Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
The cowbell chimed when I shifted my weight from one knee to the other. A delicate, absurd sound for the position I was in—kneeling on the kitchen floor, the planks cool and slightly damp against my shins, my wrists bound behind my back with what felt like a leather belt, the buckle digging into the small of my spine. The gag in my mouth tasted of rubber and something metallic, and every breath I pulled came through my nose in shallow, whistling bursts that made my chest heave.
He hadn't touched me yet. That was the worst part.
Brandon stood at the counter with his back to me, broad shoulders blocking the dim gray light that leaked through the curtains. I could hear him moving things around—the clink of a mug, the scrape of a drawer. The morning hadn't properly arrived. The kitchen still held that blue, pre-dawn hush, and the only sounds were the small noises he made and the stupid, tinkling bell bolted to the brass collar around my throat.
My breasts ached. That was the thing I couldn't stop thinking about. They hung heavy from my chest, swollen and full, the skin stretched taut and shiny with a thin sheen of sweat despite the cool air. The blue veins beneath the surface had darkened overnight, branching like river tributaries visible through porcelain, and both nipples stood rigid, flushed an angry red from hours of anticipation and the rough treatment he'd given them before securing my hands. A single droplet of milk had formed at the tip of my right nipple, clinging there, catching what little light there was.
I squirmed. The bell chimed again.
Brandon turned. The motion was unhurried, the kind of deliberate calm that made my stomach drop. His graying hair was still mussed from sleep, and his beard caught the low light in patches of silver and darker steel. Motor oil still lined the creases of his knuckles, embedded in the skin around his nails despite whatever washing he'd done. He wore a white undershirt stretched tight across his chest, the fabric thin enough at the shoulders to show the warmth of his tanned skin beneath, and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips.
His eyes found my breasts first. Of course they did.
I made a sound behind the gag—something between a whine and a protest—and his gaze traveled up to my face. The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. More like recognition.