Bound, Spanked and Loved: Fourteen Kinky Valentine's Day Stories (26 page)

“Sure. You can stop it.”

Then she rose to her feet, slowly, revealing her breasts as full and tipped with that wonder of womanhood – plump, full nipples that shone, just a little. If aroused, they would scrunch up and stick out like buttons. The triangle of hair over her mons was light, delicate as the spark of sunlight through mist. He jerked up his head. And why was he even looking?

Bandaging, remember? An ambulance would take a while to get here.

“How do you do this?” Though her question must be about the bleeding, she studied him as carefully as he had studied her.

“How do I what? Stop bleeding? Pressure. Bandages.”

He found he’d paused again, just to stare.

Was she a siren, a lost and hurt woman, or just a junkie on a bad bender?

Nothing in his life, not the intensity of army training, not blowing holes in doors with shaped charges, not passing the many and constant tests to be on the TAG anti-terrorist team, had prepared him for this. Distilled magic. She. Him.

His awareness seemed concentrated to an infinite degree.

How quaint that he’d thought himself connected to other women in his life, before this.

He shook his head. Maybe the lack of sleep was getting to him? Old age, man.

Bandages.
He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Here. Dial triple zero while I get you to my apartment. I have a first aid kit. And clothes. You need those.”

Swallowing was on his list of things to do, straight after breathing.

She swayed, stumbled. The flowers suffered as she trampled a few.

“Can you walk?”

“Walk?” She took another step and almost fell sideways.

Maybe not. “I have to pick you up. Okay?”

“Yes.” She blinked at him and he marveled at the silver reflected in her pupils, then she nodded. “Okay.”

Yeah, take her to his apartment and...clothes.

She had to be on drugs. He stayed away from that like the fucking plague. With the world the way it was, it was hard enough to navigate sober. Handicapping yourself with drugs was like saying to the sharks, come and get me. Hell no.

But he approached her and carefully lifted her, adjusted her weight for balance, and set out for his apartment, trying like mad to ignore the enticement of her female scent and her softness under his hands.

She was a siren. His mind whirled with possibilities he had to stomp on second by second. What was this? It wasn’t him.

His dick had problems too.

“You got a name, girl?”

“Girl? I am girl?” He refused to answer that. “Call me Ahn-gyel”

Ahn-yil? What nationality was that? “Are you Russian? How do you spell that?”

“No, not Russian.”

And yet that had sounded, almost, Russian. He’d met a few on his travels.

He reached his door and set her on her feet, steadied her with one hand on her shoulder, with her hair tickling his fingers while he unlocked the door. She hadn’t used his phone. Maybe for the best. He had things happening that the authorities might frown on, places to go in Africa. The police might find him suspicious if he turned up with a girl who looked assaulted.

“I won’t hurt you.” He ushered her in. She went, like some innocent doe. His cock was as hard as timber and that shamed him. He knew his fetishes.

Innocent girl rescued, taken home, tied up, and fucked? One of his main corruptions. If he got to do that, he was hooked, if they wanted him. It was how he met Katya, outside that nightclub with that sicko boyfriend that had needed shooing off. She’d never known how kinky she liked it until him. After a while, it had worn thin. Innocence was finite. His line of work turned off girls. He was too dedicated and away from home too often.

This time, he was the sicko one. He found his kit and wrapped a bandage over her wounds in a crisscross around her shoulders, trying to forget how it reminded him of shibari. Then he stripped off his shirt in one fast motion and gave it to her. When she did that doe-eyed blink at him, he shuffled it over her head and pulled it low, then lower, so it shifted over her breasts and butt and covered her pussy. Almost. The hint of what was there was killing him.

Fuck. Need pants.
He found a drawstring pair of old gym shorts he’d chucked in a corner. He prayed he’d washed them.

The whole while, she clutched the phone and let him do whatever he wished to.

He needed her gone. “Will hospital emergency admittance do you?”

She blinked. Her blond hair shifted across one eye and she peeked out at him. Her eyes were blue with big gold flecks that seemed to drift. Such large pupils. The way she stared... He cursed.

“Yes? It will do me.”

Such confidence, not. She had to be foreign. Maybe an illegal immigrant.

