The Bound Heart (8 page)

She moaned as need racked threw her and pushed her hips into the cushion. As they lifted, his fingers pushed into her. She ground down on the cushion again, the fabric brushing her aching flesh, then pushed back up against his fingers.

Her head spun with sensation, with the forbidden touch, the heat of him at her back, the tight pull of the rope.

“That’s it, that’s it.” His voice a murmur of encouragement as his fingers moved in her, building, building heat as she gyrated down on the soft cushion between her legs.

And for the second time she screamed, as pleasure exploded through her again. He was still murmuring, moving somehow, as her body convulsed and pumped pleasure through her.

Through the waves, she felt him. A thick, hard push against her opening. She tensed, and he pressed again; and the pleasure was replaced with a dull unfamiliar heaviness that spread through her sex and bottom.

“Relax, Olive, it’ll be all right.”

But the pressure built.

She froze.

Instinct made her try to pull her legs closed. The image of how large he was, how thick he was, and her fingers curled into the carpet.

“Push against me.”

She couldn’t breath.

It didn’t make sense. Instinctively, she tried to wriggle away.

“No,” she whimpered. The strange feeling didn’t shift; instead, it radiated out and up inside her.

Jamie didn’t move away.

This couldn’t be what he wanted. People couldn’t do this. Woman couldn’t want this.

“Jamie!”

The panic in her voice was real. He shifted and lifted and the pressure was gone.

He rolled off her and to the side of her, but took her with him so he held her to his chest as they lay on their sides. Both of them were breathing hard. The pillow was half under her.

“I have you. It’s all right.”

But she didn’t feel all right.

Her eyes open wide, her mind as clear as a crystal spring.

What was she doing?

She wanted to get free and dressed.

Olive tugged at her hands.

“Let me loose. I can’t use my hands.” Tightness pinched around her chest as shame washed through her.

He leaned over her and in seconds he’d cut through the cords and started to pull the rope from her.

Moved back again and pulled her against his chest. Rubbed at her wrists.

Olive lay there her heart beating so hard it was hard to swallow.

“See, Olive this… me… this is a world you don’t need to be in. This is the man I am. I don’t want to fuck you the way another man would. I want your mouth or your ass; now, do you understand?”

Her face burned.

She couldn’t hide that she hadn’t wanted it. What could she say? She’d failed him. All her fantasies of pleasing him washed away in her failure to give him what he wanted.

The weight of him lifted away as he stood. The air-cooled her sweat-dampened skin. He gently tugged her petticoat and skirt down.

“Give me a moment, Olive.”

When she twisted round and sat up, he had his back to her doing up his trousers.

“Would you like to wash?” his voice was flat, ordinary as if they were talking in the workshop not after a failed chance to tup.

She shook her head no before she realized he couldn’t see her.

“No,” her voice croaked.

Olive straightened herself and stood. Her underclothes were useless cut off her. She picked them up and rolled them up. They were the ones with the foxes, she wore them thinking he’d like them. Yet he’d cut through them without a moment’s thought. She was so naive he must think her foolish.

He turned.

Mr. Edwards looked across the room at her; hungry Jamie was gone.

“I’m going to take you home.”

Jamie left the room. In a short while, he’d flagged a cab and they were sitting next to each other as they headed to her sister’s house.

He hadn’t said anything; just looked out the window, his face closed.

“It’s all right. I understand you want her, don’t you?” Olive said,

“Her?” He sounded tired.

“The woman tonight.”

“Madeline?” Jamie turned to look at her.

The cab’s lamps were lit, yet so low, they showed shadows over his face, making him look harsher, more angular.

“Is that what you think?”

Yes, of course, that’s what she thought
. Tight pain filled her chest and she looked out the window.

His hands moved between them and found hers. A large calloused palm over her smaller hand clasped together in her lap.

“Olive. Can you remember what I called you that afternoon in the workshop?”

The sun.
Would she ever forget? “Yes.”

His hand squeezed.

“That’s how I see you. That’s how I’ll always see you.”

It sounded like a goodbye. Heat pricked her eyes.

“This is for the best; you’ll see.”

Olive tugged her hand free and wrapped her arms around herself. It didn’t matter what he said. He was wrong.

