Bound and Determined (22 page)

palming a hand across the front of Sterling's slacks, molding the cotton fabric

to Sterling's cock for a brief instant, reminding both of them who he belonged

to.

“Tonight,” he said, his voice harsh, rebuilding the dynamic between them

with clumsy swiftness, a makeshift affair that they could polish and perfect

later. “Eight o'clock.” Sterling nodded, his eyes wide, dazed, hopeful. “Don't

expect me to be kind to you,” Owen warned him, knowing just what that

promise—never a threat—would do to Sterling, keeping him half-hard all day,

distracted.

For once, Owen didn't care what that would do to Sterling's grades.

* * * * *

while they were playing, and he took full advantage of the permission, saying—

and even moaning—it often.

Tonight he'd arrived at Owen's house at eight as directed, been let inside,

and gone immediately to the closet to follow the routine. But Owen had said

firmly, “All of your clothes, please,” and Sterling had stripped down, had his

hands bound behind his back without complaint, and gratefully followed Owen

upstairs to the bedroom.

Now he was kneeling on the floor beside Owen's bed, waiting to find out

what Owen had planned for him. He knew that it was going to be an intense

evening, but he
needed
it to be—it had been a long week without Owen, to the

point where Sterling had started to wonder if it was even possible for him to go

back to life as he'd known it previously. He'd even considered going to the

BDSM club to find someone else to play with but knew that replacing Owen

would be impossible, so had decided not to try.

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91

“Did you have a question?” Owen asked, and Sterling remembered having

spoken Owen's name aloud for the sheer pleasure of being able to do so.

“No—I'm sorry. I just…missed you so much.” Being back in Owen's

bedroom, kneeling naked on the floor, was like coming home. The relief Sterling

felt was immense.

Owen's hand closed around the back of his neck, and Sterling relaxed

completely into the possessive grip. It wasn't a collar—he'd asked for one once,

and Owen had snorted and said that they were earned and he hadn't, not yet—

but it made him feel owned. He'd tried buckling his belt around his neck once,

not tightly, just to feel the rough kiss of leather and see it in the mirror, dark

against his skin. He'd ended up on the floor, on his knees, panting harshly, his

hands fighting a stiff zipper to get at an even stiffer dick, coming moments after

his hand had closed around his erection.

He'd told Owen that he'd come without permission and taken the hour in

the corner, facing a really boring piece of wall, without complaint, but he

hadn't told Owen the details. Sometimes, that small omission itched at him like

a half-healed mosquito bite, but God, the guilt had been worth it for that

moment of
rightness
he'd felt. If Owen ever put a collar on him, he'd probably

lose it completely.

“Yes, well, you're here now,” Owen said, his voice free of anything but a

deep satisfaction that was flattering and reassuring in a way that flowery

phrases wouldn't have been. “And I want your complete attention, please.”

“Yes, Owen. You have it.” Sterling raised his eyes without lifting his chin,

looking up at Owen but not breaking position. The man seemed enormous,

eclipsing everything else in the room and, in fact, his world.

“Tonight, I'm going to tie you with very little room to move. I want you to

be able to hold your position no matter what I do, and toward the end that

might be difficult.” Owen's hand moved to run through Sterling's hair, carding

it with his fingers and leaving it tousled and clinging to Owen's fingers. “I'm

going to leave you like that, blindfolded, for a while—I'll be here with you, of

course—and then, when I think you're ready, well…” Owen turned Sterling's

head so that he was looking at the bedside table. There were candles there,

plain white ones, that Sterling hadn't noticed when he'd walked into the room,

his attention focused solely on Owen. “Sterling?”

Owen rarely asked in so many words if what he had planned for a scene

was okay with Sterling, but he usually gave him the chance to express any

doubts or fears before it started.

“Yes,” Sterling said, putting everything into that one word because it was

all that mattered. He didn't care what Owen had planned; it was okay.

Owen must have heard it in his voice, or maybe just saw it in the blissful

expression Sterling was pretty sure was on his face. He looked into Sterling's

eyes for a long, long moment, then nodded and moved to get the blindfold.

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They'd used it before, the black strip of cloth tied firmly around Sterling's

eyes, cutting off his sense of sight entirely. He didn't mind it. Owen probably

would have liked it better if he had, but for whatever reason, not being able to

see wasn't a problem for Sterling, or at least it hadn't been so far. There was

something peaceful about it; it gave him the ability to detach on some level, to

feel without worrying about what was coming next.

He let Owen tie it, the flat knot positioned so that it wouldn't dig into his

head when he lay back; let Owen untie his wrists and guide him, with small

nudges, to the center of the bed where a wide, thick towel had been spread for

him to lie on; let Owen bind his wrists and ankles to the frame of the bed with

very little play.

And wished, just for a moment, that he could see the expression on

Owen's face that went with the faint sigh of pleasure he heard when he'd been

positioned exactly, precisely as Owen wanted him to be.

“You can make as much noise as you want to,” Owen told him, fingertips

tracing the lines on Sterling's palm and making his fingers twitch. “And you

know what you need to do to take a break or put a stop to things.”

Not that Sterling had ever used either of the safe words—he was probably

too stubborn for that, couldn't imagine giving in and pushing either word past

his lips no matter how freaked out or in pain he was in.

