Bound to be Dirty (5 page)

She finished the last swallow from her martini glass. Summer camp, attraction of opposites, summer love. If she read that story in a book club novel, she'd call it cliché. Maybe she and Dax should have let it go when September rolled around. And yet . . . Over the following years, they'd had such fun when they got together. She'd loved him with all her heart. And now her heart was so confused. Did she still love him? Sometimes she was sure she did; other times, she told herself it was only nostalgia, memories, history. But was she telling herself the truth, or trying to build a shell to guard against heartbreak?

And what's wrong with self-protection?

Briskly, she lathered soap onto her bath sponge and washed herself, then climbed out of the tub, dried off, and pulled on her robe. Where was Dax? If only they could be civil until after Christmas dinner, then they would deal with the future.

She took a birth control pill, an act that these days sent a pang of regret through her. She left her glasses in their case, unable to face
Bound by Desire
.

Though her headache had eased, she was a little spacy from the potent meds, the alcohol, the steamy bath, and, maybe, the memories. Sleep, that was what she needed.

What she got, when she stepped into the bedroom, was the sight of Dax lounging on the bed, dark and virile in his jeans and tee, pillows stacked behind him. The lamp on the dresser gave the room a warm, golden light. Even though her vision was far from twenty-twenty, it was good enough that she saw how rugged and masculine he looked, sprawled across the caramel and cream-striped duvet.

A tug of arousal pulsed between Lily's legs. How annoying that, despite her doubts about their marriage and his fidelity, the man still turned her on.

Dax pushed himself off the bed and walked over, to stop a foot away. “Take off your robe.”

His words, so unexpected, had the force of a command. She'd unknotted the sash and shrugged off the robe before she even paused to think. But then awareness returned and anxiety twitched her shoulders. She resisted the urge to grab the robe from the carpet and bundle herself in it again. Dax had seen her naked thousands of times. But what did he see now? She was thin, thinner than she'd ever been, but also more taut and muscled. She used exercise—weights, running, self-defense workouts—to counteract stress and tire her enough that she stood a chance of sleeping.

Dax said nothing. Instead, he bent and effortlessly scooped her up in his arms.

She gasped in surprise then her body heated at the strong, possessive clasp of his arms, pulling her tight against his broad chest. So good. But she barely had a moment to enjoy it, to wonder what he was doing.

He took three or four quick strides to the bed, then tossed her—actually tossed her—down.

A shiver of excitement rippled through her as she gaped up at him. On his last visits, Dax's sexual approaches were dispassionate. Tonight, with his commanding manner and unaccustomed beard, with her poor vision and light-headedness, he seemed a different man. “Dax, what are you doing?”

“Don't talk.”

Another order. Had he said anything since she arrived home that wasn't an order? She should protest. Except . . . as she'd decided earlier, tonight she didn't want to talk.

She'd also decided she didn't want sex. But now her body urged her to reconsider. Her husband's behavior had an edge that reminded her of the bad-boy vibe of his youth, though now he was definitely a man and this edge was, well, edgier. It was arousing, and a tiny bit scary. But she'd known Dax for fifteen years. He would never hurt her, never harm a woman.

Squinting up at him, she saw a gleam in his gray eyes, but couldn't tell if it was lust or something else. The lines of his face were set, hiding his thoughts and feelings.

“On your stomach,” he said.

Doggy-style sex. Disappointment brought a quick rush of moisture to her eyes and she rolled, to hide her face. He wanted sex where they couldn't see each other's faces, where kissing was impossible. Sex with no intimate connection. No, she wouldn't do it. Forcing back the tears, she tensed her body, readying herself to roll back again.

Before she could move, Dax pinned her down, planting his denim-clad knees on either side of her hips and curving his hands firmly around her shoulder caps.

She twisted her head to the side. “Let me go.”

“I told you to keep quiet.”

“You have no right—”

“Keep quiet.” His fingertips dug into her flesh, almost punishingly hard. “I'll look after you.” His touch eased and turned into massage, kneading into the tight muscles of her neck and shoulders.

Again, he'd surprised her. It felt so amazingly good, she groaned with pleasure. All this macho stuff, just to give her a massage? She couldn't remember the last time he'd tended to her aches and pains.

“Put this under you.” He handed her a pillow and she shoved it under her chest so that her back arched toward him.

