Unraveled (Undone) (13 page)

That sounds promising. I lick my lips. The faster we get on with it the faster it will be over.

He kisses me, full on the mouth, his tongue laying claim to me for one fraction of a second before retreating. “Let’s start standing, shall we?”

“Whatever you want.” As long as he starts.

He puts the cuff on my wrist but doesn’t fasten it. “Aren’t you a good girl?”

The leather is heavy against my skin. They used a rope that night, cutting off my circulation so my hands went numb. This leather is soft. The pressure on my wrists the only reminder of what they’d done.

It makes me hopeful.

He narrows his hazel eyes and again searches my expression. I relax my jaw so my growing agitation doesn’t show.
Please don’t be careful. Take me.

Apparently satisfied with what he’s found in my face, he slowly buckles the strap before testing the hold by rubbing his fingers between my skin and the leather.

He’s careful. So damn careful.

This isn’t what I want.

I want lust and passion.

I want him to be overwhelmed with the desire to consume me.

I want to be taken as only he can take me.

I want him to fucking devour me.

I blow out an exasperated breath and he raises his head from his work and gives me an arched brow. “Problems?”

Indignation fills my throat and leaves my mouth before I can stop it. “You promised.”

His jaw hardens. “Stop trying to control things, Layla.”

“But you promised.”

His gaze lasers in on me. “Who’s in charge here? Me? Or you?”

Okay, I need to calm down. I’m overanxious and letting it get the best of me. “You. But—”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “No buts. Just stand there and be quiet.”

Words, a million of them, fly through my head, but I press my lips together. Reminding myself this is about surrender. That I trust Michael. That my impatience, my desire to be free from that single event that changed the trajectory of my life, is what’s driving this desire to hurry things along.

He goes back to what he was doing, once again testing the straps before moving to the other wrist. He buckles me in with the same methodical care.

I barely pay attention. I stare at his dark, bent head and blurt, “Don’t ignore me.”

He growls. “You’re trying my patience.”

“Well good,” I snap.

Without a word he shakes his head, and sighs before returning to the wardrobe and pulling out leather ankle cuffs.

This isn’t how I envisioned things.

I pictured romantic and passionate. Pictured him snapping the cuffs in place before kissing me roughly. I need consuming. To get lost in him. So I can forget.

How can I obliterate that night when I’m cold? When he’s being clinical, and calculating?

I huff and puff and roll my eyes. He completely ignores me.

Instead, he pulls what looks like short straps from the wardrobe, and walks around me, clipping one end to my wrist and the other to the post.

All the while my anger and agitation grows.

He kneels down and makes quick work of the straps on my ankles. He strikes my thigh somewhere between a tap and a slap, and I spread my legs, glaring down at him.

“Michael.”

“Enough, Layla.” His words hold that distinct bite, but it doesn’t cause the normal shiver of lust. Because that’s not dominance in his voice, it’s anger.

I hear the ripping of Velcro, a tug on my leg while he tethers me to the post and moves to my other leg.

I don’t want to ruin this, and instinct warns me to be quiet, but I can’t seem to stop talking. “All I’m trying to say is—”

He squeezes my thigh; hard enough I gasp and lose my train of thought. Then he jerks the straps and everything stretches and tightens.

I still.

He steps back.

I test my mobility and find I can’t move.

I’m splayed wide and open, taut. Unable to get away. Unable to run and hide.

I experience a momentary burst of panic. It twists inside me then dissolves.

Michael turns away and walks over to the chair resting against the wall. He picks it up and brings it over in front of me before he sits down.

Resting his arms on the chair, he leans back.

I blink at him. “What are you doing?”

He gives me a hard look. “You’re pissing me off and I’m not going to touch you while I’m angry.”

I tilt my chin. The tides have swiftly turned and I can smell the argument we’re about to have in the air. “Well, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

I pull at my bonds. “Do we have to talk like this?”

He nods. “Yes, I think we do.”

I clench my hands into fists. “You should be apologizing to me.”

He barks with laughter. “For what?”

My own anger catches flame and I experience an undercurrent of pleasure. It’s hard to explain, the luxury of fighting. Of being mad at each other. There was a time where I couldn’t even imagine experiencing such a normal couply thing again. But arguments, bickering is part of life that most of us take for granted. And the part of me that almost lost my own, relishes in the safety of arguing, of being human and in love.

“Can I at least have some clothes?” I don’t bother to hide the agitation in my voice.

“No.” One hard, simple word.

I growl, and blow out an exasperated breath. “You promised not to go easy on me.”

He raises a brow. “If I was going easy on you, I’d already be pounding into you.”

“That makes no sense. I just don’t want you to bring all… all… methodical. Is that so hard to understand?”

He shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose and then holds up one finger. “One, I understand you and after all the times I’ve fucked you, I am well aware that being taken roughly and possessively is your preference. But may I remind you that you did ask me for this, and I’m sorry, but tying someone up is a methodical process. I have to make sure nothing cuts off your circulation, that it doesn’t chafe too much against your skin, that you’re immobile but not uncomfortable.”

