Unbound: (InterMix) (17 page)

They’d had sex again that night—nothing so intense as the role-playing. Not unlike
the sex he’d had while married, only this time when his turn had come, he’d raced
his way home with actual rope chafing his wrists, instead of the shameful fantasy
of it. And he’d had his eyes open, gaze dashing between Merry’s face and his own bound
wrists where he held the headboard, unsure which sight excited him more. No sinister
words or convoluted scenarios, just her warm, welcoming body, insistent hands and
blazing eyes, and the mean rasp of the hemp. He’d merely imagined she’d taken him
captive, promised him freedom if he paid her in his seed. For Rob, the simplest of
fantasies. Vanilla—to steal the term she’d used—as his scripts went, but knowing
she
knew what he was thinking, and that she liked it . . . ? Fucking amazing.

The door to the den was open, the darkness telling him it was early. The cold had
woken him. His back was tense, chest and belly and arms warm, hugged tight to Merry.
It took a monumental effort to leave her, his body swallowed by the morning chill
as he hurried through the cottage to get a fire started and a lantern lit.

When he returned to his room, he stopped by the bed. He wanted to freeze this moment
in time. His blanket and sheets, but this curious woman wound in them, dark hair draped
over his pillow. He wished he had a camera. This would all feel like a dream a year
from now, and proof wouldn’t go astray. Though a photo wouldn’t do justice to what
her presence meant to him.

A miracle—that’s what this was. Astounding that her life should’ve intersected with
his, here, of all lonely places on this gigantic planet. That she’d had reason to
need him, and to linger. That she wanted him, and he her, that he’d revealed himself
as he had, and that she’d liked who he was. That for once, both halves of his feelings
for women—the desire for companionship and the desire to slake his strange appetites—were
embodied in one person. His sexuality was whole with Merry. And he felt whole himself,
for the first time in . . .

For the first time ever.

Glorious. He’d never been a religious man, but it made him wonder if perhaps he’d
been sent this woman. As a reward for his abstinence? Surely he’d not paid enough
penance to deserve
this
.

Perhaps a punishment. A taste of heaven, so he’d know exactly what he was missing
once she was gone. So he’d recognize hell when he saw it.

Because you can’t follow her.
If he did, the Devil would catch him and tip that bottle to his lips. Rob was lovestruck,
but he wasn’t a fool.

Besides, this life wasn’t hell. He’d been to hell. He’d been a demon himself. Hell
had been his old office, in the back room of his house in Leeds. Tired beige carpet
under his feet, white blinds snapped closed, and a computer glowing, harsh bluish
light filtered through clear liquid as he raised that bottle to his lips.

This life was peaceful and comforting, blessedly demanding. Neither heaven nor hell,
but the terrestrial space between. He smiled at the angel who’d stumbled off course
and deigned to brighten his little patch of the earth for these few, sweet days.

He was tempted to go back to sleep beside her, but he’d promised her a date. He wanted
to see the delight on her face if she caught a fish, and they’d squander their chances
if they slept in. So he swapped his flannel bottoms for jeans and pulled a jumper
over his head, found clean socks. He gave Merry’s foot a squeeze through the covers.

“Mmmph.”

“You’ve got an hour before we head out. Get up now if you want a wash.”

“I want to
slee-ee-eep
.”

“I’m starting breakfast. Get up soon or you’ll be having cement instead of oatmeal.”

“Fine,” she huffed, and turned onto her other side, blanket pulled over her head.

Rob came close, lifting the covers and speaking a few inches from her ear. “It’s our
last day together. I’d prefer an extra hour with you, grumpy and cross, than to miss
that hour entirely.”

She opened her eyes and glowered. “Low blow.”

“But true.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then straightened, whipping the covers
away. “Up, houseguest.”

“Oh, brrr. Jeez. I thought you were supposed to be submissive.”

“I guess you fucked it right out of me,” Rob said with a smile, and left her.

He was proud to be keeping that promise he’d made, not letting the cranky hermit return
and reconstruct all the walls they’d torn down together.

“I prefer you cowering and obedient,” Merry called.

He laughed. “I’m sure I’ll find my way back there.”

“You’d better. I was enjoying wearing the pants with a guy for a change.” Her words
were stilted, telling him she was likely dressing.

