Picture Her Bound-epub (3 page)

“You expect me to sleep here, with you?” She frowned at him, and he paused.

“You have a problem with it?” He could sleep on the couch, had many a time, but he wanted her close. Close enough to touch. To make sure she wasn’t out there doing something stupid.

“Seems a little hypocritical. Earlier you wanted away from me. Now you want to sleep with me.”

Jacques grabbed her chin and tipped her head back. “Emphasis on sleep,
bébé
. I didn’t spank your ass earlier because you’ve been high on stress for two days and a few hours ago you were waving an empty pistol at a man. Excuse me if I don’t think those are the best circumstances to invite someone to play.”

He felt the heat rising on her cheeks more than he saw it in the dim light.

“All right,” she mumbled and pulled out of his grasp.

He gave her a moment to herself and turned the lights off before returning. In those few short moments, Odalia had shed her clothing and burrowed under the comforter, lying on her side, facing the wall.

It was easy to think of her as a little thing, but compared to other women, she was tall. Athletic. Curvy as hell. She had enough gumption for a whole score of people. And she’d hit a rough patch this holiday season.

Jacques stripped down to his boxers and slipped between the icy-cold sheets, scooting across the bed until he felt her heat soaking up the fabric. He wrapped an arm around her and tucked her head under his chin.

“For the record,
bébé
,” he whispered next to her ear, “I’m going to play your ass in the morning. Don’t think for an instant there isn’t an inch of you I don’t want to touch or investigate for myself.”

Odalia shivered in his arms and leaned back against his chest. She smelled of something familiar, pears maybe. In the dim light he could make out the line of her jaw as she turned to glance up at him. “Promise?”

Odalia yelped as Jacques yanked the blankets off the bed. She scrambled to jerk them back over herself, but they were out of reach.

“It’s early,” she whined. Morning was not her ideal time of day.

Jacques tossed the blankets behind him and placed his hands on his hips, his gaze narrowed. “You hit the snooze two times already,
bébé
. Time to get up.”

“Mmm, don’t wanna.” She curled up on her side, hugging pillows that smelled of sandalwood and musk to her chest. They smelled of him.

She’d spent the night wrapped in his arms. The morning had arrived too soon, stealing away the peace she’d found.

Jacques slapped her ass and she yelped again, gasping at the sudden heat. He leaned over the bed and smacked her again on her upper thighs, below her bottom.

Odalia rolled to the other side of the bed and tumbled to the floor, somehow managing to land on her feet. She crouched, fingers on the cool hardwood, glaring across the mattress at Jacques, who smiled at her.

“Morning,
bébé
.”

“Fuck you,” she growled and straightened, lifting her arms to stretch. She’d taken the chance and slept in her camisole and panties. He hadn’t even copped a feel, and she didn’t know if she was disappointed or impressed.

His gaze flicked to her breasts. It was like a physical caress to her skin. Her nipples tightened, and a wave of heat washed over her.

Disappointed.

The thought of his hands on her had her skin heating.

“Before or after coffee?” he asked.

Odalia winced and massaged her temples. “After.”

“What’s wrong?” He circled the bed and pushed her hands out of the way.

“Nothing. I get migraines regularly.” She’d been plagued with them for as long as she could remember. Prescription pills and a specialty tea courtesy of a New Age shop around the corner from her condo helped, but they only took the edge off.

He rubbed her temples with his thumbs and peered at her. She clenched her hands and kept them to herself when all she wanted to do was touch him. But he hadn’t given her permission yet. She wanted him to give it to her.

“I have something that might help.” He took her hand and led her to the kitchen.

She wore nothing but her panties and camisole from last night. It was normal to wear as much, or less, at the dungeon, and she’d been naked during their photo shoot, but for some reason, she felt more exposed. Odalia tugged at the camisole, pulling it lower, except then the plunging neckline barely contained her breasts. Neither solution worked.

“Sit.” Jacques pulled out a chair and served her up a cup of coffee.

