His Forbidden Submissive

His Forbidden Submissive

Brandi Evans

To find happiness, she must do something she swore she’d never do again.

Let a man control her.

After beating cancer, Vivian goes on a mission to cleanse her life. First on the list, kicking her cheating, controlling husband to the curb. Second, discovering the answer to a question that’s been haunting her. Is the love she harbors for Brock, her bad-boy brother-in-law, genuine or a chemotherapy-induced illusion?

Brock loves a woman he can’t have. His brother’s wife. To claim her would be a betrayal. He knows loving her is wrong but he can’t help it. So when circumstances bring them back together, he can no longer deny his forbidden attraction, and they unite in a fury of passion, lust—and bondage.

But Vivian isn’t prepared for Brock’s BDSM lifestyle, no matter how sexy he looks with his tats and leathers. After ten years with a controlling husband, submission is terrifying—but so is never being with Brock again. Submission or freedom? No matter which she chooses, her life will change forever.

His Forbidden Submissive

Brandi Evans

Dedication

To Nara Malone and Karla Doyle for their kickin’ critiques. And as always, to my editor for being the embodiment of awesome.

Prologue

His sub was quite spectacular when she came.

Brock Michaels stood between the splayed legs of the woman tied open to him. Her ample breasts bounced and quivered with each breath she raked in. Creamy thighs invited his erotic attention, the invitation complemented beautifully by the dark thatch of curls decorating her pussy, the spot where his fingers were currently shoved, thrusting, reaching into the depths of the pretty little sub who had given herself willingly to him for the night. But only ever for the night.

Until the sun rose, she was his to use, to enjoy. To control.

“Sir,” she groaned through her fourth climax of the evening, the inner walls of her soaked channel quivering uncontrollably around his fingers.

Brock drank in every inch of her. “You are so animated when I make you come, little sub. It pleases me.” But
she
didn’t please him. Not really, not in any way that truly mattered. How could she?

She wasn’t the woman he loved.

When her labored breaths finally transitioned into shallow puffs, he leaned close to examine her. Long brown curls clung to her sweat-glistened forehead, her cheeks. Eyelids sheltered chocolate eyes. White teeth pinched on her lush, lower lip.

He drew a knuckle over her jaw. “What do you think? Have I made you come enough for the night, sub? Or would you like more?”

As he waited for her response, he twisted, turned his fingers inside her wet heat. The honeyed moisture sent lust rocketing straight to his groin, working his cock from aroused to rock-fucking-hard. Maybe tonight, if he tried really hard, he could get more than his cock to participate, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

His excitement hadn’t extended above waist level for the past year.

“I’d like more, Sir.” She lifted her head and stared at him through glassy eyes. “Please.”

“Good answer. But this time…” He withdrew his fingers from her cunt and grabbed one of the condoms littering the nearby table. “I’m going to fuck you to climax.”

“Oh thank you, Sir. Thank you.”

He wasted no time freeing the erection straining his leathers and then rolling the rubber onto his length. He wasted even less time plunging deep into his sub’s ravished pussy.

“Sir!” she screamed as he fucked her, begged him to take her harder, and he did his manly best to keep her screaming as long as he could.

In no time, he had her teetering on the edge of another apex, but his climax was a totally different story. He still needed more, but what he needed he couldn’t get from the beauty on the end of his cock. Or any of the random subs who had come before her. He needed the one woman in the cosmos he could never have.

No.
Brock closed his eyes and forced down the sudden images threatening to overwhelm him.
No.
He couldn’t have her, and thinking about her would only cause him more heartache. But keeping
her
memory at bay was like trying to hold back a raging riverbank with a bottle of Krazy Glue and a handful of popsicle sticks.

“Fuck!” With the fury of a tsunami racing toward a coastline, images of the woman he loved
bombarded him.

Vivian…

Emotions he hadn’t been able to purge stampeded through him, infused him with a need only sliding into her petite body would slake. Image after image filtered through his mind. Despite their separation, he still wanted her with every fucking breath he took.

What would it take to finally get her out from under his skin?