With controlled strength, Dax used the heels of his hands, his fingers, his thumbs, even his knuckles to work out knots. Pain made her wince, but she knew his touch was healing. She drew in a deep breath and tried not to tense against those probing fingers, but to let her muscles relax.

And yes, the knots slowly released. Her body warmed, loosened, softened. As the tension eased, she almost purred with relief and pleasure. Dax, touching her this way—what did it mean?

As he moved from her lower back to her butt cheeks, his touch gentled and became more of a caress.

A sensual, sexy caress, or at least that's how it felt to her. Arousal throbbed between her legs and quickened her breath. Her nipples tightened, pressing into the pillow beneath her. She wanted to squirm, to rub her nipples against the crisp cotton, to wriggle her hips in a wordless request that he slide his hand between her legs. But she was unsure what he intended.

When she'd been young, Dax had told her she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Now did he think her lean, lithe body was attractive? Sexy? Did he mean his touch to be erotic or was her sex-starved body overreacting?

She got her answer when his finger traced the crease between her buttocks, then slid between her legs. He traced her naked flesh slowly, igniting arousal inch by inch and making her quiver as need mounted. When he brushed her labia, spreading the moisture that slid from her body, she pressed against his hand, wanting more. Massage as foreplay. She liked it. Yes, she wanted sex with him, but face-to-face. “That feels so good, Dax.”

His hand withdrew and a slap stung her butt cheeks.

“Oh!” She jerked and automatically started to turn over.

He planted both hands at her waist and held her down. “I told you to keep quiet.”

What had gotten into him? Dax had never hit her before. She should yell at him, except . . . the slap hadn't been all that hard. It hadn't hurt as much as created a tingly burn that, to her embarrassment, brought a fresh gush of arousal trickling onto her inner thighs.

Dax rubbed the spot where he'd hit her, and the sensual burning sensation spread.

She almost wished he'd slap her again. Which was ridiculous.

“Roll over,” he said.

Now he'd let her do it? On his terms, not hers? Though his behavior was baffling and out of character, she knew one thing: she was more turned on than she'd been in a very long time.

Four

D
ax stared at his wife's shapely ass, stunned to see the flush of pink his hand had left on her pale skin. He might've had a bad-boy rep as a kid, he might be more comfortable in the bush than in the city, but despite his rough edges, he'd never imagined hitting Lily.

The only thing that shocked him more than his behavior was her response. Or, rather, lack of response. She hadn't yelled at him or leaped off the bed. Did that mean that, at some level, she really was into this dom-sub stuff? Would she obey him and roll over? If she did, what did she want from him?

Did she have another lover who did these things with her?

Fuck, no; he couldn't think that way. Tonight, there was only him and Lily. He'd challenged himself to read his wife's needs, to satisfy them, to see if the two of them could recapture the passion they'd once shared.

His cock strained against the fly of his jeans. He'd been rock hard since he'd worked his way down the slim lines of her back, digging knots out of her muscles. Such a contrast, her delicate, feminine shape and silky skin with those tough, lean muscles. She'd been working out. For herself, or for a lover?

No!
Don't go there. Concentrate on her, on the two of us.

The distinctive musky odor of her arousal made his nostrils flare with primal need. Dax wanted nothing more than to drive into her, to claim her. To claim this fiercely independent, controlled woman who was his wife.

She pushed up on one elbow and tugged the pillow out from under her chest.

What could he do next, to play this dominant role without hurting her?

He rose and strode to the closet. Wooden pegs held her scarves, ranging from featherlight silk to soft wool, all in the muted shades she preferred. He grabbed four long, silky ones.

Lily was on her back now, settling the pillow under her head. A rosy blush colored her cheeks and the top of her chest, staining the upper curve of her small, firm breasts. Her feathery brown lashes were lowered so he couldn't see her eyes, but he knew she watched his every move. The room, with the closed curtains and golden lamplight, seemed like an oasis cut off from the busy city. A place where he and Lily could do anything they chose to, and no one need ever know.

He grabbed one of her wrists, lifted it to a bedpost behind her head, and secured it with a scarf. Her arm was stretched out, but not to full extension so that it'd be too uncomfortable.

Her eyes flared open. “What are you doing?”

“I didn't say you could speak.” He captured her other wrist, though she struggled to evade him. When he'd tied it to a bedpost on the other side of the bed, he went for an ankle.

