Alpha Submissive: A Bondage Romance (Forbidden series Book 1) Read online

  What the heck am I supposed to do? If he doesn’t get here soon I’m going to pass out from hyper-ventilating.

  When I finally agreed to give this a try, I knew he would expect me to be naked, but the reality of that is so much harder to deal with than an abstract concept. Naked? Sure. During my shower this morning I shaved everything to within an inch of its life, moisturized all over, and squirted perfume in unfamiliar places. All the while this strange mix of fear and excitement fought a war within my system.

  Except…now that I’m standing here with my clothing stacked in a neat pile in his bathroom next door, fear seems to be winning out. This robe isn’t nearly thick enough to keep me modest, especially when I’m completely naked underneath it, and alone with him in his home.

  I rub my sweaty hands on the robe, trying to focus on what’s around me. Concentrate, damn it. There’s no need to be this scared. You’re tough.

  Wide polished floorboards line the room, beneath a thick, burgundy-colored rug in the center. One wall is completely mirrored from floor to ceiling, while the others are draped with a black velvety-looking fabric that creates a cozy, almost closed-in effect. The rigging system built into the ceiling houses a series of down lights as well as a bunch of cables and heck knows what else. The result is like a cross between a dance studio and a decadent bedroom—only there’s no bed, just that unusual bench seat with a black wrought-iron back, and along one of the fabric-draped walls there’s a heavy wooden sideboard with a series of cupboards.

  One thing I do like in this room is the lighting. For some reason I expected glaring white theatre lights, but it is actually golden and not at all stark. When I catch a glimpse of my anxious face in the mirror, I can see the warmth of that light softening my reflection and giving my brown hair interesting chestnut highlights.

  “Ava.” His voice is a caress and a command, all contained in that one word. I automatically pull the robe tighter around me as I turn toward him. He’s standing in the doorway, but already his presence seems to fill the room. He’s dominant in the truest sense of the word. When he’s around, no one else matters. But I’m dominant too. Aren’t I?

  I raise my chin and give him a look. The one that makes everyone in the office sit up and take notice when I speak. I add in a small smile, trying to soften the effect a little, but still wanting to remind him that he doesn’t own me—I’m only here under sufferance.

  “I have no idea how this is going to work, Roane. I won’t hand over control. It’s not in me to do that.” The crazy thing tucked away inside starts laughing.

  Liar, liar. Just you wait and see.

  One eyebrow lifts as he studies me, and when he doesn’t smile back mine slowly disappears. “Remove your robe.” Hmm. Foreplay, anyone? Making internal jokes to stave off the panic doesn’t seem to be working. My chest heaves as I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly, debating whether or not to argue. But what would be the point? I’m the one that agreed to this, and I’m here to do a job.

  Baring myself to him physically is hard, but it’s doable. I might be rusty in the sexual stakes, but I’m not a complete novice. What is hidden deep down inside is what scares me more, but as long as I stay in control of my emotions I’ll be fine. Okay. I can do this.

  I do as he commands, my hands fumbling, making what I’m sure is a ridiculous spectacle as I finally untie the belt and let the robe drop to the floor. I step over the messy puddle of flannel pooling around my feet and wait for what comes next.

  What does he think? Is he regretting this already? I’m not thin, and I’m not that young anymore, either. I turned thirty-five just over a month ago, and I’ve been too busy lately to look after myself properly. I’ve been eating a lot of take-out and it probably shows on my waist and hips.

  In that instant I realize that I want him to like me; to desire me in the same way my body seems to crave his. The urge to weep comes over me, but I refuse to give in to it. As he moves further into the room and circles me, I find myself wishing that I were the type of woman who might truly attract a man like Roane.

  I imagine someone beautiful. Perhaps a pale blonde like Nicole to counter his darkness, with a slender, youthful frame and a come-hither flirtiness in her gaze. He would love that. My plain brown hair, freckled nose, and larger-than-average build must be a huge let-down.

