Bound by Lies: Bound #1 (Adult Romantic Suspence)

By Hanna Peach

Our love is on his terms. He contacts me only through notes
− unpredictable and untraceable. When we meet, he can touch me, but I’m
not allowed to touch him. When we make love, it’s only after I have been bound
and blindfolded. It’s the only time I truly feel alive. Which is why I play
along with it. For now.

Caden Thaine is the most sinfully beautiful man I have ever
seen. But more than that, his touch sets me on fire. And dear God, do I ache
for him. I don’t know where he lives or even what he does. But this doesn’t
scare me. My only fear is that one day his messages will stop.

I know he’s hiding something. But that’s okay. I am hiding
things, too. Like my real name and... who I really am. But what we have is enough.
Sort of. And everything works…

Until one day, I follow him.

Soon our dark pasts will collide and I will discover just
how much we are both bound by lies.

Adult romantic suspense. +18 years.

“
You won’t
realize how strong you are until you are given no other choice.”

~ kitten

This book is for the strong in all of us.

Author’s Note: For the sole purpose of
ensuring the story flows, references to condom use have been removed from the
sex scenes. Please always practice safe sex.

This time, the note comes through a letter.

When I return home from work, it’s there: the only envelope
in my mailbox. Plain and white. I know it must be from him because no one else
sends me letters. No one else knows where I live.

As I pull the envelope from my mailbox my heart starts
beating against my ribs like a trapped animal against its cage. In some ways it
is, and he is the only one who can set it free. I know that this letter will
contain a note. And this note means I will see him again soon.

My address on the front is written in black ink and I
recognize his neat cursive handwriting straight away. I brush my thumb over the
stamp, a stern face of a foreign president, and notice it is postmarked express
from Colombia. Another one from Colombia.

I turn the envelope over and catch the whiff of a masculine
scent of musk and wood smoke. His scent. Like always there is no return
address. Without caring that I’m still standing in my cramped gray apartment
lobby, I touch the envelope to the end of my nose and inhale. I breathe him in
deeply. My belly clenches as his scent cascades down through my body and pools
between my legs.

I shut the mailbox, snatch the mailbox key from the rusted
lock and run up the stairs two at a time, my groceries and bag slapping against
my hips. I unlock my door and push into my apartment, tripping over the small
rise of the doorframe in my haste.

My apartment is a compact studio apartment; a single room
with a small kitchen immediately to the right of my front door with a slim
kitchen table that doubles as a work bench. An armchair sits alone next to a window,
which allows me to sit in the sun when it’s out and read fifty-cent paperbacks
from second-hand stores. At the end of the room is my double bed, a wardrobe, a
chest of drawers and a bedside table. The only other door leads to my compact
but usable bathroom. The paint is peeling, there is a weird musty smell that
hangs about if I shut up this place for too long, and I’m on the wrong side of
town, but I don’t care. It’s cheap and somewhere to sleep. I don’t ever bring
anyone back here anyway.

My bag of groceries and satchel are dumped and forgotten by
the door. I pause long enough to turn the key in the lock and test the door
handle, then I flick on the deadbolt that I had installed when I moved in. I
turn, leaving the keys swinging in the lock, and go straight to my armchair, a
second-hand ratty thing with a suspect stain that I’ve covered with a throw.
Not beautiful, but it does the job and it was cheap.

I sit, the letter still in my trembling hand. I take a deep
breath as I caress the edges of the rectangle, enjoying this little game of
torture I play with myself, seeing how long I can sit here without tearing the
envelope apart to get at the secrets within. My insides burn to see the
contents. How many hours and minutes and seconds until I see him again?

I run my fingers along the lettering and I can see his
hands, thick and strong and rough with a single perfect freckle marking the
back of his right index finger, holding a pen and writing these words for me. I
hold the envelope up to my nose again and smell him. Then I run my bottom lip
where I imagine his tongue has licked across the lip of the envelope before he
sealed it.

Enough. I give in.

I tear into this flimsy outer layer. The shredded envelope
flutters to the ground and the note, again on plain white paper, is now in my
hand. Like always, written in his handwriting, is a single line.

Midnight Falls. Cabin #11. Sunday 4pm.