Now Owen teased him, and took his time about it too. Gentle fingers,

barely touching, ran down along Sterling's throat, then moved away. Just when

he started to wonder what would come next, Owen touched him again—his

collarbone this time, one side and then the other, pressing thin skin over bone

like Owen was leaving a mark on him. Sterling strained upward, trying for

more, but Owen had tied him down tightly enough that he couldn't move very

much at all.

Nothing again. Sterling waited, then focused on his breathing, on steady,

even breaths and the spaces between them.

Another touch—the instep of his right foot this time, making him hiss and

jerk against the restraints.

“Easy,” Owen murmured. “Accept it, don't fight it. Everything I'm giving

you, just take it, use it.”

The next touch hurt, a pinch to a nipple that left it hot and swollen, the

tight pressure of Owen's fingers maintained until Sterling was arching up, his

breath ragged. The shock of the pain mellowed to heat, and each throb of

punished, bruised flesh was echoed in his dick, already hard, though he knew

that it would be a long time—if at all—before he was allowed to come.

“I'm going to give you a pair of clamps for these,” Owen said, releasing him

finally and giving Sterling's other nipple a single, teasing lick. “Call you and tell

you to put them on. Jerk off thinking about you walking around with them on,

hurting you, arousing you. Call you when I've come and tell you to take them

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93

off, but you won't get to come. And I'll jerk off again later just thinking about

how hard you are, how hot and sore your nipples are.”

The thought of Owen jerking off made Sterling crazy—what he'd look like,

hand wrapped around his cock, muscles in his upper arm flexing as he stroked

it, his expression when he came.

Don't fight it, he reminded himself when Owen's next touch was a firm tug

at his balls. A few deep breaths helped him relax, and even when Owen's slick

fingers rubbed his perineum and around his hole, he was able to accept it, to

appreciate the touch instead of tensing up. He moaned when Owen slid a finger

inside him without warning—God, it felt so good. How was it possible that he'd

been afraid of this for so long?

Nothing Owen did lasted. He moved from one part of Sterling's body to

another, pinching here, scratching with blunt fingernails there.

“I think it's time to heat things up a bit,” Owen said. Sterling smiled at the

pun, but no more than that. He was sinking deeper, utterly relaxed, scattered

notes of pain and pleasure scored onto his skin, waiting for him to voice them.

He heard the scratch of a match and knew that one of the candles, its

base snug in a simple glass holder, was burning now, clear wax forming

around the wick.

“It's not too hot,” Owen told him. “I'm going to drop it from high up at first,

watch it fall and splash against your skin, hear you cry out for me.”

Sterling felt a shiver of anticipation shatter his calm; it would return, but

he would have to rebuild it slowly, moment by moment. He didn't mind; he

loved this space of waiting for something to happen. Expecting the flash of

heat, he jerked with surprise when the next touch was to his lips as Owen

kissed him, a hungry, avid kiss that left Sterling's lips wet and stinging from a

bite. “That was to remind you that I'm here,” Owen said and before Sterling

could find the words to tell him that he didn't
need
reminding, the wax, like

liquid fire, struck his stomach, and he gave the guttural groan Owen wanted,

his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath.

It wasn't the same as touching a hot stove top because in that case the

body's immediate instinct was to pull away from the source of heat. Sterling

couldn't do that—he could only lie there, panting, and wait for the burn to

fade. It seemed to take a long time, and even when it finally had, the spot felt

sore and stiff with the hardened wax.

Sterling lay quietly, listening for Owen, for clues of when another splash of

hot wax might come. He'd just started to wonder if maybe that had been the

only one, unlikely as that seemed, when another hit his inner thigh and seared

its way down along his skin, gravity creating a line of fire instead of just a

small, round spot. He cried out and arched against his bonds, the fabric

around his wrists digging into the tender skin there—he couldn't help it;

instinct told him to get away from the source of pain, but there was nowhere to

go. It
hurt
, and his dick, well trained as it was, throbbed with need.

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He could hear Owen moving, doing something, and about half a minute

later there were
two
drops of molten wax at nearly the same time, one near

each nipple. The sound that ripped its way from Sterling's throat then was

more like a scream, short but startled. His fingers scrabbled at the material

binding him, trying to find purchase.

Owen's fingertips stroked across Sterling's mouth, capturing the shape it

made as it whimpered, a touch that didn't soothe or comfort because that

would come later; right now, it was about building everything higher—the sting

searing his skin, the arousal heating his blood, the trust between him and

Owen.

“There's going to be more,” Owen warned him. “God, you should see how

you look, how your skin's flushed, sweat making it shine.”

A tear trickled down, escaping the blindfold, and Sterling concentrated on

tracking its path down his cheek, distracting himself from the wait, until

Owen's tongue licked it away and jolted him back to the sensations coursing

through him. The first drops of wax had hardened fully, and his skin felt tight

there, pulled and tugged. Peeling it off was going to hurt too, and he curled his

fingers into fists and let himself sob out Owen's name, wanting more even

though—no,
because
—he knew how much it was going to burn.

Owen laid down a circle of wax droplets around each nipple with careful

precision, never letting the drops meet and merge, and then, from only a few

inches above Sterling's skin, judging from the increase in heat, coated the

nipples themselves. It felt as if his skin was on fire, radiating out from those