Page 71 of Just Business
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They moved in a slow dance of skin and leather, fingers and tongues from the bedroom to the playroom, Eli hot against Justin’s naked body even through his clothes. Whenever they touched, world narrowed down to Eli and only Eli, and Justin forgot everything else.
A nip of teeth from Eli. “What do you want today?”
Something different. “Rope. Tight. I want... not to move.” Justin’s breath caught. Was he asking for this?
“You want to be bound tight against the cross when I whip you?”
“Yes.” His breathing stuttered.
Eli, once more in his gloves, cupped Justin’s balls and he couldn’t help thrusting. Bound to the cross by rope and not the cuffs Eli usually used. He shivered. Francis had done that. Once. Then left Justin there all night.
Two days later, Justin had left with only the clothes on his back and a one-way ticket to Louisiana. Left? Escaped.
He shuddered again.
Eli ran feather touches over Justin’s cock, leather soft as silk against his length. He tipped his head back to give Eli more of his neck. Kisses. Bites. He’d probably have a nice collection of bruises tomorrow.
Another sign to show how much Eli owns you.
They bumped against the cross. Eli pulled back, his face flushed and lips wet. “Do you want this?”
“Yes.” No. Maybe. There were differences and similarities. He’d never told Francis no—not been allowed. He’d not tried with Eli. Would he stop? Did he want Eli to stop?
“Turn around, please.” If he did as Eli asked, he would get whathewanted—pain, pleasure, release, oblivion. He pressed his body and his hard cock against the leather of the cross and stretched arms and legs wide, like he had so many times before.You deserve this. Need this. You’re mine.Francis’s voice echoed in his brain. Justin closed his eyes. Eli was not Francis.
Eli’s touch was gentle and soothing. That hated voice in his head subsided. He could do this.
“So much skin to mark.”
To mark Justin as his own.He squirmed against the cross, cock aching, and sought subspace. It usually came so easily with Eli.
No calm. No peace. He remembered the number at the bottom of their dinner bill, the price of the bottle of wine. The expensive seats at the Benedum Center. The limo ride.
Rope crossed over the back of Justin’s wrist. Swiveling his head, he watched Eli wrap red rope across flesh again, binding him down to the cross. The more rope Eli wound around Justin’s wrists and arms, the more Justin’s mind swirled—but not with pleasure. The lust was there, the physical desire to be restrained, to be hurt—but his stomach flipped and the creep of a headache and nausea replaced the high he’d had when they’d been kissing in the bedroom.
Eli moved to the other wrist, planting a kiss on the nape of Justin’s neck. “You’re so beautiful.”
The murmur of those words against sensitive flesh sent a shiver through him—but also curdled his stomach. He’d always been beautiful to Francis when bound. Kept. Tied up and fucked.
Francis was not as tall as Eli but much broader. Brown hair rather than black. But he’d had cold eyes and a huge wallet. Eli could be as cold, and his wallet was certainly as large.
Eli caressed Justin’s shin, and murmured something Justin couldn’t make out over the thumping of blood in his ears.
Rope around his left ankle. Up his leg.
He shouldn’t be thinking of Francis. But this weekend had been similar to when he’d told Francis he needed to fly back to Louisiana to see Mercy. She’d come back from Iraq and was critical in the hospital.
Francis hadn’t been happy, but he’d said he understood. Lied so hard and treated Justin to an elegant evening out in clothes Justin hadn’t bought, a night of carnal sex and a flogging the next day. Bliss. A perfect send-off.
But the words that came after that—when Justin had been spent and exhausted?I don’t give a shit about your sister. You are not leaving me, Justin. I own you. I’ve fed you, I’ve clothed you, I’ve paid for you. You’re mine now.
Francis had left him on the cross all night.Cold and alone. Like you’ll be if you step one foot outside this house.
He moaned against the sinking in his chest and the ice that spread to each limb. The hairs on his arms and legs stood on end. Eli was not Francis. He could leave—had left—this house.
Rope around his right ankle.