Sunday. 4 p.m. And today is only Thursday. Oh God. Three
whole days until I see him again. This constant dull ache for him crescendos
into a crushing fist deep in my belly. Like always, it gets worse when I know
exactly when I’ll see him next. Three days. As usual, he’s making me wait. But
there’s nothing I can do. I’m tied to him.

It should have been an omen that I met Caden at a nightclub
called Bound.

Six months ago

Bound is a loud, moralless pit hole slunk in the shadows of
the warehouse district of this city. It is gritty exposed-brick walls, exposed
ceilings and rusted pipes, and medieval furniture made of thick wood and black
iron. The bar staff is costumed in structured leather, whalebone and PVC. Some
of them wear masks to protect their day-time identities. Others wear their
faces open and proud with painted red lips. Some adorn themselves with spiked
collars or jewels on chains strung across from various body piercings like
Christmas decorations.

The music is so wild it almost sounds like it has no beat.
Just a furious epileptic noise that bangs through the bodies on the dance
floor, a perfect soundtrack to the carnal stills of thrusting hips and flicking
hair given up by the flickering strobe lights. It is a perfect place to meet
like-minded people who just want to forget.

I come here when I need to forget. No, I lie. I can’t
forget. The most I can hope for is a
distraction.

In this private booth in Bound, I yank his pants off him
and they drop to the black marble flooring. With one hard push he falls back
onto the black couch, his erection waving slightly at me.

He grins at me from under his floppy sandy hair. Dimples
mark his cheeks. “You’re an aggressive one, aren’t you?”

“You here to talk or to fuck?”

I lift up the hem of my dress to reveal that I didn’t
bother with underwear. His eyes drop to my freshly shaven pussy and I see them widen
a little. I straddle him and reach past him to the pieces of leather piled on the
shelf behind the chair. It’s dark in there, but I know what I’m looking for by
feel. As I lean forward my chest pushes against his cheek. He pulls my left
breast free from my dress and gives my nipple a lick.

“You don’t even want to know my name or anything?” His
voice reverberates against my breast.

I grit my teeth as the frustration builds in my body.
Finally, my fingers find the piece of leather I’m after. I lean back to sit on
his thighs. “I don’t give a shit what your name is.”

Using both hands I stuff the ball gag into his mouth and push
the leather strap down over his head. With a swift move I tighten the strap and
buckle it off behind his head. His eyes widen further and his fingers flinch up
to the leather gag. But before he can protest or unbuckle the piece, I lick a generous
line of moisture across my palms and wrap them around his shaft. I start to
move my hands apart in a twisting motion, almost like I am wringing out a
towel, then back together. He lets out a groan muffled by the gag and his head falls
back onto the chair as I continue to work his cock.

Yes, that’s it. The feel of his hard smooth skin sliding
in my hands raises the itch under my skin to an almost unbearable level. I
can’t. I need. Release. Now.

I lift myself up and slide down onto him. I dig my nails
into his chest to leverage myself, ignoring his hiss, and start to ram my hips
against him. He raises his hips to meet me and his hands grab my ass. I panic,
scratching at his chest then pushing his hands off me. “Don’t touch me.”

He scrunches up his face and looks down to the raw red
marks across his pecs, but he holds his palms up in a surrender.

Yes, you surrender. I’m in control.
I start to move again
and he settles back, his arms laying across the back of the small couch. His
fingers grip the leather tighter and tighter as I work against him. He groans
again and his eyelids flutter shut. My own pressure builds inside me. My head
falls back and my eyes close. Under this darkness I am empty, if but for a
moment. The rhythmic motion of my hips against his is like waves crashing
against cliffs, violent and furious. But it numbs me and I can almost mistake
it for freedom. The wave of heat rises through my body. I grind my hips against
this stranger, taking what I need, hoping that this time it will be enough to
last.

But it isn’t enough. It is never enough.

That was last night. Tonight, I lean my elbows against the
bar, stirring my straw through my vodka and tonic, trying to pay attention to
the guy on my left who bought me this drink. But my mind is too scattered. This
itchy, uncomfortable feeling clenches me like too-tight skin, and my unwanted
memories are like a buoy. They keep bobbing up to the surface no matter how
much I keep pushing them back under. God, I need a distraction.