If gallivanting the globe, putting the finishing touches on the house he’d built, and launching his own brand-spanking-new BDSM club and BDSM-themed restaurant didn’t do the trick, what the fuck would? He needed Viv like a Dom needed a sub, but he couldn’t have her. Not unless—

He throttled the rest of the thought before it could fully manifest. He loved Viv, yes, but he couldn’t have her. To claim her would be a betrayal, even if the man he’d be betraying didn’t deserve his loyalty. And if by some miracle he ever could have Viv, he’d have to tell her about his BDSM lifestyle, which would probably send her screaming for the hills.

No two ways about it, fate had dealt him one shitty hand.

Pounding into his sub even faster, even harder, Brock let his frustrations fuel his moves. He pistoned into his sub’s heat, but his near-frantic thrusts did jack shit to mend the gaping wound in his chest. Nothing, no one, would ever be able to heal that wound. No one except Vivian…

His forbidden submissive.

Chapter One

Her hands didn’t quiver. Regret didn’t slither in the pit of her stomach. Her breathing remained as tranquil as the inner sanctum of a monastery and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to get up and dance around the restaurant like a drunken idiot. After all the lies, all the betrayals and all the mistresses, Vivian Michaels was a free woman. Well, as close as she could get until everything was finalized.

But damn, this was a fantastic start.

She’d needed out of her acidic marriage for a long time, but ending a ten-year partnership should leave something more than happiness reverberating in her soul, right? Obviously not. She couldn’t stop smiling.

She set her pen on the table. “There. It’s done.”

Her longtime attorney, Anne, placed her hand on Viv’s. Concern painted the other woman’s face with the softest lines Vivian had ever seen on the tough-as-nails lawyer. “Given your crazy smile, I almost feel stupid asking this, but you’re
sure
you want to do this, right? Once Eugene’s been served with—”

“I’m positive, Anne.” Not even an ounce of hesitation weighed down Viv’s words. “Without a doubt. I should have done this years ago, after I caught him with his first mistress, but I was young and afraid. I didn’t have a career to fall back on but all that’s changed. My design company’s as strong as it’s ever been.”

“Very true. It’s just…” Anne gave Vivian’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’m just worried about you, sweetie. You’ve been through so much lately. I just want you to be sure—”

“I’m one hundred percent sure.” Viv gave the other woman what she hoped was a convincing smile. “My divorce has been a long time coming.” And wasn’t that an understatement? She’d been on the verge of filing for divorce two years ago, but then she’d been diagnosed with—

Fear saturated her as thoroughly as an unexpected monsoon and kept
that
word from forming. Even now the mere thought of
that
word made her shiver. It was stupid. It was just a word. It held no power. But more importantly, she’d beaten it, she’d survived the nearly impossible odds. The word shouldn’t scare her anymore.

She forced down the cloud of terror and made herself conjure the word.

Cancer.

She’d been in remission for almost a year, but even now, thinking back on that long, dark battle threw her emotions into a tailspin. Six painful months of being hooked to machines, which killed the cancer cells in her uterus only slightly faster than the treatment had been killing her. And she probably would have died, surrendered to the pain, if it hadn’t been for one man.

Her brother-in-law, Brock Michaels.

While her husband had been busy at the office, too busy to bother dealing with a dying wife, Brock had glued himself to her bedside. He’d sat with her during each chemo session, washed her face after each retching wave of nausea. He’d read to her, watched TV with her, held her hand—held
her
when the reality she might die overwhelmed her. He’d showed her love and compassion when she’d needed it most.

Was it any wonder she’d fallen head over heels in love with every sinewy, tattooed, pierced, motorcycle-riding six-foot-three inches of him?

Her heart fluttered as she recalled her sexy-as-sin savior. Brock was everything she’d never known she’d wanted. Or needed. He’d been her anchor, and over the course of her treatments, she’d fallen head over heels. He’d come to care deeply for her too. Their incredible kiss at her remission party had proven that fact—at least she’d thought it had. But the morning after, without so much as a goodbye, Brock had abandoned her.

And she’d been left heartbroken.