  Finally I can’t stand the silence. “Look, I’m probably not…” He continues to circle, studying me as if I’m a creature at the zoo. It’s like he’s trying to memorize every dip and curve of my body, drinking in the sight of me with those intense green eyes, and I swallow hard and try again. “I’m probably not quite what you’re used to. Nicole was stunning, I know. I only met her the once, but—”

  “Quiet.” The word slices across my nervous babble. He brings his hand up to his chin, rubbing it a couple of times and frowning in seeming concentration. “Your curves are just right for what I have in mind.” Suddenly the frown is gone and he nods decisively. “Yes. I see it. The patterns are becoming clear.” He leans close and touches my collarbone, running his finger lightly along the contoured ridge and stopping at the dip in my throat. “This is going to work out just fine.”

  His finger flutters down toward the curve of my breast but it is gone before it reaches the nipple. I don’t know why, but it is as if I can still feel his hand on me, warm and firm, continuing its run over the swell of my flesh. A line of goose bumps forms in the wake of an imaginary touch rimming my nipple, and I let out a tiny hiss. How can you make me feel such things when you didn’t even touch me there?

  “You’re beautiful, too, Ava.” He nods toward my pale face in the mirror. “I know you don’t believe that, but I see it. And in this room, I am the Master.”

  I study my reflection but I don’t see anything beautiful about my curves. My body is stiff with tension and my hands are clenched by my side. I shake my head, then shrug, trying to release some of the tightness across my shoulder muscles. “I’ve been called strong before. Capable. Annoying, at times.” I let out a light laugh, trying for casual. “Even bitchy. But beautiful? I’ve never been called that. Before now.” I didn’t mean to add that last bit. It sounds fragile and weak. The involuntary exposure annoys me.

  He touches my shoulder and I turn from our reflections to face him. There is pity in his eyes, and I hate it, but there is something else behind the pity that has my heart racing even faster and sends an aching pulse directly to my core. Desire. The knowledge claws at my system and tears my hesitation to shreds.

  “All righty then. Let’s do this, Roane.”

  “No, Ava. From this point I’m in control. Not you.”

  My lips part, but before I can say anything further he pushes me down onto the bench seat. “Now we will start.”

  “Wait. Um…” My mouth is dry. “Don’t we need a safe word, or…something?” My voice fades at the amusement that animates his features.

  “You could always say stop.” He crosses the room to the sideboard and retrieves several long sections of rope from one of the cupboards. Is he still amused? I can’t tell. “We don’t need a safe word as such, unless you want one. Rope bondage is inherently unsafe, but I know what I’m doing.” He shrugs. “Better than almost anyone, of course.” His self-confidence borders on arrogance and yet I know he’s correct. He is a Master. “I will check on you regularly. Your circulation. Your well-being. You must answer me when I ask, but I trust that you will. Do you trust that I will do the right thing by you, Ava?”

  Do I trust him? He’s the world’s best. I’ve seen his work. Something in me relaxes just a touch. “Yes. I do trust you.” As much as I can ever trust anyone.

  “Good. Now back to your safe word. What would you like it to be?”

  He is still laughing at me, and my mind goes blank. I can’t think of a single word. He looks like a predator, watching and waiting, ready to pounce, and I finally blurt out, “Tiger.”

  His mouth quirks, but then his shoulders lift in capitulation. “Tiger
. Sure. Use that word if you want to pause or end our game. At any time.” He grins then, with a feral cast to his features that only enhances his similarity to the animal in question. “But you won’t.”

  Chapter Three

  He starts with my wrists, wrapping them several times and then creating an intricate knot that sort of folds back on itself. He calls that first one a double-column tie. He continues to wrap, and even though my hands are positioned in front rather than behind and I make an effort to study what he does, I have no idea how those knots work. Even if I did, with my wrists bound together like this I have no chance of getting any of it undone.