She twisted her body and kicked out, landing one bruising blow on his forearm. He won the battle and tied both of her feet. Now she lay spread-eagled on the bed. She tugged against the scarves, testing them.

He stood back and studied her.

She glared up at him, her light blue eyes dazzlingly bright, her cheeks rosy. He read shock, outrage, but also arousal. God, but she was beautiful. Gone now were the lines of tiredness and strain he'd seen when she arrived home.

In the past, when he'd commented that she looked tired and tried to be considerate, she'd snapped his head off. But tonight, his take-charge approach had relaxed her, and turned her on.

“Dax, what's going on?”

He wondered the same thing himself. Instead of answering, he cast his gaze with slow deliberation down her body, to stop at the vee of her spread legs. His cock jerked painfully against the distended fly of his jeans. Seeing her opened wide for him, powerless to close her legs, was amazing. Her swollen folds, a rich, deep pink, gleamed with her juices and her clit was engorged.

He raised his gaze to Lily's face. “Have I done anything you didn't like?”

Her eyes widened, the outrage winning out. “You tied me up, for God's sakes! You hit me!”

“Slapped you once. And it turned you on. Look at you.” He leaned over the bed and slowly swiped his finger across her slick folds. Then he held it up and, because he couldn't resist, slid it into his mouth. He loved the taste of her, so musky and earthy compared to the crisp, tailored way she presented herself.

She moaned and now it was pure sexual heat he saw in her eyes.

He was about to ask if she trusted him, but a dom would make it a command. “Trust me.”

Her throat rippled as she swallowed.

Did she trust him? He had never hurt her, not physically, but he hadn't contributed a hell of a lot to this marriage. Not that he'd ever sensed that she really wanted him to. Her life was neater and tidier without him. “Trust me with your body,” he amended. “With your pleasure.”

Slowly, maybe reluctantly, she nodded. “But if—” she started.

If she was into dom-sub stuff, she had to know by now where he was going with this. “One of the rules is, you don't talk. You're in my hands. There's only one word you can say. Your safe word. If you say it, I stop, untie you, leave you alone.”

He read the uncertainty on her face. “What word?” she whispered.

“Your choice, Lily.”

A pause. Then, softly, “Skookumchuck.”

What did it mean that she'd chosen that name of the place where they'd first met, had sex, fallen in love? “Fine. If you say ‘Skookumchuck,' I stop. If you say anything else, you'll be punished.”

Her mouth opened on a protest or a question, then slowly closed.

Did she, like Cassandra in
Bound by Desire
, find the idea of punishment titillating? The idea that pain might give Lily pleasure—and that in fifteen years he'd never known—disturbed him. It wasn't in him to give her more than a light slap or pinch—and to fuck her with all the pent-up need in his body.

To relieve the pressure against his cock, he stripped off his jeans, and then added his boxer briefs and tee to the pile on the carpet.

Lily stared at him and the tip of her tongue came out to lick her lips.

His cock pulsed and Dax forced back a groan. It had been a couple months since he'd had sex—other than with his own hand—and he longed to bury his aching hard-on either between her pink lips or deep in her hot, wet pussy. But he'd damned well give her a climax first, or maybe even two.

He'd learned Lily's body years ago. Learned her triggers, as she'd learned his. On a bad day, he could make her come in five minutes flat. And today, with her steamy wet already, was definitely not a bad day.

But now . . . His wife lay naked and vulnerable, trusting him with her body. Trusting him to give her the pleasure he'd promised. And, just as when he'd massaged her, he wanted to do it. Not fast and hard, the way his body urged him to, the way she no doubt expected. Not doing the same old stuff he normally did. And not through pain.

So far tonight, he'd surprised her. And she was hot for him. He wanted to keep surprising her, and he wanted to make love through slow, lazy, sensual torture—torture that was pleasure, not pain.

Dax knelt at the foot of the bed and circled his hand around her right ankle where the silk scarf wrapped it. Gripping her firmly, he bent to kiss the top of her foot. Lily's feet were strong and smooth, the nails—like her fingernails—unpainted and clipped short. Neat, elegant feet, just like the rest of her.

He tongued soft flesh that smelled like a summer garden, massaged her sole, and, impulsively, sucked her big toe into his mouth.