“I want to know I have done the right thing by you, Olive. Going our separate ways is the right thing. A man like me is drawn to stand in the sun and tonight perhaps in a way I have. But that was an indulgence and we can’t afford to do it again.”

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she would not cry. She would not feel sorry for herself in front of him.

“Madeline and women like her are what my world has to offer, and I accept that. You should too and stay away. Find a good man, have children…” He looked back out the carriage window and they rode in silence, But his hand still held hers, his thumb slowly stroking her.

All she could think was that Madeline would do what she couldn’t. Madeline would feel him as he had lay over her, his fingers inside her making her come. Madeline would know that from him. Hear those wicked murmurs.

The coach stopped.

Jamie stepped out and helped her down. A nearby lamp ensured she could see his face. It was closed, that cool Mr. Edwards who held everyone away.

She leaned forward and kissed his lips.

He jerked back.

Pain speared through her as he turned to step into the cab.

Just before he entered, he stopped. “You’re clear about our position, Olive?”

The tears fell. Of course, they would; she was only so strong, and she wanted him to know. She wanted him to see that he was wrong.

He didn’t turn though. The carriage door closed and it pulled away.

She wanted to howl, howl the pain out it hurt so much.

Jamie paced across the bookbinding workroom at the Bond Street Bookshop. On the wall, the octagonal clock with its long pendulum box showed that not even a minute had passed since the last time he’d looked.

Mr. Johns was smirking in the corner at his unexpected visit. Mr. Lamb, who now had Jamie’s old position, worked silently and diligently at the far bench.

The bell downstairs rang and his chest squeezed hard. Warmth swirled down his belly and he started to thicken. Yes, thicken. She was that for him now. A hunger his body wanted even as his mind desperately counselled to push her away and forget.

A week since she was at his house. A week since her body, her passion and her unabashed need intoxicated him.

He’d been a fool. Had rushed her, had tried to scare her off and then been unkind. It was not as if he couldn’t have made it better for her. Eased her into what he needed. It could be daunting the first time. He ran his hand over his head, straightening himself.

Well he’d have it all sorted out as soon as she arrived with the week’s order.

The truth was he was going out of his mind to have her under him again. To take his time to show her how it could be. Not scare her off.

The doubts were still there.

The thing was she made everything go dangerously close to getting out of control. He had his rules for a reason; and she was the very thing they were built to protect him against.

He should leave her alone for his sake as a much as hers, but he couldn’t, and it seemed, neither could she. He would deal with it today. Make an arrangement that would suit them both to work through this mutual hunger.

All through the week, the events of that night ran through his mind. If she knew what he was like, what he preferred, and had still come, maybe she didn’t need to be protected quite as much as he had expected.

It was possible his concerns about his attraction to her colored the way he saw her. She was not an innocent and he’d learnt early enough that attraction usually held a good chance at a deeper compatibility. Something he wanted to explore

He had tools….

His rules had always worked.

If they stuck to them, things would stay where they needed to.

There was a knock at the door.

His heart went wild in his chest.

Jamie stepped forward and pulled the door open.

“Afternoon, Mr. Edwards.”

His stomach heaved.

Molly Finch pushed briskly past him.

“Well, boys, I has yer supplies.” She started to unload the basket. Olive’s basket.

Jamie stepped back onto the landing.

He couldn’t believe she hadn’t come.

That she had stayed away after two years of persistence.

After coming to his house.

After bravely launching herself at him.

His head spun.

He reached out and clasped the landing rail.

She wasn’t out here. He tasted bile in the back of his throat.

“Where’s Olive?” his voice demanded over his shoulder. But Molly was chattering. He turned and strode back into the room. “Where’s Olive?”

Molly and Mr. Johns stopped and looked at him.

Mr. Johns smirked and Molly just looked perplexed.

“She could have took a different run. Said she needed to have more flexibility. Her sister wants her out and she has to find somewhere else to live. She needs the time to search.”

The idea of Olive in one of those boarding houses, men lurking on the stairs made him grab his coat and head out the door.

It took about thirty minutes to get to the house he’d dropped her at last week. Only five minutes to find out she had already moved out. The sister was not at liberty to relay the address, but she would pass on his name.