  The other end of the rope disappears up toward that pulley system near the ceiling, but at this point I’m still seated. My anxiety continues to lurk in the wings, and when he re-positions my arms in a type of prayer pose in front of my breasts and then casts a couple of larger loops around my torso, the apprehension kicks into overdrive. One of my usual coping mechanisms is to breathe slow and deep, but the loops around my chest are quite close-fitting and when my breathing starts to escalate the restriction becomes uncomfortable.

  My throat is tight, and a tiny moan escapes. Why am I doing this? What do I really know about him? What if he wraps me so tight I can’t breathe? What if… I don’t think I can… Oh, my God…

  “You’re doing fine, Ava. Let it out.”

  Let what out?

  “Focus on the rope. What does it feel like against your skin?”

  Okay. I can do this. I’m strong. The rope. Focus on the rope.

  I expect it to be scratchy against my skin, but it isn’t. Instead, the rope glides over the contours of my body like the caressing fingers of a lover whose sole purpose is to provide pleasure for his partner. Roane is clearly a Master. I remind myself he’s had lots of practice, but it doesn’t stop the trail of goose bumps forming in the wake of the silken strands and though I fight to control it, a shudder wracks my body as the sensation wends its way once again to my traitorous clit.

  “It feels…pleasurable.”

  “Yes. Let it out, Ava.”

  The only thing that wants out is my panic, and I refuse to give in. I shake my head violently but the rope is there again, together with the exciting brush of his fingertips as he weaves some kind of intricate pattern around my body. I love his fingers on my skin. They are warm, and firm, and the gentle touch mirrors the exciting feel of that cord slithering over my limbs and then pulling taut as he fastens it around me. I’m panting a bit and it’s starting to get painful. The rope. It’s so tight…

  I press my lips together, trying to contain my emotions, but the anxiety is ballooning as fast as my desire and the breathlessness increases.

  “I’m not sure… I’m not sure…”

  He pauses and in the silence it’s as if I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Fast. Staccato. Out of control.

  “Do you want to use your safe word?”

  Yes. No. I shake my head. These two warring factions inside my body are tearing me apart, and yet another of my coping mechanisms has been taken away. Instead of the freedom to pace back and forth across my office, giving me precious minutes to tamp my emotions back down, I’m now tethered to that damn pulley ring attached to the ceiling, and I can hardly move at all.

  Another moan forces its way out of my throat, and Roane’s hand immediately cups my naked ass. He strokes me there, as if calming a skittish kitten, and while the anxiety decreases a little my desire ramps up, throwing everything out of balance. I start laughing, wondering if he knows just how close I am to the edge, but he presses a finger to my lips.

  “Shh. You’re doing well, Ava.”

  Am I? How would I know? The only time I’ve ever seen a shibari performance was when I visited a lifestyle festival in New York several months ago to find out why Connor had insisted on booking this particular rigger. Roane. They all talk about him with reverence, whispering his name as if he’s some kind of demi-god in the field of BDSM. I went there prepared to roll my eyes and ridicule. I discovered a man who took my breath away from the very first second I saw him, and witnessed a display that populated my thoughts, and my dreams, long after I returned home.

  He’s good. More than good. His concentration and skilled precision is utterly fascinating. As I looked around the room that day I saw avid intensity mixed with awed respect on the faces of everyone in that audience. My face probably reflected the same.

  Connor was right. Roane is a Dominant. And right now that Dom is reaching between my legs to feed a loop of rope along my moist seam and up over my clit. Just the thought of his hand down there makes me hover on the precipice of an orgasm. The nub poking out from my labia is so swollen and sensitized that when he pulls gently, making a tiny adjustment to the lay of the cord, I can’t contain an intense shudder that wracks my whole body from head to toe.

  I catch his satisfied smirk and strangely, it enhances my excitement. So he’s a man after all, not a machine, and part of him must enjoy turning me on. It’s not all about making me submit. His cock has grown hard as he continues to wrap me. I can see the outline of his bulge tenting those dark trousers, and it’s an impressive size. I don’t remember him being aroused like that during the session I watched with Nicole as his model. I would have noticed, I’m sure. The moment he appeared on stage I was more aware of his presence—every nuance of expression, every move, every breath—than I’ve ever been of anyone.