Odalia curled her hands around the mug and sipped the bitter contents. She sighed as the warm liquid slid down her throat, a contrast to the chilly morning air.

The loft was sectioned off into three rectangles, the imaginary boundaries marked by metal supporting beams. To the right was the kitchen, with the cabinets, stove, sink and fridge against the wall. The bathroom was the only separate room on the other side of the brick wall from the kitchen. The dining table sat near the dividing line while the couch and TV appeared almost orphaned in the middle, with the bed beyond. It was minimal to the extreme, but there were a few personal touches here and there. Photographs she suspected he’d taken.

Would he have framed one of the pictures from their shoot?

She liked the idea of decorating his wall with her body, keeping watch over him. Would he be aroused by some of the more erotic shots they’d taken? Her cheeks heated at the memory of one in particular. She’d been naked, her legs spread slightly so he could photograph the one tattoo on her thigh, but she’d known he’d caught a glimpse of her pussy. His cheeks had sunk in, and his gaze darkened. If the camera hadn’t disappeared, Odalia wondered where the shoot would have taken them. It had felt more intimate than foreplay.

Jacques pulled jars out of a cabinet. It was stocked with a variety of labeled containers. She tilted her head to the side and tried to make out what some of them said, but the script was too small.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“My
mamère
was a
traiteur
. She learned it from her father. Passed it down to me.” He left two canisters and a mason jar on the counter and returned the rest.

“A what?” The word sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

He filled a bowl with water and placed it in the microwave for a minute.

“
Traiteur
, a faith healer.” He continued to make whatever concoction he was creating as he spoke. “Her children, my father and aunt, never had the faith for it. When I was a boy, she taught me before she died. It’s herbal remedies and believing the Almighty don’t want you banged up. A good deal of what I learned is a combination of the
traiteur
traditions and Native American herb craft.
Mamère
was the daughter of a black man and an Indian woman. They used to live out in a parish, live off the land and help people.
Mamère
was just like them. Lived her whole life in the house she was born in.” Jacques placed a mug from the draining board in line with the stuff he’d pulled down. He measured a little powder from each container into the mug as he spoke. The microwave dinged, and he used a potholder to grasp the bowl by the edge and pour the water into the mug with a tea bag from a box on the counter.

Odalia watched, fascinated. There was history and culture in the bayou. It had fascinated her as a child, and though she’d never had the means to go further in school, she’d often thought she could make a life out of digging into the bayou traditions they were losing with more modern culture.

Jacques placed the new mug in front of her. It smelled kind of like tea, but she couldn’t put her finger on what kind.

“What is it?” she asked.

“
Traiteur
headache remedy. Drink all of it.” He turned back to his cabinet and put away the ingredients.

“Thanks. What do I owe you?” She wrapped her hands around the mug and sipped. The taste wasn’t exactly pleasant, but she gulped some down to get it over with.

Jacques chuckled. “
Traiteurs
don’t accept payment. It’s given freely.”

Odalia upended the mug and drank the last bit, dregs and all. It tasted how it smelled, robust,with a burst of ginger and plenty of earthy elements. She shook her head and pushed the mug across the table. “Thanks.”

She glanced at the clock. There were still several hours before her shift, but she needed to check on her dog, Creature, and see if she couldn’t ferret out a new lead on the camera. Even if Jacques was right, and the thief wasn’t interested in her pictures, she wanted the footage back. She continued to sip her coffee, savoring the flavor. It might be the next best thing to a cup of joe from Café Bwè, one of her favorite places to visit.

Jacques collected both empty mugs from her. She wanted a second cup, but that would make her too jittery, and she didn’t want to crash during her shift. Instead, she watched him rinse out the cups. He must have risen before she did. He was freshly shaven and dressed, except for shoes. It was almost odd to see the bounty hunter in a homey setting.

They’d first met at the club in passing, and again when he’d been turning over a fugitive at the precinct. She’d given herself whiplash that first time, but he’d nodded, drawled, “Mornin’, Officer,” and gone on his way.

