Page 6 of His Bound Bedmate

Oh my, he was. When he opened the double door to his suite, my eyes widened.

The room we were in was full of shelves, and enough books to rival the Archives three floors below our feet. The carpet was lush and a dark red, there were comfortable chairs spread throughout, and a little dining area under the large windows which looked out over the mountains.

If I had thought about it, I would’ve pictured Findlay in a room finished in leather and dark wood, utilitarian and elegant in its simplicity. But this room? This was essentially every female librarian’s dream.

At least, I assumed that, until he led me across the thick carpet to one of the doors leading off the room.

I had assumed they led to a bathroom and bedroom and the like, but this third door was smaller than the others…and locked. He pulled a large, ornate key from a chain around his neck, proving this was a very secret room indeed.

Now I knew what my wet dream was—being shown a secret room by my dream prince. Yes! My heart was pounding so hard I couldn’t believe he couldn’t hear it, and my arm tightened around his.

When the door swung open, my heart’s frantic pounding ceased. Just—ceased.

After a long moment it started up again, slower and more sedately, just like my breathing. I pulled away from Findlay’s arm and stepped into the room, peering around as if in a dream.

Whereas the outer room was stuffed to the brim with books and coziness, this seemed more the room I would’ve imagined him in. Besides the bed—a queen-sized one—draped in black velvet, the rest of the room was leather and wood. Even the headboard was a black-leather monstrosity, with…with padded cuffs and chains dangling from it.

There was a large wooden “X” propped against the corner, a dais standing under a set of cuffs dangling from the ceiling, and a large leather armchair in front of both. On the other side of the bed was some sort of swing hanging from a series of hooks, and something which looked like a medieval stock and pillory.

The academic part of my brain was cataloging all of this intellectually, inspecting each device as if I could understand its purpose and use.

Which was all to the good, because the rest of me had melted into a wet, sloppy pool of oh God yes please at the sight.

“Do ye ken what all this is?”

Findlay’s low voice caused me to spin around, and there he was, lounging against the doorframe as if he had all the time in the world. I nodded—recognizing some of the devices from A Harlot’s Guide—then paused and rethought my response, and finally shook my head.

His lips curled slightly and my knees went weak. If my cunny hadn’t already been dripping, it would’ve been by now.

“This is my special room. Few women get to see this, and fewer still get to experience it.” He straightened and moved into the room, languidly trailing his fingers along the top of an armchair in a way which made my throat tighten with longing. “This is where my most powerful, most intense sexual encounters take place, and it’s vital my future wife be not just willing to join me here, but eager to.”

I forced my voice to work. “T-Tell me,” I managed to choke. I was worried I sounded judgmental or offended, when really I was one step away from stripping off my clothing and climbing up into that swing.

He stared at me with those gorgeous blue eyes for a few moments, then nodded. He crossed to the large X-shaped piece of wood, and I saw the cuffs dangling from the ends. It was obviously intended to keep a person spread-eagled, for whatever purpose…

“This is called a St. Andrew’s Cross,” he said in that erotically low voice of his. “Can you guess why?”

Please. I’m a librarian in a medieval castle. I lifted my chin. “Because Andrew the apostle was crucified on an X-shaped cross. In heraldry—such as on the Scottish flag, where Andrew is their patron saint—it’s called a saltire.”

He smiled. Not his usual lip-twitch, but a full-on smile which was filled with pride. Instead of making my bloomers wet—as most of his expressions did—this one made my heart swell. I was proud of making him proud, proud of pleasing him, and his reaction warmed me.

God help me, I was in love with my prince.

“Good,” he said with a nod. “I kenned ye would know that. It’s why I love yer brain.”

My brain?

I should have been offended, but I knew how much intellect meant to a man like him, so instead I was…flattered. Pleased. I ran my hands down my sides and over my hips, wanting to make him proud again. And when his eyes followed the movements, I saw how.

“Show me more,” I whispered. Commanded.

He was still staring at my hips—could he tell how wet I was already?—but nodded and dragged his attention away. “This,” he said, crossing to the small dais, “is the simplest of the devices in this room.”

He settled himself into the leather armchair, but didn’t lounge. Instead he stared at me intensely. “This is where a person learns if she is willing to trust her partner. Trust me. Standing here” —he gestured to the dais without taking his eyes from mine— “bared for my eyes only, willing to completely submit herself to my will and desires…” He took a deep breath. “It’s what I expect from a wife, and it’s something I am willing to offer to do for her, in turn. I want a wife who will not only trust me like that, but who enjoys that level of trust.”

Me me me pick me! Me! I wanted to scream, but the intensity and—dare I label it?—longing in his gaze made me hold my tongue.

I needed to show him I was the woman he was looking for…even if we were never to be married, I wanted to be one of the few to experience this room. To show him I could trust him. To give him my everything.

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