He turned her and checked her back for bleeding. None was evident. Good. Her flesh gave under his hands but there was solid muscle there too. She seemed, at once, both small and formidable: a challenge.

He inhaled sharply at the sight of her butt. His gaze was drawn down that voluptuous slope from ass, to knees, and beyond. What was above and between those thighs tantalized his imagination too. Clothing her didn’t conceal enough. A tent might work, but he figured she’d protest him throwing one of those over her head.

“Did someone beat you? Hurt you? You have back wounds.”

“No. I. I did that.”

Self-inflicted? Was she lying?

Phoning the cops was bad for him. She was coherent, not pale, a little blood loss, a bit...dense, but otherwise perfectly fine, and innocent and, yes, another word arrived to go with
alabaster
and
blood
.

Fuckworthy.
Oh she was that, by a zillion.

His drive to the hospital was fast and precise. No speeding, just get there and lose her. Trouble was probably following her. He let her out near the entrance and remembered to breathe. He was definitely saving on oxygen when around her.

“Go in there. Show them your wounds.” He pointed through the open car window and she smiled and obeyed, strolling away in his shorts and shirt. Amazing how tall she was. He’d thought her small. When he’d carried her, she’d seemed light. He watched as she entered and the double glass doors swallowed her.

If he’d taken her in, he’d be on CC TV. His clothes on her weren’t much of a risk unless they decided she’d been attacked and molested. He’d risk it.

When he looked across at the passenger seat, he found she’d drawn a word on the notepad he kept in the door. He squinted, holding it up to the light from outside the car.

Ahren?
What was that? Her name? Wasn’t it Anyil or something? Maybe this was how she wrote it in her own language?

At least he knew she could write.

She’d be okay in there, right? They’d take care of her.

He managed to get home without crashing. A miracle considering he didn’t recall doing it.

Next morning there was a knock at his door.

It was her.

His silent curses were many.

Hair tussled and streaming in swirls of gold down her shoulders and over his T-shirt. Her nipples showing in muted but tempting bumps. Full lips. Sunlight shimmering through her pale hair like some damn halo. He looked down. Bare feet too.

Bare little female toes. His throat closed in. He was done for.

“What are you doing here?”

How had she travelled here even? Dressed like that too, half naked. With bare feet and her sensuous figure she was more naked than most women in a bikini.

“I am declared illegal. For your country.”

“Ahhh? Illegal immigrant?” He stayed in the doorway but glanced over her shoulder, taking in the paths, the central garden. Six thirty AM and no one else was daft enough to be up yet.

“Yes. That. They say they come to take me away today. They think me crazy also.” She pouted, one eyebrow drifting upward as her forehead wrinkled. “I come here instead. You help me?”

“Fuck,” he whispered, hurriedly adding, “Sorry. You surprised me. Look, come in.”

As she wandered past and into his hallway, he added, “No one knows you’re here? No one followed you?”

“No.” She went down the hallway to his family room and turned, examining the walls, the furniture, even his goldfish tank, as if it was all as marvelous as an art museum. “No one followed.”

“How did you get here?”

“I walk.”

Six miles? At night? She was lucky she hadn’t been raped.

He shut the door and walked in after her, the big, white tiles cool under his soles. What was he doing? He knew so little about her. It was the innocence. The vulnerability she exuded. It called to the Dom in him, even though his brain cells were yelling at him to keep her at a distance. And it was all assumption. She might have needle marks on those arms.

He hadn’t noticed any before, but he double-checked as he went past her to the kitchen. No marks. One tick.

“Sit down. I’ll get you a coffee while we talk.” What had the hospital done to her back? Would she need antibiotics? Who was she really? Why him?

Start with that.

“Black coffee?” It was his way. Black and strong. She nodded and he assembled cups, spoon, coffee, then turned on the electric jug which he’d boiled earlier. “Okay. He sat on one of the bar stools and indicated the one beside her. “Sit.”

She studied the stool, same as she had his room then gingerly sat.

“I’ve let you in but now, you need to tell me how you found me again –”

With her hand she made a snakelike motion in front of her. “I followed the turns of the street.” He gaped at her and she continued, “I remembered how your car went to the hospital.”