  Even back then, before I officially met him backstage after the show, there was part of me that recognized and celebrated Roane’s effect on my system. His influence was so compelling that I dreamed for several nights after that event of his hands, his lengths of rope, encircling my body like a strange cocoon offering warmth and security.

  During the day I dismissed the dreams as ridiculous fantasies. But at night…

  The memory of those New York dreams, and the many that have followed since I returned to Melbourne, invades my mind and a fresh rush of cream releases from my vagina. I want to growl with the frustration of not being able to move. Not being able to touch myself to relieve the growing pressure of arousal.

  I ache to reach out and unzip his trousers. Is he circumcised beneath that fabric? I have no idea where he is originally from, so I can’t even guess based on heritage or culture. All I know is that he maintains three homes—one each in Melbourne, New York, and Tokyo—and that his shibari performance and workshop services are in such high demand that he is estimated to be worth a small fortune.

  As he moves back and forth around me I catch tantalizing glimpses of his hard-on. What would he do if I darted my head forward and nipped at his erection? Would he punish me with even tighter restraints? I’m so tempted to give it a try. I want to lower that zipper with my teeth and watch the turgid flesh spring free, and then lean over to take him fully into my mouth and sample his exotic flavor. But I’m helpless, bound by these rope shackles.

  The frustration bursts out of me. “What do you need me to do, Roane? Please. Tell me.”

  He lets out a little snort. “Nothing. Whilst you are in this session, I am in charge of everything.”

  “But—”

  “Stop talking.” His admonishment is quiet, but once again I detect that steel edge in his tone. He adjusts a line of rope running beneath my breasts, and then his fingers graze one of my nipples, ever so gently. For some reason it stops my breath altogether. It’s not the rope. It’s his touch. I want to feel it again. I need to feel it again. Why does the lightest of touches on my breast send a message directly to my sex?

  “What is the rope made of? I thought it would be jute or something. Rough.”

  He sighs then; one that sounds like a long-suffering parent stuck with a petulant child. I know he wants me to be quiet, but I have to talk. If I can’t move, how else will I maintain control?

  He’s moving, circling me again, and I shift my head back and forth, trying to figure out where he is and what he’s planning next. Is he close? Is he sta
nding back, studying my form and working out where his next loop is likely to go? Does he like what he sees when he looks at me? My anxiety begins to escalate again, and I’m trying desperately to hold it in when his warm breath tickles my ear. “It’s made of soft cotton. Not my usual choice, but it’s perfect for a beginner like you.” His voice is low, with a touch of wry amusement underlying the words. “It’s non-slip. And machine-washable. Great for things like this.”

  His touch on my pussy is feather-light as he strokes the whole length of my seam with the end of yet another piece of rope. Again a spurt of wetness escapes my channel. Oh my God, did he see the fluid come out that time? I try to shift my legs more tightly together, but his firm grip stops me. He runs his hand from my inner thigh down one leg to my ankle and grasps firmly, bending my leg until my calf hits the back of my thigh. This position pulls my leg sideways and my pussy is almost fully exposed except for that one line of rope embedded along the slit. He binds my bent leg once, twice, and then a third time, with a look of intense concentration as he works to secure the loop.

  He’s totally involved in this, whereas I, despite my arousal, still retain a sense of disengagement. I’m enduring it, waiting for the session to be over so I can move freely and have full control over my own body once again.

  He looks up from his crouched position beside me, and I lose myself in the brilliant depths of his gaze. I could drown in those pools of emerald. “This won’t work for either of us unless you commit.” There’s a thread of annoyance in his tone and the urge to placate him fills me. But then he says it again. “Let it out.”

  “Let what out, for fuck’s sake?”