Rob had a pot of water heating and mugs at the ready when Merry emerged, finger-combing
her hair.

“Want me to put the basin on? Won’t get warm by the time we head out, but it’ll take
the edge off.”

“Nah. You promised me swimming. Let that be my bath.” She sat at the table, twisting
her hair into a bun and snapping an elastic around it. She yawned broadly, making
Rob’s middle feel queasy in the nicest way. All the things he’d told her, all the
things they’d done . . . and here she was, acting so perfectly normal. Very likely
feeling
so perfectly normal.

“How long ’til we head out?”

“Long as it takes to cook and eat breakfast and pack a lunch.”

“Better get my butt in gear.” She stood, and he watched her hop around the back landing,
tugging on her shoes. “When I come back next fall,” she said, “I expect an indoor
bathroom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She was joking, surely. But did she have any idea how thrilling such an idea was—her
return? The possibility would keep him warmer than any fire, make the coming months
pass like a decade—but a decade of the sweetest anticipation.
Don’t go letting yourself even imagine it.

Merry disappeared out the back. She was gone for a long time, and when the oats were
thickening and the second mug of tea nearly steeped, Rob slipped into his shoes to
find out what was detaining her, a touch of fear souring his stomach.

It was unfounded, though.

Merry was sitting on the wood-chopping stump in a weak patch of sunshine with something
strung between her hands and clenched thighs, fingers working.

“Tea’s ready. What are you up to?”

She smirked, eyes on the project. “Come here and find out.”

Christ, just hearing her issue an order had his pulse quickening. If she did indeed
miss his obedient, submissive side, she needn’t have worried. He crossed the yard.

What she was working on, he discovered, was the most lascivious craft project in history.
She’d unwoven a length of his old utility rope, and was replaiting the hemp into a
flat cuff.

“Give me your hand.”

Heart suddenly thumping, he offered the left one, palm-up, and watched, rapt, as she
wound her creation around his wrist.

“Hold that there,” she ordered, broiling a few more of Rob’s overheated brain cells.

He pinched it in place as she married the loose ends. Tight enough to stay on, but
loose enough to shift. To rub. To drive him fucking insane in the most delicious,
devious way. Every tiny rasp and tickle of the hemp was a shock, a zap of the darkest
excitement.

She let his hand go and glanced up. “I want you to wear this. Until I tell you to
take it off.”

His cock stiffened, her words rubbing him as surely as the hemp. “You may as well
tell a man you intend to fondle him all day. I’ll be a quaking mess.”

Merry grinned. “I know.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Evil creature.”
Evil, sadistic, fucking miraculous creature.

He rolled his wrist, and the friction licked its way through his skin, up his arm,
down his spine, and through his belly. The friction, and the cruelty. And this sense
of being tethered. Owned. Of being her mistreated pet. Jesus, he was fucked-up. Yet
he was suddenly grateful for it. She’d been right—twisted properly, his desires ceased
being burdens, and became something far different. Gifts, nearly.

And there was something else . . . something odd.

His sexuality had always been a cringing sort of presence, both in its nature and
because of his resulting shame. But Merry made him feel things he didn’t think he
ever had toward a woman. She made him feel that playful, hungry sort of attraction,
the kind that made a bloke want to grab a girl around her middle and tackle her onto
the nearest piece of furniture, smothering her in sloppy male kisses.

God, she was so many things.

Made him want so much. To have his kinks indulged, yes, but companionship, too, conversation,
and romance—a romance that resembled the stuff peddled in films. He’d come out here
really only feeling he was two-dimensional, at best. But she brought out so many sides
of him. Ones he’d never even met before himself.

He flexed his wrist, blood coursing quicker.
Christ, I could love you. So easily. If only you’d stay.
“Thank you.”

“You thank me now,” she said loftily and got to her feet. “I’ll have you begging for
mercy before the day’s through.”

“I’ll thank you for that as well.”

She grinned and gave his cheek two gentle swats, sashaying past, headed for the back
door.

“Oatmeal’s just about done,” he called after her. “We leave in twenty minutes.”

“We leave when I feel like it, man-slave.” The door slapped shut at her back.

He stood squinting in the morning sun, twisting his wrapped wrist, torn between arousal
and awe.

