The Bound Heart (3 page)

And yet now, as he kissed her, she didn’t move her lips. Couldn’t move. She drowned in pure sensation as he nipped and coaxed.

His hand came around her jaw and his tongue ran across the seam of her lips. A slide of satin that burned. Yet she remained motionless under his lips. Every part of her listening to what he was saying without words.

That he wanted her.

That he cared more than she knew.

That he thought she was fragile and strong at the same time.

Maybe she imagined everything she wanted him to say, to feel, and to want as his lips moved over hers. Yet it felt real.

His palm squeezed her knee. A signal. Was she going to come along with him or not?

Her hands gripped his waistcoat tighter and tugged him closer. Fire ignited like some fuel set alight; it coursed through her body, under her skin, and deep between her legs.

He made a sound.

Then, her lips moved, pursed beneath his. A peck of sorts under the onslaught of his.

Her thighs shook with a need, a lifetime of wanting something better, of wanting to be in a world where she belonged, wanting to live a life full of her passions.

His breathing was irregular. He opened his lips and drew in a deep breath. Her eyes were open, so were his. This close, she fell into that enigmatic dark world, which was inside Mr. Edwards.

Her lips stilled, her fingers frozen tight.

Mr. Edwards pulled back, the muscles tight in his face.

“Olive, are you all right?”

She nodded. Her eyes felt heavy, her heart raced and her skin was unimaginably hot.

Mr. Edwards leaned back.

“No!” She moved forward, pushed her body against him, not letting go.

That impossibly dark look of his bore into her.

“I think you should leave.” It was a masculine growl in the space between them. He wanted this, wanted this as much as she did. Whatever usually kept him back was slipping forward to stop him again.

That was not going to happen.

Her breath hitched. “Kiss me again.”

His eyes flared; he leaned away further and her hand tugged him back.

No, no, she didn’t want to stop; her face screwed up.

“Please.”

He stepped closer.

Her thighs squeezed his legs holding him there, she would change his mind.

“Mr. Edwards…”

He was close again.

He was being far too controlled, holding back as if she was a sweet, innocent miss. She wasn’t. She’d had lovers; she’d had hardship. She had lost Billie, seen the hope on her sisters’ faces as they’d wed, then watched it drain away. And now there was him… nothing came close to him.

She ran her hand up his chest. Apart from the hunger, apart from the raw need that shone in his eyes, he gave nothing away. Yet, he showed glimpses of something more, the weekly threads were religiously waiting for her even on the few days he’d been absent when she came. The soft appreciative looks when he noticed something she’d embroidered on her clothes. There was never a flicker of doubt across that moody, hard to read face, when she told him of her dreams to make more of her sewing than just repairs. And now, as he touched her, as he held himself back, she wanted to feel it all. Feel what Mr. Jamie Edwards held back on the inside.

“Mr. Edwards,”-her voice was strained-“kiss me, kiss me hard.”

Her words punctured his chest.

His tongue pushed between her lips in an instant. The sweet, damp center was a breached sanctuary, warm, honeyed, and wet, sending his head spinning.

The ache in his chest grew and sank low. That was the real pain; a strained, throbbing need he knew wouldn’t be relieved.

Jamie pulled the pins from her hair and threaded his fingers through the long, cool strands. His fist closed around them just as he had imagined; and gently, he tugged her head back.

Her mouth opened more with the angle.

He pushed his tongue in deeper.

The sound she made was not the sound he expected. It wasn’t a whimper; it was a groaning open. She was opening under him, her chest and throat relaxing for him.

His cock jumped in his britches. It wanted to be right where his tongue was.

Where was his damn control now? It was leaving in long sure strides with each ragged breath, each wonderful press of her soft, warm flesh against him.

Shifting his weight, he pressed his thigh up against her core, the heat of her seeping through the fabric of his trousers. She arched into it, pushed on it, as he moved his leg from side to side. Small whimpers slipped from her mouth as she gyrated.

He wanted to wrap himself around her, wrap something around her, to stop her from slipping away, to stop her from reaching out to stroke a heart he did not have to give. To stop her from being something bright and pure in a life that suddenly felt bereft of any glow on its horizon.

Her hand touched his belly through his waistcoat and shirt. He nearly came with the want to have her move it down.

He dropped his hand over hers. Hers started to descend and he stopped her. Focused instead on tasting her mouth, running his tongue over hers as she pushed her breasts against his chest.