He didn’t leave it. What would she think? What was he thinking? Olive was trouble. Look at him. He was sweating, tense, and furious at her, at her sister’s admirable discretion, as well as at Molly for showing up instead of Olive. A bloody mess.

He was going home. Damn her to hell, she could rot in a boarding house dodging men.

Yet, in the next fifteen minutes, his feet took him to the twine shop where she worked. Why he went there was a total mystery to his mind, which was still lambasting him for having gone to her house.

Leave her alone.

Walk away.

Thank the turn of circumstances that would help him let her go.

However, it seemed every other part of him was already bound to this course of action, of seeking her out. In fact, had been for so long.

There was no point throwing doubts across his own path now.

He wanted her.

Wanted to see where it would go.

She was different. Different in a way that lit him up with a hope he barely knew he could feel. Perhaps, he would go up in flames taking things further with her but he had rules to safe guard that. What he knew for sure was this in-between world, wanting her and pushing her away at the same time, was not sustainable.

The door to Tilbrook & Co., the twin shop Olive worked at, swung open in his hand.

The smell of cottons, threads, and bleaches filled the room in a faint clean way. Shelves filled three walls and on them were all varieties of twine, rope, and braids. His imagination saw all the things the items in this shop could be used for. Olive wrapped in reels of soft red silk thread. Olive loosely bound in braided gold cords. Ribbons for her neck, wrists and ankles.

Binding a person in a way they could slip out of at any time held a certain power, an appeal all of its own. Their acquiescence became less of an imposed situation, but rather their compliance was done as an act to please the binder. Control without the coercion.

In Japan, a person requested for questioning or of noble birth might be tied but the bindings would always be loose and easily removed. The honor of the person kept them bound.

He’d done photographic plates to try to capture that. A woman coiled simply by a thick rope. The kind of heavy rope used to tow a vehicle or cart. Its thickness made it difficult to tie meaningful knots and body harnesses, more suited to strong decorative statements. He arranged the rope loosely around the model’s body with her laying prostrate and willing over an ottoman.

It had excited him, had touched him the willingness the image showed. But it hadn’t sold well. Men of all classes responded more to images that held the flavor of helplessness, powerlessness, images with ties that could not be shaken off.

Going past the embroidery thread he habitually selected a handful.

Bloody fool. He may never see Olive again. Nonetheless, he selected ten bundles of excellent threads and walked to the counter.

“Mr. Edwards?”

The proprietor was stiff and starched, twisted like the cords he sold.

Jamie knew his type. A man who had the postcards The Velvet Basement sold in his pocket, who slicked his hair down neatly with oils, buttoned his collar tightly and always appeared incensed about something. Yet would duck off for a quick tug in the small washroom out the back rather than risk reaching out and trying to win the women he wanted.

“Mr. Tilbrook, I hope the day is treating you well.”

Mr. Tilbrook raised an eyebrow.

Jamie slid the threads he selected over the counter.

“I’d like the braded gold cord over on the right and three spools of each of the new spring colors in the widow.”

Definitely an idiot. Yet the idea of a gift to say he was sorry seemed fitting.

Tilbrook became more animated and hurried over to collect his order.

“I heard you left The Bond Street Bookshop. Perhaps I can send samples to another establishment?”

“No, working for myself in heavier materials. Rope mainly.”

“Not much call for rope in bookbinding I’d say.”

“A man’s got to move on from time to time. I don’t see Miss Olive Thompson about?”

Jamie looked around the shop as if she’d magically appear somehow.

“Miss Thompson is no longer in our employ.”

It took a few moments for those words to register.

“Do you have a forwarding address or employer?” The sentence wasn’t finished and Mr. Tilbrook was already shaking his head no.

“We don’t keep track on the delivery girls. They come and go, you see. She got her final pay and that’s the end of it.”

That’s the end of it.

He changed his mind, tracked her, and couldn’t find her. The. End.

Was it?

He’d finally done what he had set out to do two years ago. She’d run from him as any good girl would.

He should feel happy. But his gut was twisting and he was tight all over.

It was that damn taste.

Once tasted, Olive was not so easily forgotten.

Fucking her with his eyes was a very different reality than with his mouth, his fingers, his tongue; and if he had been less pigheaded, he would have had more. Instead, he was left with a real visceral taste of her open, hot innocence. To a man like him who swam in the swamp of society’s, thick dark desires, he had found his addiction.