I watch Barry or Bozo, or whatever this clown’s name is,
waving his fingers around as he talks. I nod my head like I give a shit and
wonder how long decorum dictates that I wait to suggest that he pay for a
private booth. His brown hair is conservatively cut and combed to one side; he
reminds me of a Ken doll. Especially when he flashes that expensively purchased
smile of his. He wears a tailored pinstriped suit with a red silk folded
handkerchief in his jacket pocket. Who the hell wears a frickin’ handkerchief
in their pocket to a club? Corporate-douchebag-Ken does.

His right nostril is dusted with white powder and he has
that gunky white residue at the corner of his mouth as most coke users do.
Fucking gross. I hope he doesn’t expect me to kiss him. I look down at the bar
counter, shiny from polish and spilled liquor, because I just can’t keep
looking at him. Otherwise I fear I’ll get put off to the point where I can’t do
this. And I need this.

I place my lips around the straw and pretend to take a sip
of my drink. They are generous with their shots here, so I can taste the sting
of the vodka mixed with the sharpness of the lime on my lips as I draw up the
cold liquid. Then I stop sucking without swallowing any liquid and let it all
fall back down the straw. I don’t drink. Especially not when I’m on the hunt
for a distraction. I don’t like losing control of my faculties. I won’t do it.
I don’t like it. Most importantly, I can’t afford to.

At that moment something in the music changes and I look up.
It’s then that I spot
him
leaning against the wall across from me. His
giant form with overbearing shoulders and intimidating arms straining against
his dark shirt makes it difficult not to notice him. From here I can see that
he has messy dark hair and dark eyebrows. I can’t tell what color his eyes are,
but I’m desperate to find out. Black as night, I guess, to match his hair.

I can tell that he is staring at me, making no attempts to
hide it. I can’t help but smile.

I noticed him several weeks ago. He had been standing in
almost that very spot, also staring at me. But he didn’t come up to me, despite
the fact that he had basically fucked me from across the space with his eyes. I
fucked him right back. But I didn’t go up to him. I don’t chase men. I don’t
have to.

I thought that he would approach me. But he didn’t. He just
watched me. He didn’t even come to lay claim after a good-looking suit sought
to charm me into giving him some of my time. I left with the suit that night.
Although you’d better believe I was imaging
him
buried between my legs
later that night. Since then, I’ve found my eyes being drawn to that very spot
where he stands now.

“Hey, sweetcheeks.” My attention is diverted back to Bozo.
This wannabe lover is frowning at me, obviously ticked off that he isn’t
getting his vodka tonic’s worth of attention from me. The dim bar lights flash
off his hair like an oil slick, making it look like someone has spat all
through it. I cringe when I imagine running my hands through it to pull at it.
“You even listening to me?”

I smile and I can feel it dripping thick with fake honey. I
pull in the corners of my mouth so that it forces dimples to my cheeks. “Of
course I am, babe.” I giggle and place my hand lightly on his arm.

Bozo’s face relaxes. Predictable fucker. He leans in close
so I can smell a mix of rum and cigarettes on his breath, and I have to fight
the urge to throw up in my mouth. I rack my brain for why I even let him buy me
a drink.

“Well, why don’t you drink up, beautiful, and we can go take
this party upstairs into a private booth?”

This is what I want, isn’t it? I feel his hand slip onto the
small of my lower back then slide down to feel the round of my ass. He presses
his partial erection against my side. Usually the touch of a sexed-up man ready
to go gets me excited, but tonight, for some reason, it only serves to make me
feel queasy. I swallow and try to fight this feeling from showing on my face.
For some reason I look over to the wall again.

Mr. Tall Dark and Fuckable is gone. I glance around in an
attempt to find him, but I don’t see him towering over the mass of bobbing
heads in the crowd. My heart sinks into my stomach, making my nausea feel
worse.

“Sorry, babe,” I say, taking my arm off Bozo and stepping
aside so his hand drops off my ass. “I just remembered I have to meet someone.
Maybe next time.”