Yet every interaction with Jacques had been professional and courteous, unlike many other bounty hunters she’d met who’d sell their own mamma.

“Up.” Jacques patted her back.

“Huh?” She glanced up at him.

“I told you I was going to play that ass of yours today.” He watched her from hooded eyes, his gaze heated.

Now?

In the morning?

It felt taboo. Kink was for the night, to be done in the dark, where the shadows concealed their liaisons.

“I will not tell you again,
bébé
.” The way he stared at her promised punishment if she didn’t obey. He stroked her hair, and she wanted to lean against him, allow him to do whatever it was he had in mind. “You hear me?”

She gripped the table and the back of the chair, hoisting herself onto wobbly legs.

The man had a voice for sin.

Jacques kept his hand at the small of her back, guiding her to stand between two supporting beams that marked the edge of the area designated as the kitchen. The rivets had been removed from a few places, and chains hung from the holes. She’d noticed it in passing the night before, but with everything else going on, it hadn’t seemed important. Now those chains held her complete and utter fascination.

Lust gripped her core, and her already hard nipples went hypersensitive. Even the abrasion of her silky camisole was too much.

Jacques circled around behind her. “Arms up.”

Odalia lifted her arms, stretching for the sky. A tiny flutter of nerves danced in her belly. Playing was the only time she put on makeup or did her hair. Something about the energy made her into a sensual, feminine creature she didn’t get to embody during her shifts. Would he find the disheveled, just-out-of-bed version as appealing?

Jacques placed his hands on the front of her hips, flattening his palms and pulling her flush against his front.

Well, now I know.

She could feel the hard line of his cock against her back.

Jacques slid his hands down her thighs and back up, over her panties. He drew her camisole up as he went, caressing her stomach and ribs, cupping her aching breasts briefly and whisking the fabric up over her head. She curled her hands around his neck, arching her back.

Why had they never acted on this chemistry before?

She let her lids close as he gripped her arms.

“Not yet,” he whispered and kissed her temple.

Jacques took one arm, retrieved a leather cuff hanging from the chains and attached it to her wrist. He did the same with her other arm and adjusted the length of chain with snaps until she had little slack to play with.

She could almost imagine them under the safety of night, where the perceptions faded away and left two beings who merely wanted each other in the most carnal sense. His hands coasted up and down her back, pushing her hair over her shoulders. She hummed and bowed her back, enjoying his caress.

Something about play gave her freedom to be the inner girl she fought every day to protect. For the brief moments she was under someone else’s care, she could be who she was.

Jacques’ touch disappeared, but she could hear the floorboards creak as he shifted to her left. She let her head drop forward and focused on how the cool air kissed her skin. Goose flesh ran up and down her arms and legs. Though he hadn’t asked her to, Odalia spread her legs, and the damp fabric against her pussy caused a shiver to skate up her spine.

The scent of coffee, herbs and leather hung in the air. In fact, the rawhide fragrance was stronger.

He’d bound her like this during their photo shoot, but she’d worn a mask that covered everything, save for her eyes. She’d been a marionette.

And now she’d never see the images.

Odalia pushed the memories from her mind. There was no sense dwelling on anything save this moment. She tilted her head to the side and listened as Jacques crossed the floor again, coming nearer. Something slapped against flesh. A crop? A crop could be both thuddy and stingy. She liked the variety.

Jacques swung something in the air so hard it whistled.

No.

Not a crop.

A flogger.

Odalia smiled and reached above her head for the chains, gripping the cold links.

Bring it on, bayou boy.

The first thwack of the individual leather tails of the flogger hit her across the shoulder blades, knocking her forward onto the balls of her feet. She grunted, but it felt good. Jacques hit her in quick succession, the strikes ranging from her upper back down to her ribs. The thudding sensation was more like a massage than anything else. In fact, she could stand there for an hour or more taking this kind of attention. Each blow licked out soreness, relaxing and easing her muscles into a delicious state of warmth.