So much for a scrambled brain. Top marks. Unless she lied. In which case she was still thinking well.

“Why me though? Why’d you come back? Who got you into the country? Why not go to them? You have relatives?” He poured the steaming water into the cups, stirred, and shifted hers along the countertop to her hand.

She blinked slowly. “I...no. I do not have those here. I know no one. Only you. Besides...”

She then took a sip from her cup while watching him do the same. Her nose screwed up as she tasted it. So cute.

He shook himself out of a daze where all he did was stare at her nose.

“Besides?”

“Nothing. I make a mistake.”

The way she spoke. Staccato. Unfamiliar. Illegal immigrant fitted her situation, except the back wounds. The notepad from the car was on the countertop and he placed it before her, tapping the word she’d written. “Is this your name? Ahren?”

“Yes. But no, not said like that. Ahn-yel.”

The twist she gave to that word eluded him. No matter how he said it, she shook her head.

“Fine.” He smiled back. “Can I call you Ahnyil?” Seemed close enough to him.

Slowly the lines of a smile appeared around her eyes and her mouth curved. The blueness and the gold of her irises seemed to deepen. “Sure. I will be Ahnyil.”

“Good. I’m Adam.” Funny, she hadn’t asked his name. “Now tell me why you’re here.”

“To stay? I would like, Adam, to stay.”

“Uhhh. Until what?” A woman didn’t ask this of a stranger, especially not a pretty woman asking a man.

And that was where things broke down. After much coaxing, she said she would stay until she found people who could help her but she was terribly unconvincing. Lying. Really. She was so bad at lying he was lost.

Unsure why he was persisting with helping her, he told her he needed to look at her back wounds. She stripped off the shirt in front of him before turning.

Breasts. Round, beautifully formed breasts that fairly begged to be handled. Again, with the lack of air to his brain. His cock stood to attention in his black track pants as if it’d been asked to salute an officer. His eyes had possibly popped outward for a millisecond.

There’d been a glimpse of something dawning in her eyes, when he reacted to her nakedness, like the sun coming up for the first time on an alien planet. Or like a woman suddenly figuring out she could knock men down just by flashing her boobs. How naïve was she?

The more he knew about her, the more it seemed negligent and unwise to kick her out onto the streets.

“How old are you, Ahnyil?”

“Very old.”

“How many years.”

“Yes. I am years old.”

He chuckled. This wasn’t going anywhere. Funny, sometimes when he’d caught her unawares, her expression evoked this floating serenity, as if she knew more than she was saying. Like, in their somewhere, was packed a millennium of knowledge. She switched, back and forth, from ingénue to Buddha-like calmness.

The shirt had fallen lower and he lifted it again, careful not to touch her skin. Near her shoulder blades were two shallow but wide scratches. Nothing else.

“They bandaged me too,” she murmured. “But I took it off before I left the hospital. It was itchy. So many feelings here. I’ve never felt itchy before.”

His eyebrows popped up.

This was becoming weird...make that weirder.

He talked to her some more but mostly found himself going in circles. She didn’t know where she’d come from or how she’d arrived apart from to say from above. He wasn’t going to inquire about people falling from the sky. She had no past she could recall, or she wasn’t telling him. No future except for one thing that had chilled him when she’d said it:
I must pay penance
.

Was what had happened to her back a part of that penance? He didn’t believe she’d done that to herself. That had been blood. He’d been so sure there were nasty wounds beneath. How could she have healed that fast? Perhaps she had a blood-clotting disorder. That would explain it. Someone had still done her back for her. Cutting yourself there and being that precise would be damn difficult.

So what was he going to do? Let her sleep here for a day or two? He’d be back at work on Monday and leaving her alone in his place would be stupid.

So he had a shower while he thought about it some more. She’d need clothes, toothbrush...guess he’d decided she could stay. He scrubbed his hair dry with the towel. When he tossed it aside and turned around, there she was, peeking around the doorway. Well, not exactly peeking, kneeling, and staring at him, at his dick to be exact. The thing took that to mean it should wake up, and slowly but steadily, his slight erection turned into a massively obvious one.