Another finger shoots up. “Two, on top of the physical component I have to pay attention to your mental state. I know you hate to hear this, but you were, in fact, traumatized and almost killed. And I don’t give a fuck how much you hate it, Layla, I will not risk your emotional wellbeing and go too fast. I
will not
risk you having a panic attack, forced to stand there and watch your eyes grow unfocused and fill with horror as you relive what happened to you, because of something
I
did to you. And if you don’t understand that, too fucking bad.”

A third finger joins the others. “I know you. I know how you are. You’ve built this up into some sort of test you have to pass or else you’ve somehow failed me. You’ve stubbornly convinced yourself that I’m somehow suffering by being with you, regardless of how many times I tell you otherwise. So forgive me if I don’t trust you not to try and push through any discomfort or panic to prove some goddamn point.”

The fourth finger rises. “Lastly, I’m not all that into bondage, I prefer my hands on you. I like the feel of my fingers on your wrists. The strain of your muscles against me. I know you’ve built me up into some sort of sexual god, but the truth is I haven’t done anything like this in probably a good five years. Long enough I had to come get lessons from goddamn Brandon. There’s about a million things I need to make sure of, keep track of, and watch out for without trying to manage your desire to be taken and consumed. So do you think it’s possible to cut me some fucking slack and let me concentrate?”

I can only blink at him, stunned.

Wow. He just had like, a meltdown. He has a list of grievances against me.

Giddy happiness fills my chest and all the sudden I’m fighting the urge to laugh.

Then it dawns on me. Or more smacks me over the head with a two-by-four.

This
is what I’ve been wanting. It wasn’t some cathartic bondage sex scene—it’s this that I’ve been craving—blessed normalcy where he’s not always so ridiculously understanding.

I take a lot of patience. I understand this. I’m one-hundred-percent positive I’m a complete pain in the ass. Michael has the patience of a saint, and his calm, reasonable understanding is… well… it’s annoying. He’s always so damned perfect, so reasonable, and levelheaded. I have no room to be this messy, flawed human when he’s so above it all.

Sometimes I need him to be a messy human too.

I sniff. “Well, not quite a sexual god.”

He stares at me for several long moments before he laughs. “You are the most frustrating woman on the planet.”

“I know.” All my agitation drains away. I probably should have communicated this in a more mature fashion, but I honestly didn’t know this churned away inside me. I’d become single minded in my determination to put that night behind me. I’d latched on to bondage as a way to prove to him he didn’t have to be careful with me anymore. How could I know all I wanted was my boyfriend to get mad at me sometimes? To express his very normal irritation when I’m being unreasonable. It’s why I need domination in the first place, it helps clear my mind and focus on what I need. Only it doesn’t always work out the way I expected. Obviously. I flutter my lashes at him. “Did you really come to Brandon for lessons?”

I love that he did that. That he felt insecure.

“Yes. The asshole gave me shit the whole time.”

I meet his eyes and smile. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” Apparently he’s still in the mood to be disgruntled.

“Michael?”

“What, Layla?”

“You did it, you tied me up and I didn’t panic.” I didn’t. It’s an accomplishment, just not executed in the way I built it up in my mind.

His gaze narrows. “I suppose that’s a point. But it made you aggravated, not wet like I want you.”

I bite my lip. “I… um… don’t like bondage either.”

He shakes his head and blows out a breath. “Then why the hell are we doing this?”

“I stubbornly needed to prove a point.” I tilt my head. “But I think what I really needed, what we really needed, is this.”

He opens his arms. “And what is
this
?”

“You getting mad at me.”

His expression twists in utter confusion and it’s adorable. “You want me to be mad at you?”

“Not all the time, but sometimes would be nice.” He’s still looking at me like I’m insane. I let out a slow breath. “You’re a lot of pressure to live with.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

I flex my hands, my arms are starting to hurt, my muscles strain. “Would you consider letting me down?”

“Since you asked so nicely.” He stands and releases the strap at first one wrist then the other before vigorously rubbing my arms.

“What are you doing?”

He shrugs. “Brandon told me to do it, helps with blood flow.”

I giggle. “I don’t think I was up there long enough.”

“Brat.” He pinches me and releases the leather straps before bending and taking care of my ankles.

“Can we agree that this will be our first and last bondage session?”

“Deal.” He kisses me, a quick brush of his mouth over mine. “Although I might occasionally want to cuff you.”

I have an image of him pounding into me from behind, my hands cuffed at the base of my spine and I shiver. “Deal.”

He sits me on the bed and stands over me, arms crossed. “Now what is this about me being hard to live with?”

Jillian

I bury my face in my hands and sob, shaking my head, I whisper, “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Sssshhh.” Leo kisses my temple. “None of that. You’re a good girl, Jillian.”

I don’t feel good. I feel like I’ve failed. I was so sure. How could I have been so wrong? “I’m sorry.”

He walks around me, and forcibly removes my hands from my face, before kissing my lips with the sweetest of kisses. “That is what a safe word is for, Jilly. You’re supposed to use it if it gets too much for you.”