Page 54 of Those Who Are Bound

Elliott

“Whatthefuck,Ellie?”

She stared at Becks standing in the door of his Arlington apartment bedroom. His suit was rumpled from the long day, his tie askew, and there was a hint of blond stubble on his tensed jaw. His blue eyes returned to her: confusion, shock, anger, and a hint of horrified lust.

In that moment, he looked all of his forty years, the soul-sucking passage of time etched on his face, the weathered look on the still pretty-boy visage that came from stress and smoking. He was barely six feet—just shy of it—but he was fit, although he’d lost some weight due to his latest divorce.

And he was shocked—horrified. She quickly shook her head as though to tell him he wasn’t seeing what he was seeing, her body impossibly aflame as she writhed on the bed. But he was seeing it. She tugged at her spread legs, even though she knew from more than twenty minutes of struggling that they were bound fast. Above her head, her wrists were held tight in the slipknot. She told herself it was an accident, that she hadn’t meant to still be in this position when he got home. Of course, she knew it was no accident.

After all, she was inhisbed instead of in the guest room.

Bound; tied to his posts, laid out for him in her little white bra and underwear. And it was the most erotic feeling ever, even if it was Becks she was on display for. Maybe because it was Becks. No, she’d meant for it to be Becks. He kept looking at her as though he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing, and there was a new rush of warmth between her legs as his gaze pawed her.

He saw it too, the wetness on her panties between her spread legs. He stared for a few moments before he asked again, his voice thicker and hoarser, “What the ever-lovingfuck,Ellie?”

Breath bated, she rambled off quickly and breathlessly, “I wanted to see what it felt like, Becks; those pictures. Those women.”

He stalked over to the bed and grabbed up the photos. She was reenacting one of the pictures; a dead red-haired woman tied in this same position in her bed. The woman in the picture she’d chosen, however, was naked, beaten, bloodied, and strangled, her lifeless eyes staring into the void.

“Shit, Ellie! These women were murdered. What the fuck is the matter with you?” It was a condemnation, not a question. “And how does it feel?”

She looked up at him; her back arching as she tested the bonds, her expression falling into one of euphoric sensation. Although he was looking at her with guarded fury, she didn’t care. She answered quietly, “Good, Becks. It feels good.” She shivered, goosebumps evident on her skin.

“You’re like family, Ellie.” It was a growl.

That didn’t matter to her, either. “I didn’t mean to.” She looked up at the rope slip-knotted around her wrists. “I slipped.”

“You forget, this is my fucking job. You aren’t here by accident.” He flicked the cord, and she moaned as it reverberated.

“Please, Becks.”

He squatted down beside the bed, his angry gaze on her.She turned her head to look back, her dark hair damp, sticking to her temples. She’d worked herself up so much, there was a slight sheen of perspiration on her skin. He might have been gearing up to yell at her some more, but the longer he looked, the more heated she became.

The longer he looked, the more possible this seemed, because he was breathing as hard as she was, his lips parted.

“You’re a goddamn virgin,” he spat out angrily.

“I’m not,” she assured him. “Becks, I trust you.”

“Oh, fuck, Ellie,” he said, standing up and turning away. He tossed the photos on the dresser and looked at her in the mirror.

“I’ll find someone else. I’ll go somewhere else; there’re places…”

Becks turned on her. “Don’t you fucking dare! You’ll likely end up in one of these damn pictures.”

She looked at him beseechingly. “Then you need to, Becks.” She took in another staccato breath. Tears formed. “You don’t know how this feels.”

He let out a scoff that indicated otherwise. His stare was tortured, angry, conflicted…

Heated.

Reaching for his tie, loosening it, he started forward. A rush of elation and excitement surged through her. He slipped out of his suit jacket, his expression stony as he stared back. “This is wrong.”

She shook her head. “Not if it’s you.”

He tossed her a disbelieving look. “I’m not fucking you.”

She frowned in confusion.

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