Before I can step away his fingers grab at my arm, pulling
me off balance. “Don’t play games with me,” he grunts, his breath coming out
hard and fast like a bull. “You were all over me a second ago. You wouldn’t
have come out here wearing no underwear if you weren’t up for it.” He runs his
other hand up the back of my ass again to prove he was right. “I can smell that
you want me from here.”

I cringe. I try to shake his hand off, but his grip is like
a vice. “Let go of me, you pig.”

Instead he pulls me to him and tries for a kiss, his
disgusting mouth puckering like a fish. His other hand slips under the hem of
my dress. I lean back and try to balance on one heel so I can kick him where it
hurts. But he releases me, almost causing me to fall over, and disappears
behind a wide back wrapped in black cotton. I grab the bar to steady myself.

Oh God. It’s
him
. The man from the wall. I know it’s
him. Even though I can’t see his face, I recognize his presence. I stare up at
his thick shoulder muscles pushing out against his shirt, then down his lats,
which are wide enough to hang off, tucking down into a trim waist and a round
butt and lovely strong thighs hugged by dark blue denim. Holy sweet Jesus. My
mouth is already watering.

“She said she had to meet someone. Now back the fuck off,”
Mr. Tall Dark and Fuckable’s words rumble to my ears over the thump thump of
the music. Even his voice sounds like sex, deep and rough and demanding.

“Shit. Okay, man. I’m going.”

“The fuck you are.” This sex god steps back so that I can
see that he has Bozo by his shirt. He yanks Bozo forward. “You apologize first.
And make it a good one.”

Bozo starts to grovel at me, but I can’t hear him. I am
mesmerized by my first close-up look at this man’s face. He was good looking
from far away, but up close he is just… beautiful. Not in a structurally
perfect Abercrombie and Fitch pretty boy-model come-run-with-me-through-the-fucking-daisies
kind of way.

God no.

He is beautiful like the wild, untamed mountains. He is tan
skinned, thick jawed and stubbled, and there is a scar that cuts across one of
his eyebrows. His generous lips are pulled into a scowl that makes him look
dangerous and a little bit nasty in all the right ways. This combination sends
a rush of heat through my veins.

But his eyes… Heaven help me. I am so wrong about his eyes.
They aren’t brown. They are the intense green of rough seas, turbulent and
luring with depths that I might never be able to swim out of. And Lord, do I
want to swim in them. Naked.

He stares back at me, meeting my gaze head on. His snarl
softens into a smirk. But he still manages to make it look mean. Like a
warning.

I definitely should not be staring back so boldly. I
definitely should not be wondering how dark a shade his eyes get when he’s
turned on. I definitely
definitely
should not be going anywhere with him
to find out.

I only realize that Bozo has finished groveling when he is
shoved away. “Get lost and stay lost.”

Bozo disappears into the crowd. And I am left with
him
.
He still hasn’t broken eye contact with me.

I hear a little voice in me begging me to be the first to
look away.
Play it cool.
I snap out of my reverie and lean one elbow
against the bar so that my other hip rolls out, something I know showcases my
small waist.

“So I guess I owe you a thanks then, huh?” I tilt my head
down so that my hair falls across one eye and look up at him. I give him my
fake name just quiet enough so that he has to lean in to hear it. Now that he
is right where I want him, I hold out my hand and give him my slowest, sexiest smile
– the one I reserve for when I want to impress, the one that never fails to
have a man eating out of my palm.

He laughs.

The prick laughs at me.

I am so shocked I just blink at him like an idiot, my hand
still stuck out like a misplaced limb. What. The. Fuck.

Then he smiles at me as if I’ve just told him a joke.
“Sorry, honey. I’m telling you now, I’d be bad for you. You don’t want to mess
around with me. I just thought I’d do my moral duty and help out.”

I bristle. “I don’t need saving.”

“I was talking about him. He was about to get his balls
kicked up into his head.”

He leans in so that he’s only inches away, so close I catch
my first smell of him. Musky and manly with a hint of wood smoke underneath. I
want to bury my body into his and push my face into his chest and just inhale
him in, long and deep. Musk and wood smoke. For some reason it makes me feel…
safe. This feeling washes over me as his scent does and my limbs feel warm. It
startles me. Safe is not something that I remember feeling in a long time.

He speaks low. “Why do you do this to yourself? Are you
happy with what you’ve become?”