Viv shook off the memory. “As I was saying, my divorce has been a long time coming. This isn’t some knee-jerk reaction to beating cancer, I promise you. I’m sick and tired of Eugene’s manipulations. I’m tired of him trying to control me every hour of every day. I’m—”

“Control you?” The other woman’s laughter floated over the dull roar of the lunch crowd, mischief twinkling in her green eyes. “I’d like to meet a man who could actually put a collar on your feisty ass.”

Put a collar on her? Odd wording but still effective. Collars spoke of control, something humans put on the animals they owned, and her bastard husband had always acted as if she were his damn possession. Yet another reason she was leaving his sorry ass.

“So okay…” Anne took a quick sip of her chocolate martini. “You want out of your marriage. That’s obvious. But what about the other part of your plan?”

Vivian shrugged. “What about it?”

“Are you sure it’s the smartest way to test your feelings? Or Brock’s?”

“Probably not.” Vivian’s gaze dropped to her freshly manicured fingernails.
Hooker red.
That was what the nail tech had called the color. Somehow it seemed fitting, considering what all her plan actually involved. “What I felt for Brock was so strong. I can’t believe he didn’t feel it too, but regardless, I can’t be left wondering if what I felt was genuine or some warped form of hero worship.”

“I understand that, sweetie. I do. But there have got to be better ways of learning what you want. Have you considered, I don’t know, being upfront with—”

“No.” Vivian shook her head, her earrings whacking her chin and neck with the jerky movement. “I don’t want Brock to have any expectations. If I’m upfront with him, he could turn me down flat. He might take me up on my offer but then hold back. There are so many ways having expectations on his part could screw this up.”

“No expectations. I get that. I do. But your plan has its own set of expectations too, sweetie, like making Brock think you see him as nothing more than a piece of meat. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not. It’s just…” Hurting Brock was the last thing she wanted. She loved him too much for that, but the alternative was much worse. “If I simply waltz back into his life and proclaim I love him, he might shut me down right there, knowing I had feelings for him, feelings he didn’t return.”

“But wouldn’t
that
answer your question?”

Vivian bit her bottom lip. It’d answer it all right and in the most heartbreaking way possible. It’d mean Brock didn’t love her. Almost as devastatingly, it’d mean she’d have to go the rest of her life sharing only one incredible kiss with him and wasn’t
that
the greatest evil, never experiencing full-body contact with the man she loved?

Her body heated the way it always did when she imagined being naked in Brock’s strong arms. She wanted to trace every line of every tat on his body. First with her fingertips, then with her tongue. She wanted to run her palms over his almost-shaved head as his lips explored her body. Wanted to bury her face in the crevice of his neck and breathe in the musky scent that had refused to leave her thoughts alone. Wanted to feel his stubble scrape over her nipples, her belly, her clit. Wanted to straddle him and ride his cock until—

She cut the thought off. She needed to know whether he returned her feelings, yes, but just as importantly, she needed to experience him, every hard, incredible inch of him. She needed to give in to the hormone-laced emotions circumstances had forced her to keep bottled up, needed to experience one moment in time where she was submissive to her body’s needs, to her heart’s needs.

And her plan would give her the opportunity.

She patted Anne’s hand. “I appreciate your concern, I do, but trust me, this way’s best.”

She hoped so anyway.

Anne sighed. “Since it seems I can’t talk you out of this…” The other woman produced another legal document from her attaché. “Here ya go. The contract you asked me to draw up between you and Brock.”

“Thank you.” Vivian took the papers, her hands finally starting to shake a bit, but she wasn’t backing out now. She’d cleared her schedule for the next few weeks. One way or the other, with or without Brock at her side, she was making some major changes in her life.

Anne slipped a business card with a familiar logo on the table in front of Viv. “Just in case things don’t go well with Brock and you need a place to stay for the night, go to the Wynmore downtown. My brother’s the manager. Just tell whoever’s at the front desk you’re a client of mine and they’ll give you a room. No credit card or name required. Everything’s billed straight to me, so there’ll be no chance whatsoever of Eugene tracking you down—if he got the notion in his head anyway.”

