With Visions of Red (The Broken Bonds 1)

I’ve wondered before if she ever visits the other rooms. If she ever visits mine…if she plays…but I’m trusting my instincts on this one. That, and the fact that Julian has confirmed he’s never set her up with a Dom or Domme. Okay, fine. I’ve asked about her. Even against my better judgment and Julian’s unwelcome probing into my life.

All my thoughts cease as the scene on stage begins. The music dies down, and in the sudden, stark silence, a low and melodic beat starts. The dungeon master walks a blindfolded woman onto the stage and commences strapping her to a St. Andrew’s cross. It’s a classic scene, one that the sub requests each week. She likes to be flogged while a Dom frees her from her daily monotony as a CEO of some company. Then she prefers her master to go down on her as she climaxes.

But it’s the first time she’s been witness to it. And I move a bit closer, needing a clear view of her face as she watches. My breath moves past my lips, slow and measured, as I spy her vivid eyes trained on the scene. Her lips parted, black dress clinging to the curves of her slim body.

Her chest rises with her sudden and deep inhale. The V of her dress teasing me; the creamy skin of her chest hidden beneath a scarf, the round swells of her breasts just below, inviting. From the corner of my vision, I see the flogger make contact across the sub’s tits, and my pants tighten painfully as my target’s hand goes to her chest. She caresses her smooth skin beneath that infuriating scarf as if she’s been struck.

I slide my tongue over my lips as she crosses her legs. I imagine her thighs pressing together tightly, putting needed pressure against her clit, her panties wet. Fuck. I reach down and adjust myself. This is getting ridiculous, how much I crave this stranger. But she’s not like the others.

So many tempting beauties occupy this scene, and though I’ve played with my fair share, and it was satisfying on a carnal level—I’ve never been entranced the way I am when I watch her.

What would it feel like to tie her down, discover what she desires? For her to let me in and reveal her darkest fantasies? Extract her fears and inflict them on her, making her tremble, scream, ache. Then fall to my knees and gratify her as I worship my goddess.

The muffled cry from on stage cracks into my musings with the strike of the flogger, and I’m awoken from my trance, only to fall into my own form of torment. I watch as my goddess becomes bold as the other members play around her. She snakes her hand up her parted thighs…under the hem of her dress. Her eyes shut against the scene as she touches herself.

Fucking hell. I’m going to come undone. Yes, beauty. Rub that slick, swollen clit. I reach down and run my palm over the rock-hard bulge pressing against my jeans. I feel the connection to her as she pushes her hem up enough for me to witness her sliding her underwear aside, then I envision her trembling finger sliding into her warm flesh. Her eyes are clamped closed against the darkness, her breasts straining against the taut fabric, her nipples peaked.

I want to be there with her. Right there, when she comes. I’m tempted to yank my cock out this instant and beat the fucker off.

But my hand stills, my breathing catches in my throat, as a guy moves in front of my line of vision. Dammit. I’m already stepping closer to get around him when my feet stop. He lays his hand on her shoulder, then bends over to whisper in her ear.

My hands curl into fists.

If she welcomes his advance, I’m going to lose my shit. I won’t be able to stand here and watch someone else give her what I know she needs. Fuck him. He hasn’t watched her for months; he hasn’t logged away countless hours discovering what she yearns for.

And he sure as shit doesn’t know that she doesn’t want to be touched. But I do—and I’m two seconds away from breaking his hand.

But I keep watching, regardless. If she’s ready to play, finally, I’ll make sure she’s safe…

She’s shaking her head, trying to get away from him. She’s rattled. He’s not what she wants. She’s here to watch, not play. She’s not ready.

Relieved, I slowly back away. I’m pissed hot that he interrupted our moment, but there will be another. There’s always another. She’s getting bolder. And so am I. Only when I glimpse the distress on her face, her panic mounting, I immediately stop.

The guy touches her again, this time on her waist. He’s leaning over her, trying to persuade her to join him. He grips her around one thin wrist and forcefully pulls her against him.

That’s breaking the rules, fucker.

I’m storming toward him before Onyx can alert the bouncer.

His hand slides around her stomach as she pushes away from him, fear marring her gorgeous face.

“She said no,” I blurt. Towering over the guy, I bring all of my six-foot self forward, a dominant shadow cast over him. I haven’t touched him. Yet. But my fists are locked, every muscle corded tight.

The guy—who’s wearing a dark gray business suit—straightens his back to bring himself fully before me. “She wants it. She’s just shy.” He glances down at her. “Needs a little persuading.”

Hot breaths saw in and out of my nose. “The lady wants to watch. No means no, asshole. In any establishment, but especially here.” Hiking my thumb over my shoulder, I say, “I think you’ve played enough for tonight.”

His eyes narrow, but he shrugs, deciding it’s not worth the consequences if he wants to take this matter further. He gives me a once over, sizing me up, before he walks around and leaves.

Releasing a strained breath, I let the adrenaline ebb. Gain my composure before I look down at her. When I finally do, my muscles go lax. She’s mortified. I can see it painted clearly all over her beautiful face, splashed with red, even in the darkness.

I kneel down, my whole body strung tight with the need to touch her. I’ve anticipated this moment—when we’d first look at one another; when I’d hear her voice—but I hate that it’s like this. With fear in her deep green eyes. At least, fear that I didn’t put there.

“He’s a douchebag. But are you okay?” I ask.

Her burgundy layers fall to conceal her face, and I want so badly to push them aside. It’s a wig—I realized this before now. I’ve imagined what her real hair looks like; dark, to match her eyebrows. Soft, silky, long. I want to strip her of the fakeness and curl my fingers around a thick hank of her real hair. Pull her head back; look down into her eyes. I push the enticing thought away.

She nods a couple times, her movements jerky. “I’m fine. Just embarrassed, I guess.” Lifting her chin, she fixes her penetrating gaze on me. All logic flees my brain. “But what did I expect? I mean, look at where I am. I overreacted, that’s all.”