The next week passed, Friday came, and he sat at home in front of his attic workbench and worked on a bookbinding he’d received as a private commission.

There were only a few bookbinders trusted with the skin of a beloved. His attention to detail and lack of mistakes meant he was one of the few whom human skin covered books were sent to for construction or repair.

He’d always found it macabre but those who departed left requests to have some of their skin removed, tanned and used to cover the family bible or a special book favored by a special loved one. At least it got him working.

And, the macabre and highly sensitive art of binding books with the skin of a loved one was very lucrative. He could let people know he would take on that work.

Edgar, his photographer, was called in to do portraits of the deceased at the family’s. Edgar would be in a good position to let those people know he would be able to handle any requests about books being made.

The most lucrative was a request of that nature which came from a Collector. The skin was usually tattooed and needed special care not to affect the inks in the process of tanning.

This last week he had not been working well, was not taking any requests from Edgar.

Despite the pressure of the Paris competition and Okazaki, he had no enthusiasm for the rope.

The simple, ordered peace he had established echoed around him.

It was remarkable how someone not remotely involved in his life, someone who he saw for less than an hour a week, someone he had ignored and put off for years had washed his life into a faint pallor of itself with her absence.

Edgar burst into the attic workshop, a scowling Okazaki behind him.

“Jamie!”

Edgar ducked into the room with a quick glance over his shoulder at Okazaki.

“I told him you were not available.”

Jamie put down the book and nodded to her. She left and he imagined that no tea would be coming up for Edgar.

Hell the last thing he needed was Edgar wanting to start something.

“Listen, I thought I told you no.”

“Jamie, I know you said no; but I have something special, and you’re the man to show her off.” Edgar strode into the space looking around, saw he was alone, and sat down on a chair next to the desk Jamie worked on.

“Look, I don’t know what has you off the ropes and the pictures, but this one is special. A friend of Evie’s”

“Oh come on, you’re not serious.”

“No, she’d something different.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No… but Evie said she something special and you’d love her.”

Jamie turned his chair to face Edgar and stretched his shoulders.

“Edgar, mate I know what you want. You want Evie and Evie wants you to help her friend that’s as special as it gets.”

But to be fair, Evie was generally right in her recommendation to him in the past.

Edgar held up his hand.

“Listen. You will be surprised. I promise you. Happy even, if that’s possible.” Edgar grinned at him. For a photographer, he was remarkably animated and his lust for Evie was long held.

“Edgar, perhaps, in a few weeks, I’m just not up for it.”

“She’s a redhead.”

Edgar knew it was his weakness. Olive was a redhead in the right light. He had developed the taste two years ago.

“Come on. Shake out of it. Have a bit of fun. I think this will surprise you.”

Maybe he needed to push himself to something.

“Has she done rope before?”

“Don’t know.” He was suddenly less enthusiastic, so here came the pinch.

“Has she done photos for you before?”

“No.”

“For anyone?”

“No.”

Jamie lifted his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief.

“I’m not exactly amateur corner.”

“I need this, mate, please. What harm could it do?”

A redhead, he could pretend it was Olive, plan as if it were her. The look on Edgar’s face was pleading. The man was besotted with Evie, a handful by anyone’s estimation.

“All right. Nine o’clock sharp. We’ll do one tie and see how the shots go and how she responds to both the rope and camera. Make sure Evie gives her some of the saucy stuff downstairs as she probably has no idea what to wear; and if she does, it will be crass.”

At nine o’clock exactly, the carriage pulled up. The cabbie got down to help with the unloading of equipment, which always came with a photographic session.

Jamie looked down at the street from the attic window. The woman he would bind and that Edgar would photograph when he was done stepped down the carriage steps.

Cloaked.

Awkward.

Instantly, blood pounded and rushed through his veins in a crackle of recognition.

She stepped forward toward his house and a rush so powerful flew through him that he grabbed onto the windowsill. The woman with her odd limp disappeared from view as she moved up the stairs to his house.

She may be cloaked, but there was no mistaking who the woman was…it was Olive.

Anger, excitement, and panic churned through him. The sound of steps coming up the stairs would be the cabbie and the equipment. She would come last; he had no doubt about that.