. Especially not fucking a stranger.

  I drop my forehead into my hands, beating myself up for making my own bed. Hearing him before he reappears is a blessing. If he would have caught me in borderline tears, we’d never leave this place, physically or otherwise.

  Blake hands me a bottle of water, cap twisted open but not removed. “Drink.” No question. No mistaking the directive. No if-it-pleases-Your-Highness.

  I stare at him. “I’m not a child, Blake. No thank you.”

  He mutters a curse, ripping the top off the bottle and shoving it toward me. “You won’t be able to dance with me if you’re passed out from dehydration.”

  My irritation flares, sparked by his instance on the you-and-me shit. “You’re a presumptuous ass.” I snatch the bottle and bring it to my lips, taking a long swallow. My parched mouth sings the praises of the soothing liquid running down my throat. Water has never tasted so good. I sigh in relief, feeling the cool sensation of liquid refreshment revitalizing my veins.

  He shifts, watching me quietly. God, you are such a bitch. “Here,” I hand him the bottle, “finish it. You must be dying in that suit.”

  His grin is salacious. “Doll, I’ve fought infernos that would melt concrete. I can handle a few hours in a tux. But thank you.” He chugs the rest of the bottle, crushing the plastic with a satisfied crunch. “I’ll feel much better when that’s a beer.”

  “I second that, but make it a vodka tonic.”

  “Good. Make sure you are loose for me to spin you around the dance floor.”

  “Are we really back to this?” I question, fist on my hip. “I am here with a date.”

  “One dance.” He holds up a single long finger, a naughty smile lighting his handsome face.

  “We have to dance, Blake.” I roll my eyes. “The wedding party wobble after the first dance.”

  “Wedding party wobble?” He quirks an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you know, where everyone gathers around to watch the wedding party rock back and forth like middle school kids to a song that is way too long. It’s awkward for everyone involved and looks like shit.”

  He winces. “Your language is terrible despite how much I love your mouth. Were you a truck driver in a former life?”

  I glare at him. “Sailor.”

  “That explains it.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Do you know how to dance?”

  “What is this? Get to know you hour? Yes, Blake, I’ve danced since I was four. I like vodka. I curse. What else do you need to know?”

  “That I will get one dance after the obligatory waddle.”

  “It’s a wobble, Blake. We will wa-bull.”

  “No, Kat,” he growls, determined eyes glaring down at me. “We won’t.”

  The harsh declaration sends a shiver down my spine, clenching my belly so quickly I gasp. We won’t wobble.

  We stare at each other, Blake perched, waiting for my rebuff. Our eyes don’t leave each other’s until the photographer calls us back for the last of the snapshots…without Reagan and Caleb.

  Without a word, Blake curls a strong arm around me as he escorts me to the courtyard. His touch leaves a blazing heat that simmers on my skin before sinking deep within me. It radiates, licking the chilly barrier I’ve used to keep him at a distance. I can’t let him permeate too deep.

  The photographer beams, compliments my skin, praises Blake’s efforts for catching such a beautiful girl. He turns me to face him, his stare a wordless dare to challenge the assumption.

  “I’m here with a date,” I hiss, more to him than her. When he pulls me close, I try to escape from Blake’s arm banded around my waist.

  “Okay, kids, we’re done here,” the photographer chirps as she watches us with the awkward stare of someone stumbling upon a drama-filled scene that they don’t really want to witness but can’t seem to pull away from.

  Blake holds me tighter, bound to make his point. In my struggle, I can feel his body react. His erection growing against my belly, his eyes heating with lust. I try to straighten my spine to keep from bending to him. His strength. His smell. This crazy angel that sets my body ablaze. He’s the spark to my gasoline-infused blood. Blake makes every inch of me sizzle from the slightest touch.

  I stop trying to free myself, exhausted from the fight of trying to break away. My ragged breath presses my chest into his, my cleavage pressing against the dark fabric of my dress. I can’t find clean air, space that isn’t fogged with his scent. Grappling for some leverage, I grip his upper arms, feeling the tension of his thick biceps flex under my hands.