Oh God. He wanted, wanted more than he thought possible. How did he ever think a single taste would be enough?

Yet this was where it had to stop or it wouldn’t.

Today was just a taste not a ravishing. A taste and then move on. It wasn’t as much as he’d wanted but he’d under estimated how she’d affect him.

She deserved better.

He pulled that thought into the forefront of his mind. Held it there as he stepped back.

She protested with a sound, followed him as he withdrew. She had no idea what he wanted and how close he was to taking it.

“Jamie, no, no…”

Looking down into her face, her eyes were black pools of want staring back in a wash of innocence. Did she have any idea the messages she was sending to a man like him?

He pulled back more and let go of her hair, she dropped her hand.

Then he stepped right back. He was not sure how he did it. Every part of his body disagreed with him.

Jamie looked at her face as confusion washed over it. She was downright dangerous.

Olive maintained eye contact with him as she reached down and tugged her skirt up higher.

His heart jumped.

Their eyes held. Where was his demure girl now?

He was trying to be a better man, but the truth was he wasn’t there yet.

He let his fingers trail over her skin. Red, swollen lips glowed on her flushed face. He slipped his thumb between them and the scorching swipe of her tongue went straight to his crotch.

“Again.” His voice was hoarse.

She sucked on him and he started to fall into a haze of need, his cock a squeeze away from bursting.

Just do it. The words pounded through his thoughts.

Go where they both wanted to go, to a hot clasping explosion of pleasure.

He pulled out his thumb, stuck at a cross road.

The trouble was he wanted to bind her, restrain her, flip her over, and do dastardly things with her immobilized body.

She was not agreeing to that. In her mind, he would be doing a prince charming seduction, drawing out her sighs with soft touches and gentle words, and then slip into her hot warm pocket. However, he was not a price charming, he was not a bad man yet he was a man who had never tasted those waters and never would. The waters he swam in were deeper, darker and murkier. Not a place where a woman who glowed like the sun swam in.

Still, his body pushed him to draw down her chemise, grab those spools of yarn, and put them to good use around her puckered nipples.

Jamie leaned closer, placed his palms over her hands still clutched at the hem of her skirt and leaned in close between her legs. Her eyes flared and she licked her lips.

“One more taste, Olive Thompson.” He whispered over her mouth.

Those soft lips pushed against his, her mouth open, and her warm, hungry tongue against his.

Long, languid strokes and he was as out of breath as she was.

His fingers worked her jacket, loosened it as they kissed. Her breath hitched as his hand slipped down her chemise and over her breast. The hard nipple pressed against his palm.

She moved forward and pushed against his thigh again, her hands pulling him forward. Her breath dragged through her mouth as they kissed.

He was going to lose control.

In this moment he didn’t care if she deserved better.

He moved her hand down to his pants and pressed her against the aching need they contained.

She rolled her palm over him, bit at his lip. All he could feel was her. All he wanted was her.

Her hands worked at his trouser buttons.

A slight shift in posture and he reached down between them, found the opening in her drawers and pushed his fingers through.

The soft damp curls against his fingers, the wet folds a slick satin as he slid through them.

The doorknob rattled.

Three knocks on the door.

“Mr. Edwards, are you in there?”

Fuck.

The kiss stopped. They panted in the silence.

The door rattled again.

It was Mr. Howard, the bookshop manager. Anyone else and he’d wait them out. Mr. Howard on the other hand kept a key to the workshop and had a character that turned over every leaf. He’d go and get the key to come and see why the workshop was locked before time.

Jamie reluctantly removed his hands from her. Did up the buttons of her jacket as he listened for the sounds of what was happening next.

Steps on the landing, then steps down the stairs.

Mr. Howard would be back in a minute or two unless a customer came into the shop downstairs.

“Mr. Howard always checks things out,” she said

“He’ll be back…,” he said.

They spoke over each other, she laughed.

And so it would end.

He did up his britches and stepped back from her.

“Come on let me get the brace back on you. You do your hair.”

Pink blotched her face again, her lips full, swollen, and wet. Those wonderful eyes, full of messages, burned her need into him.

In moments, he had her brace wrapped around her leg.

His hand squeezed around her brace, around her calf.

“Will you think of me as the brace squeezes you, Olive? Think of our kiss?”