She gave a breathy gasp.

He worked that toe the way he liked her to work his cock, giving it his all: sucking hard then easing off, giving firm, swirling swipes with his tongue, scraping the edges of his teeth over sensitive flesh. His penis throbbed and leaked drops of come.

Taking his time, he moved from her foot up her leg, stroking, massaging lightly, kissing and licking. Reading her reaction. She didn't like him lingering on her kneecap, but moaned when he caressed the back of her knee. And, as he moved up her thigh, her muscles quivered.

The sultry odor of arousal mingled with the lavender from her bath as he licked moisture from her inner thigh. He swiped his tongue across her pussy lips, and more drops slipped from her body.

If he licked firmly, pumped three fingers into her, and sucked her clit, she'd come.

So he didn't. He poked his tongue inside her, circled, then withdrew. Laved her with two long swipes then retreated. Flicked her clit lightly, enough to tease but not give her the pressure she needed.

She panted and her hips lifted, pushing her pussy toward his face in a silent request.

He slid two fingers inside her, then a third, pumped rhythmically, but avoided touching her clit.

“Dax,” she moaned. “Please. I need to come.” Her head thrashed on the pillow.

He pulled his fingers out of her and sat back on his heels. “You spoke.” This was easy punishment—not giving her the orgasm her body craved. “I'm in charge. Trust me to give you what you need.”

Her eyes flashed pale blue fire. “I need to come.”

Like she was the only one? He fought back a grin and played tough. “There's only one word I'll listen to from you. Are you ready to say it?”

She groaned, turned her head to the side, closed her eyes.

“Good.” He resumed teasing her with caresses that were almost, but not quite, enough to take her over the edge. Each time her body tensed, telling him she was at the peak and it would only take one more touch for her to climax, he pulled back.

She groaned in frustration, twisted her hips, but didn't speak.

“That's right, Lily. You're obeying the rule and you deserve a reward.”

He thrust his fingers deep and hard, pressed her sweet spot. “Come now,” he commanded, then sucked her sensitive clit.

Her body spasmed against his fingers and mouth. She cried out, something wordless and wild.

Dax's self-control shattered along with her body. He reached into the drawer in his bedside table, found a condom package, and sheathed himself. Lily was still trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm when he drove into her in one long, forceful thrust.

She cried out again, and tugged against the scarves that restrained her.

“Don't,” he grated out. “Stay still.”

Her eyes squeezed shut as if to disavow knowledge of what they were doing. Bright pink patches blazed on her chest and cheeks. Her short blond hair, normally so neat and stylish, stuck up every which way as her head thrashed on the pillow.

Normally, she'd wrap her arms and legs around him and cling as their bodies took up a familiar rhythm. It felt strange to have her spread wide and open, unable to touch him, but she wasn't motionless. She lifted her pelvis as far as she could, pressing up against him as he plunged in and out of her.

She gave panting gasps, a counterpoint to Dax's guttural, animal-like sounds.

Fuck, she was hot. Lily hadn't been this hot in . . . he couldn't remember when. Nor had he.

Torturing her and delaying her release had been torture for him too, and he couldn't hold out much longer. His balls were tight; the desperate need to come burned at the base of his spine. Knowing how sensitive her clit would be now, he reached down to press it. Her body convulsed, then release crashed through Dax in a wave of pleasure so extreme it almost hurt. Dimly, he was aware of Lily crying out again, of her body's spasms matching his jerky thrusts.

His heart pounded so frantically it might burst out of his chest as he struggled to draw air into his lungs.

Gradually, his breathing slowed. Clumsily, his legs and arms rubbery, he lifted himself off Lily's body and headed to the bathroom to deal with the condom. The mirror showed a wild man: cheeks with a hectic flush, hair even messier than Lily's, beard glistening with her juices.

When he returned to the bedroom, she slanted him a quick glance through lowered lashes. She didn't say a word, but tugged gently at one of the scarves.

His wife, the strongest, most tough-minded woman he knew, was tied to the bed. She'd opted in. Dax felt powerful and macho like that wild man in the bathroom mirror, but also, he realized, vulnerable. Being in control meant he was solely responsible for her pleasure. He risked failure if he didn't read her signals correctly.

In the book, Neville thought he understood Cassandra's deepest desires better than she did herself. How the hell did a man do that?