“Bloody evil, marvelous creature.”

Chapter Eleven

Merry cinched her drawstring day pack and slipped her arms through its loops. As she
expanded her collapsible walking stick, just feeling its rubber grip, she registered
how much she’d missed the hiking. How eager she was to get moving again.

Not that she hadn’t made perfectly good use of her new body the last couple evenings.
She smiled at the thought.
If you could see me now, old Merry.

Rob emerged from the cottage with his own equipment—a long tube that held his fishing
pole, presumably, and a small canvas folio.

He began marching down the hill, and she followed.

“No waders?” she asked. “No floppy hat covered in lures?”

“No. We’ll be wading properly—barefoot, with icy water up to our knees.”

“Works for me.”

Yes, standing side by side with this interesting man, earning herself yet more outdoorsy
cred.
Bring it on.

It was a gorgeous day. The previous one had been gorgeous, too, despite the weather,
and in far darker ways. But today the sky was a wide, deep blue, clouds stretched
in the distance like cotton batting, the air sweet and fertile from the rain and the
encroaching autumn. Everything was glorious, she thought, as her stride and Rob’s
found a common pace. Her hiking pole clicked against the odd rock, and the dog appeared
and followed them for a time before veering off after curiosities unknown.

They were headed northwest, to a loch not included on Merry’s scenic route.

Rob had made a thermos of coffee while she’d assembled their picnic lunch.
Celebration coffee,
he’d told her, for if they caught anything. She hoped that was a bluff—how cruel
to come back fishless
and
be denied caffeine.
Consolation coffee
was equally valid.

As they tramped up a small hill, a thought struck her. “What day of the week is it?”

He laughed. “I haven’t a clue. I only check before I head to town for supplies, to
make sure the shops will be open.”

“How long have I been with you? Is this the fourth day?”
Been with you.
Goodness, why did that sound so significant?

Rob looked pensive, then surprised. “Yes, fourth. Goodness. Feels like far longer
than that.”

And after four days, she knew this man well enough to be sure he meant it kindly.

“It’s my mom’s birthday today.” She’d planned it that way, hoping she’d wake up on
her mom’s sixty-fourth in her birth city. She’d imagined finding a bar with a juke
box that had that Beatles song, savor enough Glen Ord to tap her courage, then dance
like a fool for the world to see.

“Happy birthday to your mum, then.”

Merry hummed the tune for a minute or more.
“When I’m—sixty—four,
bum
bum.”

“That’s how old she’d be today?”

“Yeah.” She said it with a sigh, picturing her mom dancing around the kitchen, singing
along to “Raised on Robbery” or “Carey,” cooking those big Sunday fry-up breakfasts.
Man, that’s what this place was missing—music.

“Moms are awesome,” she said wistfully.

Rob made a face. “I suppose.”

Her grin wilted. “Was yours not? I know you said you weren’t close.”

“My mum was . . . cold. Still is. She’s always kept me at arm’s length, since I was
little.”

“Bummer. Is that an English thing?” Merry’s mom had told her the Scots could be much
the same.
Bunch of frosty Northern miseries, every last one.

But Rob shook his head. “It was a
me
thing, I’m afraid. She was perfectly loving with my brother.”

She blinked at him. “You never said you have a brother.”

“I do.” He kept his gaze on the ground—scanning for rocks, or avoiding her eyes? “Older
by three years.”

“You didn’t mention him when I asked if you missed anyone you’d left behind.”

“I didn’t, no.”

She frowned at him, heart twisting. “You stopped speaking with your mom
and
your brother?”

“I did, yeah . . . But I do miss him, actually. He was my best friend, when I was
younger. My only friend, practically.”

“What happened? Bad blood?”

“Yes, that’s a way to put it. We fell out. Same as I did with so many people.”

“How sad. About that, and about your mom, treating your differently.”

He shrugged. “There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

That’s not necessarily true,
she thought, but chose not to make a sermon of it. “Well,
my
mom was awesome.”

He smiled. “I believe it.”

“I miss her,” she said, that old pain gnawing. “So much. Every day.”

“I wish I could have met her. I’d have told her, ‘You raised a hell of a daughter.’”

Merry’s sadness dissipated. “You think?”