  His clear blue eyes stare me down with a look I can only hope is passion.

  “One dance,” is all he says before laying his mouth possessively over mine.

  Chapter 2

  Blake

  Ten months earlier

  “What’s the plan?” Nick Harris has never been a man of many words.

  Despite his brusqueness, I’m glad he’s here. Good friends like Nick and Caleb are hard to find. With Caleb’s current status, I’d be drowning without Nick.

  “I have no fucking clue,” I mutter.

  Caleb’s surgery was a success, but he’s not out of the woods. He survived the terrorist attack that collapsed the building he was defending. He now has a superhero-grade femur and a fever the doctors can’t control. The keeper of Reign, and all of our crazy asses, needs a machine to breathe.

  And I can’t do the one thing he requested of me. Reagan is falling apart a little more every day.

  I thought I’d just have to keep tabs on her while he was deployed, not watch her waste away in a hospital waiting room. What really galls me is that no one will let her in to see him. The hospital physicians have talked to Reagan and Caleb’s parents about their relationship. I even pulled the docs aside and tried to plead her case. Nick just demanded they let her see him. When they denied his request, Nick chucked them the finger.

  The staff designed to save Caleb’s life are letting his girlfriend rot. He’s going to hit the fucking roof when he finds out what they’ve done to her.

  “What did he tell you before he was deployed?” Nick asks, watching her through the waiting room window. We needed privacy but neither one of us wants to leave her unattended for too long.

  “Watch her. Take care of her,” I reply. “He didn’t account for this.” I’m going to kick his ass for not putting her name on his paperwork. “Fuck.” The knowledge that I can’t fix this is a dense pit in my stomach. I feel like shit.

  “Maybe we need to try a different route. What about family?” Nick’s question is on the right track, just one street over.

  “She doesn’t have any family.” I pull out my phone and scan the contacts. “She has a Kat.”

  Kat

  The sharp buzz of the intercom on my phone scares the crap out of me. “Yes!” I snap, the adrenaline sparking a jarring buzz through my veins.

  “Kat, you have a guest,” the receptionist says with questionable formality. Our front desk clerk has been one in a smooth rotation of temps. I can’t remember her na
me, but she’s got the wrong person.

  “I don’t have any appointments,” I say, checking over my calendar to make sure I didn’t skip something. I’ve been so distracted with Reagan’s stuff, missing a meeting wouldn’t be out of the question.

  “Something tells me it’s not work-related,” she purrs, the sound of her smile radiating through the tiny speakerphone.

  What?

  “Well, send them in.” The words come out too quickly and I wonder if I’ve just granted a serial killer access to my private office. I try to keep my imagination under control while pushing files, proofs, and pens into somewhat orderly piles on my desk. It’s no use; it still looks like an office supply store threw up. I stand up, straighten my outfit, and rip out the messy ponytail that has been on top of my head all afternoon.

  “Hey.” His deep voice sends a fresh wave of electricity through my body. I stumble a little, my hip coming to rest on the edge of the desk for support.

  I pictured my visitor to be female. Maybe older. Or even Reagan herself. Instead, I have Blake Roman, the yummy slab of man I had the pleasure of drooling over when I took dinner to everyone at Reign while they were waiting on news about Caleb.

  “Hi,” I squeak, trying to hide my naughty thoughts behind the thin veil of decorum I try to keep in place at work. “What are you doing here?”

  When he’s quiet for a moment, my thoughts plummet. “Oh no,” I gasp. “Is Caleb okay?” The worry for my friend has me moving from behind my desk. “Where’s Reagan?”

  He takes a few steps into my office, shaking his head. “No, I mean, everything is still screwed up, but it’s not that. He’s still sick. She’s sort of a mess.”

  I scoot behind him to close the door. “Here, sit down.” I gesture to the chairs. “Do you need a drink?”

  Blake shakes his head. “I can’t stay and I’ve been sitting for too long anyway.” He looks around my office. “This discussion would have been easier if you would have picked up your phone.”