It was unfair to ask. He would be working to forget her the moment she stepped out the workshop door.

A taste and then let her go. That was all the transgression he allowed himself.

Olive nodded, her eyes heavy lidded as she gazed back at his mouth.

His heart beat a little faster, contracting at the loss of her already.

He lifted her off the table, turned her to the door and propelled his dazed fox goddess toward it. He picked up her coat and slipped her into it then placed her basket into her hands as he unlocked and opened the door. He kissed her quickly. Fast, so she didn’t draw him into more.

“Too dangerous,” his voice whispered over her. “Too beautiful and too dangerous. Go home, Olive Thompson.”

Then he pushed her through the door and closed it before she could turn around; locked it, leaned back against it, and listened as she stood on the other side.

He wasn’t sure if he had locked the door to protect her or himself.

Eventually, her uneven step walked across the landing and then started down the stairs. Slow steps.

Goodbye, Olive Thompson.

She was opium to a hungry soul. She would undo him in seconds and dismember him in minutes. He had enough survival instincts to make sure that didn’t happen.

Around her, the stairwell was gloomy after the light that spilled through the workshop’s skylights. Each precarious step down those damn stairs and her face flushed hotter.

Olive knew a farewell when she heard it.

He was the most frustrating person she knew. Yet, damn it if he wasn’t the only man she was even remotely interested in.

Moments ago, she was lost in the feel of him. His body leaning over hers, his mouth hungry as he kissed her. His hands enfolding her breast then, saints help her, sliding between her legs.

Blast that Mr. Howard. As soon as they were interrupted, Jamie pulled right back and propelled her away with a clear message that they were done.

Well that was not going to happen. If he wanted her today he would want her another day. She would just have to do better to keep his interest.

Her palm slid over the worn wooden handrail in a smooth, stuttered slide as her uneven steps moved her down toward the first landing.

And now the damn brace made her think of him.

The pressure of it on her skin reminded her of his sure hands as they had run over her calf. Every time her calf flexed the brace squeezed back just like his palm.

It acted like a bellows fanning the fire he had set low in her body. A throbbing, beating, crackle, which was still building because of the brace’s persistent squeeze.

At the bottom of the next flight of stairs on a small landing, a door led back into the brightly lit bookshop. Normally, she walked through that door, determined her next visit would get his attention.

Well, she had gotten it, and he had sent her on her way. He’d taken a taste, made her feel…tense, agitated, wonderful, maybe, even a little beautiful in his eyes, and now rejected, uncertain, full of questions and doubts.

There lay the problem.

She knew he wasn’t rejecting her because of the brace or her limp. He even seemed to like how she looked. If he had rejected her for any of those reasons, she would feel able to cope with it. Know from experience, how to move on.

The shop bell rang on the other side of the landing door. The voices were muffled and then fading as they walked into the warren of shelving in the bookshop on the other side.

If she stayed here, Mr. Edwards would lock up and have to come down past her.

Her hand gripped at the rail.

She should step through the door into the bookshop and out the front door. Go back to work and put this down to yet another one of her frustrating Fridays, just a very different type of frustrating. Let Martha come with the deliveries next time. Stay away from the strange and impossible Mr. Edwards.

The problem was her body was blazing. Her thighs were so sensitive that the movement of her dress on her drawers made her hips want to roll and sway as if the air would thrust into her and ease the tension.

Then there were his kisses. Deep, thick strokes that made her want to slip her hand against herself and mew as she mimicked those tongue strokes with the movements of her fingers.

After two years making her deliveries, the tight pull between them was something any woman with a bit of experience would recognize. The blazing hungry looks he gave then somehow switched off.

She came every Friday to feel that pull knowing one day it would catch.

Today it had.

Yet he had held back, fought with himself. She understood now that he was most likely always going to push her away, always going to make sure he didn’t take too much of what was offered.

Men usually clamored to get a feel of what a woman had under her skirts. Not him.

The stairs continued down into a shadowy darkness to the basement. Going back to work and focusing on preparing another delivery was impossible. They wouldn’t complain; this establishment was one of their best customers. If she said she’d been asked to stay and go through product, Mr. Tilbrook would be happy.

At the next landing, a slice of light guided her down the last few steps. She pushed the old door at the bottom open and entered the small storeroom. A desk, shelves, a single gas lamp, it functioned as an office of sorts behind the counter of the bookshop’s belowground sex shop, The Velvet Basement.