He came closer and took her hand in his. “Absolutely. Brave and kind and beautiful.
And special.”

Oh, for
swoon
.

She bit her lip. “Special, huh?”

He looked very shy suddenly, attention fleeing to their feet. Adorable. “Yes. Very.”

“How? Tell me how. Flatter me, Rob Rush.”

He met her eyes squarely. “You’re the only woman who’s ever looked at me and . . .
I don’t know. Seen inside me. Met the real me, I guess. Brought him out.”

“You mean the fetish stuff?”

He pursed his lips, blinking for a moment. “More than that.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know how to explain it. Being out here, I feel more like myself than I ever
have in my life. And being with you, as that man . . . and yes, plus the sex . . .
In every sense, no one’s ever known me as you have.”

“Not even any exes? Not the one you were with for five years?”

He shook his head. “No. No one, ever.”

“Wow. I don’t know if that makes me deeply sad or incredibly proud.”

“I’ve made enough people sad,” he said softly, and squeezed her hand. “Let it be the
latter.”

“Okay then. I’m very proud. Smug, even.”

The loch appeared as they mounted the next rise, a rippling expanse of blue-black,
shaped like a peanut. A stand of trees cradled it on the far side.

“We’ve still got a bit of shade,” Rob said with approval. “We’ll lose it in an hour
or two, so I hope you’re a quick learner. I pissed away far too much time this morning,
nagging certain parties to get out of bed.”

“I wouldn’t have been that sleepy if we hadn’t stayed up so late.” They must have
lain awake until one or two in the morning, idly touching, joking, chatting. Kissing.

“Which was your fault,” Rob said. “You and your endless pillow talk.”

She swung her hiking pole around to whap him on the shoulder.

He batted the end away, laughing. “Oi, watch the eyes. I was only joking.”

“You loved every minute of my pillow talk,” she said haughtily.

“I did. Just don’t tell the other stroppy hermits so. I’ve got a reputation to defend.”

She smirked at him. “You’re different today.”

“Oh?”

“I really did fuck the shell right off you, didn’t I?”

He colored at that, pale cheeks glowing pink. “I believe you did. Please keep it up.”

She eyed the rope braided around his wrist.
Oh, I will. Don’t you worry.

They trundled down the hill to the water’s edge and dropped their supplies. Merry
stole a sip of coffee from the Thermos while Rob was screwing the segments of his
fishing pole together. She was supposed to be in Inverness right now. Quite possibly
savoring a cup of coffee. Though looking around them, she knew there was no café in
heaven that could touch the perfection of this place.

Rob unfurled his canvas folio on the pebbly ground, revealing a rainbow of feathered
lure-things. “I’m assuming you’ve never fly-fished before, correct?”

“Nope. My dad used to take me fishing off the pier, but that was just regular fishing,
with worms. And I wasn’t very good at it.”

“This is quite different,” he said, selecting a fly. They were called flies, right?
Or did
fly
-fishing refer to the swoopy way you whipped the line around?

“It looks hard.”

“Yes. Takes ages to get the casting down, and I’ve never attempted to teach anyone.
So if you’re rubbish, blame your instructor, and we’ll just hope we luck our way into
some supper.”

“Deal.”

Rob was right—the casting was incredibly tricky. It required coordination and rhythm
and a physical intuition Merry couldn’t cultivate in a half hour’s lesson—but she
had fun trying, and didn’t manage to lose any of his flies. It also felt good simply
being out here with him, with their pants rolled up to their knees, standing stock-still
in the cool water with the sunshine warming her shoulders and hair, smooth pebbles
under her bare feet.

On his fifth cast, Rob got a bite. It was a speckled brown fish, close to a foot long,
and he deemed it big enough to keep. It flopped in his grip as they sloshed to the
shore in their now wet, heavy pants, and Merry looked away while he did whatever he
did to end its suffering and stow it for the trip home.

By then it was approaching noon, and the hike and fishing lesson had burned away the
memory of the oatmeal.

“Picnic time?” Merry asked.

Rob was crouched at the water’s edge, rinsing scales from his palms. “In a bit, I
thought, if you can wait.”

She pouted. “Not ages, but fine. A little while longer.”

“I fancy a swim first.”