“Thank you
so
much.” Hopefully she wouldn’t need it, but it was nice to know it was there. The thought Brock might turn her away was a nagging annoyance in the back of her mind. “This is really going above and beyond. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Anne winked as she signaled for the waitress. “Be miserable, no doubt.”

Viv couldn’t help but smile. Anne Cooper was a godsend—and quickly becoming a very good friend.

As the waitress stopped to converse with Anne, Viv’s gaze drifted to the contract in her hands, and a hint of regret finally slithered through her. She hated being less than honest with Brock, but a girl had to do what a girl had to do. She’d beaten cancer, gotten a second chance at life, and by god, she was taking it. But before plunging headlong into that shiny new life, she needed to know the answer to the one question still haunting her.

Was the love she felt for Brock true or nothing more than a chemo-induced illusion?

* * * * *

It was official. His muse had abandoned him.

That heartless bitch.

Brock ripped yet another sketch from his drafting table and chucked it at the overflowing wastebasket in the corner of his home office. If Her Royal Fickleness didn’t get back soon, he’d be fucked. The design meeting for the new McDonald Executive Complex was less than a week away—a design meeting that could break him into a mainstream line of architecture—and he hadn’t even penned a viable sketch, let alone a working model.

All thanks to his fucking muse.

She’d always been a bit elusive. What muse wasn’t? But for the past year, she’d been particularly spacey. More often than not, he’d had to drag her kicking and screaming from the depths of his creativity. Distraction, on the other hand, had no problem coming out to play at every opportunity.

But he had to get it together or he’d have to cancel his interview, which, all things considered, might be for the best. His heart wasn’t in this design. Then again, his heart hadn’t really been into much as of late. Then if he coupled his don’t-really-give-a-shit attitude with the fact his biggest business competition for the exec suite was owned by his fucking half brother and it was almost enough to have Brock throwing up his hands and running for the nearest bottle of Jack—or perhaps the brand-spanking-new BDSM club he co-owned.

At best he had an uphill battle in front of him, but Brock Michaels wasn’t one to bend over and take it up the ass for anyone or anything. He’d committed to this project, and by god, he’d give the design his all. Well, he’d give it as much as he’d been able to give to anything else since he’d walked away from the woman he loved.

Vivian…

And with nothing more than the thought of her name, illicit thoughts of his sister-in-law filled his mind. Viv was everything he’d ever desired in a partner. Kind, strong-willed, vivacious and so full of life her smile could light Times Square for a year. And it still pissed him off his uptight brother had found her first.

The fucking prick.

How the hell was it possible to love someone and yet hate his lying, slimy, good-for-nothing ass at the same time? Life would be so much simpler if Brock could just hate the bastard, none of this wishy-washy, namby-pamby bullshit. But try as he might, Brock couldn’t sever the few, lingering positive emotions he still harbored for his big brother, despite the plethora of reasons he had to hate the man, reasons that didn’t all revolve around his sister-in-law.

Although Viv was at the center of quite a few of them.

“Fuck.” Frustration forced Brock to his feet. That was the last straw, the final distraction. He needed out of here for a while, and he needed out
now
. He needed to find a place to refuel and get his fucking head on straight, and he knew the perfect place.

Restrained Fantasies.

Making an appearance at the club he co-owned with his buddy Stephen—or “The sub Maker” to those who
really
knew him—was just what the doctor ordered. Sustenance and sex. Yes, the duo might be enough to banish thoughts of Viv for an hour or two.

But he wasn’t holding his breath.

He made a beeline for his trusty Harley. On the way through his mud room, he grabbed his leather riding jacket from a coat hook. Leather wasn’t a fashion statement saved for the club. For him, it was practically a second skin—well, third if he added his tats to the equation.

His Hog sat nose first toward the garage door, right alongside the ridiculously expensive Ferrari he’d purchased in Italy eight months ago then thoroughly tested on the German autobahns. Yet another move on his part to nurse a broken heart, but sports cars and absurd speeds were poor replacements for the woman he loved.

“Damn it.” He yanked on his jacket. He had to stop thinking about her. He and Viv weren’t meant to be. End of fucking story. It was past time he accepted that fact and found a permanent way to purge her from his memory.