Olive placed her basket on the narrow sideboard near the door and took the few steps to the curtain, which led to the back of the shop’s counter, and stepped through.

“Olive, what you doing ‘ere?” Evie was a petite blonde with an hourglass figure, who made all the men who came into the shop lasciviously obedient.

“Just stopping to say hello.”

Evie’s eyes rolled. “You’ve been up there again.”

The misery must be plain on her face. All she managed was a nod before a customer came to the counter. The man flushed scarlet on seeing her and placed a large stone member on the counter along with a jar of augment. How far can a man sink into a coat? A long way. It was Mr. Russel the owner of the butcher’s shop.

“Two pounds.” A ransom. Evie’s voice was full of lightness as if what she had in her hand and was wrapping up were a bunch of tulips he was taking home to his wife.

“We have some ivory ones coming in next month. Very pretty. All carved on the bottom.” She tilted the big dildo and pointed to the flat bit at the base. “Little pictures of naughty bits, you know.”

Mr. Russel seemed to creep out of the folds of his coat as Evie talked. She had a way like that. You could talk to her about anything. Really, she had seen it all and looked like an angel who waived forgiveness on every depraved thing that crossed the counter.

Evie placed the package partially wrapped back on the counter and leaned across to Mr. Russel and dropped her voice. “Did you see the strap? It goes very well with this.” She tapped the package. “Holds it in…you know…in case you want them to walk or”—her voice dropped further—”crawl.”

The interest flared in his face.

“Far wall, back right. Call, if you can’t choose.”

As he strode away, Evie turned around, a grin all over her impossible-to-resist face. “Now you, miss, should not stay here. And leave upstairs well alone. He’s not your type; trust me, I would know.” Evie turned back to the counter and began to order photos in a box.

What was her type? If she didn’t know, how could Evie think she knew? The truth was that Mr. Edwards was very much her type. Something about his reserve, the formal way he had, made her quake and warm up at the same time.

Evie glanced back over her shoulder and huffed at her, “Thought so. You don’t believe me. All stars pouring out of your eyes like he’s some lost prince who’s just needing the right woman’s touch to be happy.” Evie turned back to the box. “Let me show you what makes that boy happy.”

Evie’s fingers rapidly flipped through the box as flashes of flesh in all manner of situations flicked by. This was not a box of naked backs and bottoms. She pulled one, two, three, four items from the box and pushed it to the side. “Pay attention, Olive.”

Her heart started to beat faster and a sensation running under her skin was like fast rivulets of rain running down glass panes.

Evie laid the first photo on the counter.

Olive leaned in closer; heat flashed hot and sharp in her belly.

It was a woman over a man’s knee.

Close up, just as if the picture was taken from the man’s view looking down. The sepia tones of his dark suit and the light cream of the woman’s round bottom, full thighs, and narrow waist. All naked. In the far right was his raised hand. The photo had a soft pink painted in a translucent watercolor over the woman’s bottom. The hot marks from the slaps. They glowed out of the photo in a way that made it hard to breathe.

“See that hand?” Evie’s voice was firm. “That is Mr. Edwards’ hand, Olive. Mr. Edwards sells these photos to the shop.”

Her heart beat hard in her chest. Mr. Edwards?

Olive went to speak, Evie interrupted her. “There’s more.”

Olive twisted the fabric of her coat between her fingers.

The next image was of a woman, naked of course, bound in rope. However, not like you would expect. It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t ugly. It was incredibly beautiful.

The rope was wrapped around her chest like a corset. Each layer of rope was even and smooth, coiling up from her pelvic bone, tight around her tiny waist, and flaring up under her breasts, lifting them into pert, soft fullness as the focus of the shot.

The rope was knotted in a pattern, as if you would expect embroidered flowers or polka dots. Each coiled layer had them spaced counter to the next and preceding row. Knot in one row where there was the space between two knots above and below. The precision, the skill, the attention to detail spoke of hours of work. Hours of his hands brushing, positioning, tugging on the woman and the rope.

It was him.

Evie didn’t need to say it.

She knew.

A man who could knot these bindings had to love rope, yarn, and twine. Mr. Edwards did.

The man who made that corset would have to have a lot of patience, a frustrating amount of patience, and
control
.