She hesitated, ages-old insecurities surfacing. She’d swam naked plenty on this trip,
but never with a witness. And the sun wasn’t nearly as forgiving as the golden glow
of an oil lantern. “I’m keeping my underwear on,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t name
her a prude for this. “In case any hikers turn up.”

He shrugged. “Whatever you like.”

“Good.” If she was doing this, the quicker the better—the quicker she was stripped,
the less time she’d spend on land with the sun highlighting every imperfection and
stretch mark.

You’re too old to have these stupid hang-ups,
she scolded herself. But she did have them, and might always have them. What mattered
was that she had them, but she no longer let them keep her from doing things. They
poked her still, but their bullying didn’t keep her in hiding anymore. She hadn’t
ever thought about it like that, and the realization made her smile.
Yes, I’ll probably feel this shit forever. But the difference is, now I can say, “Fuck
you, feelings. I’ve got a life to live.”

She unrolled her pants and laid them over a big rock so the sun might dry them. The
sound of splashing turned her head—Rob was wading with purpose out into the water,
wearing only his shorts. She could read in his knotted back muscles how cold it was,
but he dove in heedlessly, resurfacing with a shake of his head. He swam for the middle
of the loch, giving Merry a chance to strip to her athletic bra in relative privacy,
then dodge the sharper rocks en route to the water’s edge.

“Oh, fuck me.” Cold. Cold cold cold. She sloshed forward, quick as her quaking legs
could carry her, and took the plunge. The water enveloped her in a shock of sensation,
and in its wake came the predictable adjustment.

“Hooo . . .” She breathed deep, waiting as the racking shivers subsided, blinking
water from her eyes. “Okay. Okay.” She’d made such a dunk a dozen times on this trip,
but after these few days by the comfort of Rob’s stove . . . It was funny how quickly
standards recalibrated themselves.

Rob was treading water some ways off, and she dog-paddled to him. She wasn’t a strong
swimmer. She’d been plump since she was a little kid, and she hadn’t been seen at
a beach or pool without at least a long tee covering her, not since puberty and its
attending self-consciousness had arrived. Hadn’t ventured into the water for nearly
as long. Sad but true—it had taken only a single mean boy’s taunt of “Thar she blows!”
to ruin swimming for her for the next twenty years.

That poor little girl. With twenty years’ distance, Merry could view her kid-self
with detachment, and her heart ached for that child, and for a zillion others just
like her. Why did the cruelest words have the sharpest barbs? Why did they stick,
while the kind ones fell away so quickly?

Rob’s smile pulled her out of the sad thoughts. The sun was high, casting his features
in dramatic contrast, making him look all the more wild and handsome and interesting.

That’s my lover. Who I met on my big adventure with my hard-earned new body.

The angst drifted off behind her, forgotten. Surely she’d never have been able to
appreciate these changes if she hadn’t been that scared girl for so long.
Be thankful for that. You’ll never take these things for granted.

“That’s quite a technique you’ve got,” Rob teased. “Didn’t you grow up on the ocean?”

“Shush. I dog-paddle at an Olympic level.”

He drew closer to tread water a couple feet from her. The rope around his wrist flashed
with every rolling stroke, and Merry smiled to herself, nerves abandoned.
You make this man helpless. Don’t forget that.

“You look pretty with your hair wet,” he said. “And your eyelashes all spiky.”

“So do you.”

He smiled, broad enough to showcase those nice teeth. Rob’s secret wolf-smile. A little
closer he came, closer, until their pumping arms bumped playfully, knees brushing.
He hazarded a kiss, their mouths managing to meet for erratic, fervent moments, leaving
them both giggling.

“I want to kiss you properly,” he said. “Let’s head toward the shallow end.”

They paddled until Merry’s feet found a weedless patch of pebbles. The water lapped
at their shoulders, Rob crouching to keep their faces level. She felt his hands on
her waist, then his thighs as he came near. Her eyes closed, and then it was his mouth
on hers, so warm.

A perfect kiss, its heat trickling through her chest and middle, lighting a bright
and crackling fire to spite the cold water.

Leaving her lips, he nuzzled her neck, teeth gently nipping. One of his arms breached
the surface, his hand holding her shoulder tightly. Possessively. Cool drips slipped
from their wet hair to dot her exposed skin, but Merry shivered from so much more.