The Agreement (Unrestrained 1)

"And Liam." He squeezed my shoulders. "Good night, sweetheart."

I took the limo service back to my apartment and went inside. I had a quick bath and examined my pussy with a faint growth of hair emerging. He was going to shave me again tonight and I felt my body respond to the very thought of it.

I changed my clothes, putting on the garter belt and a pair of nylons Dawn had brought over that night we went to the bar. I wore a black cashmere sweater that buttoned up in the front, a lacy black bra and the black lace garter belt. I wore no underwear, remembering Drake mentioning that if I became his sub, he would expect me to not wear any underwear when we were together. It thrilled me to imagine what he'd do when he found out I was nude under

the skirt except for the garter belt and nylons. I hoped it would please him to know I was thinking about what he'd like.

Then, I stood in the shadows of the entryway, checking the street to see if there was anyone watching the building. Just to be safe, I went out the back exit and walked down the alley to the street and hailed a cab, giving the driver directions to Drake's apartment on 8th Avenue. Luckily, the driver didn't try to make light conversation with me and I was able to focus on the meeting with him at his old apartment. I sent him a text when I was a few blocks away.

I'm on my way. Be there in 2.

He texted back immediately.

I am so ready for you, Ms. Bennet…

I smiled, hiding my grin behind my hand in case the driver was watching me in the rearview mirror.

I was so curious to see his place – both of them. His current apartment I wouldn't get to see, but I could imagine it was all dark wood and leather furniture and smelled of him.

This old apartment – Drake said his father, and then he himself, lived in it during their school years at Columbia Medical School and I wondered why he kept it. Sentimental reasons? That just added another dimension to the image of Drake Morgan, MD, I was getting to know – bass player, philanthropist, Dominant. He liked old sixties Brit Invasion music. He was a certified scuba diver. A vodka aficionado with a taste for all things Russian. A man who loved his job as a highly specialized neurosurgeon and did it because he enjoyed it and because it was rewarding. He didn’t have to work because of his father's wealth and the still-profitable company Liam founded. A man who made junkets to war-torn parts of Africa to do delicate surgery, risking his own life to do so.

A man who liked to tie women up and dominate them sexually, controlling their orgasms, making them look in his eyes and say his name while they came.

One thing he didn't do was romance. He made that clear to me in the Bahamas and that night at my apartment. We wouldn't do Sunday breakfast in bed, or meet for lunch, or do other romantic relationship things. We'd meet like we were going to tonight. He'd tie me up and fuck me. I'd come several times. We'd each go our separate ways and I'd sleep like a baby.

That had to be enough for me.

The thing was, he was so much. There was so much to him. I already knew too much about him to think of him as just a Dominant stud service and I knew I was on dangerous ground. If I let myself slip just a bit, I could fall.

Hard.

When I looked at him, I already saw too much inside of him – that strap on his wrist, the letters he wrote to his subs, his preferring the tragic Heathcliff and Catherine of Wuthering Heights to Pride and Prejudice's Elizabeth and Darcy. Yet, he playfully called me Ms. Bennet or Elizabeth.

I swallowed back this nagging sense of something I didn’t want to think about and exhaled, trying to blank my mind of such thoughts. I was going to meet with Drake Morgan to be well-fucked and to explore this fascination with submission that wouldn’t let up. My body responded to the very thought of what he might do to me. Would he tie me up tonight? Would he blindfold me?

I signed his contract and had to expect anything, but I had a feeling he was going to move very slowly with me. So far, he'd only made me hold my own hands together and close my eyes despite me wanting more. Would he soon start to use real leather restraints and a blindfold?

I hoped so. I wanted to feel totally possessed the way I imagined his subs felt when I read his letters.

After the taxi drove up to Drake's building on 8th Avenue, I paid the driver and stood in front on the sidewalk. A corner brownstone walkup with ornate windows and wrought iron window boxes with faded ivy, the building was very old. Browning ivy crept up the building's façade so that it looked like it belonged in London instead of Manhattan. There was a buzzer system and I noted that the penthouse was listed as Mr. L. Morgan. I wondered why it was in Liam's name, but it was his building so I imagined Liam bought it for Drake when he was at Columbia and Drake never changed it.

I buzzed and the door clicked open when I pulled. I stepped over the threshold into the dim entryway with three mailbox slots and a recycling box beneath it. There was a plaid rug to wipe your feet on and someone had chained a bicycle to a metal pole of some description beside the stairs to the basement. I heard a door open up the staircase and footsteps coming down, the wooden stairs creaking.

Drake – he must be coming to meet me. I smiled and started up the stairs, butterflies in my stomach. When I got to the second floor landing he was there, barefoot, dressed in some faded jeans and a white linen shirt unbuttoned and untucked to reveal his washboard abs and the thin black trail of hair leading down from his navel. He looked so… desirable, his black hair a bit mussed and a growth of whiskers on his jaw and chin. He smiled when our eyes met and a jolt of something went through me when I realized this was it – I was going to be completely in his world. Under his control. I'd signed his contract, giving him almost total license with me. All I had were safe words and trust that he'd respect them.

"There you are," he said and came to me, pulling me into his arms. I rested my head on his shoulder and inhaled, enjoying the familiar scent of Drake – his cologne and a hint of soap as if he'd just bathed.

He tilted my face up and kissed me and I felt weak, desire flooding my body when our tongues touched, my flesh already aching.

"You may have to carry me up the rest of the way," I said, my voice a quivery from excitement. "I feel a bit weak-kneed."

"Ms. Bennet, are you nervous to be alone with me?"

"Yes," I said. "But the good kind of nervous."

"Good. I want you a little nervous." Then he bent down and picked me up, one arm under mine, the other under my legs.

"Oh, no, don't," I said when he started up the stairs. "I was just kidding! Put me down, please! Let me walk."