“Erotic art, he calls it. He’s in with a powerful crowd, Olive. Aristocrats with lots of money and into all kinds of art and stuff you don’t want to be close to. He’s moving on, going deep into that world. He’s not a man for you, luv.”

The fabric in her hands twisted so tightly the wool started to hurt her.

Olive forced her hand to relax and let go. Slowly, she lifted the photo-plate and ran her finger over the image. It was art. It was beautiful, and yet it made her think of all kinds of other things.

The woman’s hands were bound in front of her and she was kneeling on a footstool facing the camera blindfolded with what looked like a large velvet sash.

Olive’s breathing got tight again and that damp heat Mr. Edwards had put between her legs upstairs was being put there all over again by his creations.

“No, no, no, Olive.” Evie stepped closer and their eyes met. “No, Olive.”

“What?” Her voice was thready; she looked away, anywhere to avoid Evie’s perceptive gaze.

“You do not want this.” Evie tapped the picture on the bench. “Look.” She waved the last picture in front of her. “This is him. And this is the only place he does it, Evie. The. Only. Place.”

Scalding heat ran down the front of her body as Olive looked at the image. Her legs were restless and her breasts ached.

Mr. Russel emerged from the back with a couple of straps in hand.

Evie handed her the photo and turned to tend to him.

Olive took the photo; it shook as she looked down at it. She placed it on the counter next to the rest. Her head was light, muddled as she leaned closer to look.

The woman was bent over; her black corset and stockings framed and displayed her most intimate self. Shown in the shot was a man with his back to the viewer and to the left of the woman.

Olive’s chest squeezed so tight around her heart, it hurt. She knew those shoulders, would know them anywhere.

Mr. Edwards…Jamie.

He had one hand on the woman’s lower back as his other hand was fisted closed except for the strong, thick forefinger sticking out.

It was inserted to the second knuckle.

Inserted, and not where Olive expected.

Not in the woman’s folds, no, it was inserted in that forbidden place.

That tight, pinched circle no one was supposed to touch.

She sucked a breath in and on cue, her chest relaxed; and then, as if it was a greyhound released from the stocks, her heart beat so fast it made her head spin and feel giddy and light.

The only place he does it…

Evie would know these things. She heard everything. She would know the who and what of the shop.

Evie turned, looked her over, and seemed satisfied with what must be visible on her face.

Mr. Russel was now well and truly out of his coat as he looked down at the photos on the counter and at her. His eyes said he was no longer embarrassed; that what he saw in the photos, in her, was of interest to him.

Her body couldn’t move, couldn’t step back, or even signal his misunderstanding of the situation.

Evie started to talk to him and he looked away.

Olive’s hands shook as she pulled the photos together in a pile but left them there. Incriminating, powerful, and alluring.

Mr. Russel left.

Evie took the photos from the counter and slipped them into Olive’s coat pocket.

They should burn, weigh her down like rocks; yet they didn’t. They hummed. Buzzed like a hive of bees as her wicked heart still raced.

“A reminder to stay away from him. I am sorry I shocked you, but you have to stop dreaming about men who will not make you happy. Let him play with his erotic art and his fancy circles. You don’t want to be sucked in and spat out.”

Evie took Olive’s shoulders, turned her, and propelled her through the curtain handed Olive her basket and pushed her through the door heading back to the gloomy staff stairs.

It was the second time she had been ushered out in a daze today in the same establishment.

“Evie…” her voice croaked.

“Shhh. Just go home and have a nice cup of hot tea. Next week, you will be all done with him and you can give me the photos back.”

The stairs groaned as Olive walked up. She opened the door to the bookshop, through to one side of the front counter.

The bookshop was still open. Outside the sun had gone down. Through the shop windows, carriages and people in hats, coats, and gloves hurried past on the pavement.

Her head felt light, it was an odd feeling, as if she were unreal, like people in a moving picture. She had seen one a while back.

The man who had taken her wanted what she had to offer, even when she wasn’t offering it. He’d even been rough when she tried to get away. It had not gone well.

She had not gone out since then.

No point.

Her hand glided over her coat pocket where the photos were. She would never be interested unless it was him.

The bell rang as she stepped out. Mr. Howard said the usual, “Walk safe, careful of the carriages; they don’t stop. See you next week, dear.”

The air outside was cool as it pressed over her hot face. A soothing flow.