Bound by Deception (Bound Series Book 1) Page 2

  Oliver already knew Vincent was the blond Adonis’s favorite. It had been Cameron who had dropped enough hints about the ruggedly handsome lord whom he only got to see once a month for Oliver to guess the man’s identity. And hell, if anything, Oliver should be Cameron’s favorite. Likely Oliver was the only male patron who paid to be bent over. “I’m not nervous,” he said, fighting to keep from shifting his weight.

  She shrugged. “Remove your clothes except for your breeches. If you’re wearing drawers, remove them, too. His lordship will expect you to be ready when he arrives.”

  With that, she picked up the chair and left Oliver alone in the room.

  What the hell had he gotten himself into? It would be worth it, though. This was his one chance to be with Vincent, and he wasn’t turning back now. He swallowed hard. No matter what.

  Forcing his gaze from the iron bar suspended from the ceiling, he began undressing.

  “Damn,” he muttered, struggling with the knot on his cravat. He never could tie the darn thing correctly, and now it wouldn’t come undone. Using the mirror above the washstand, he was finally able to remove his cravat. Dropping the rumpled linen, he studied his reflection.

  He looked more unkempt than usual. Hopefully it and a lack of light would be enough to fool Vincent. He had also purposefully avoided Vincent since the man had returned from a long visit to the country—no reason to have Oliver’s image too clear in Vincent’s memory. A four-day-old beard covered Oliver’s jaw, and he was in sore need of a haircut. Dark waves, disheveled from his habit of running his hands through his hair, hung down to his jaw. Common brown eyes stared back at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He could well understand why Vincent had never shown a hint of interest beyond friendship. Everything about Oliver was unremarkable. Average height. Average build. Average intellect.

  He let out a harrumph and unbuttoned his plain brown coat. Growing up with a man who excelled at everything he did, one couldn’t help but feel not quite up to snuff. Not that he’d ever been jealous of Vincent’s successes. He held nothing but admiration for the man.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Something considerably more than admiration had driven him to this room.

  Using the bootjack by the fireplace, he removed his boots. After he finished undressing to the servant’s specification—or rather Vincent’s specification—he gathered his clothes and left them in a heap on the small table in the adjoining room. He took a step back into the bedchamber then turned around, removed his spectacles, and tucked them into his coat pocket.

  Hopefully Vincent would be close enough for Oliver to see him clearly. He was quite looking forward to taking in Lord Vincent Prescot without his impeccably tailored clothes. The image would need to last a lifetime, and he didn’t want to miss anything.

  One by one, he doused the candles until only the soft golden glow of the fire lit the bedchamber, the light so weak it couldn’t penetrate the dark corners of the room. The fabric of his breeches rubbed against his cock as he paced in front of the fireplace. It was oddly erotic to go about without drawers. The decadent sensation mixed with the anticipation and apprehension strumming his nerves.

  His gaze kept straying to the chained iron bar and to the chest of drawers. Images flashed before his mind’s eye. His wrists locked to that iron bar, Vincent behind him slipping oil-slicked fingers up his arse, probing deep, preparing him. Lust shot through his body. His strides faltered. No, he wanted more than that. He wanted Vincent. He wanted the man to take him, and if that meant being restrained and collared, getting flogged until he sobbed for mercy, then he would do it.

  A tinkling, feminine laugh seeped through the closed door. Oliver stopped in his tracks and strained to hear. There was a deep low rumble of a masculine voice.

  He had arrived.

  Oliver glanced quickly about the room, unsure what to do. Sit, stand, get on the bed? Excitement and nervousness clashed, forming a noxious mixture.

  The knob clicked, and the door opened.

  Chapter Two

  A petite blonde walked into the bedchamber leading a man by the hand. The light from the corridor outlined a tall, broad-shouldered figure. Six-foot-two to be exact, four inches above Oliver’s own height.

  As the man turned to shut the door, a flash of green below his throat caught Oliver’s attention. Without his spectacles, Oliver couldn’t make out his features from this distance, but he knew it was Vincent. He was the only person Oliver was acquainted with who wore a jade cravat pin.

  “Would you care for a brandy, milord,” the woman said, moving toward the dark shadows along the wall.

  “No, thank you.”

  Oliver’s breaths stuttered at the deep, cultured voice. His erection twitched, straining against the placket of his breeches. He had got hard on more than one occasion just listening to Vincent speak. Deuced inconvenient when they were at a gambling hell, or White’s, or a ball, or…anywhere.

  And, Christ, Vincent was looking directly at him. He could feel the force of the man’s stare. Oliver moved next to a nearby armchair so the firelight was behind him.

  “Holly?”

  “Oh, yes, milord.” She stood in front of Vincent. “Cameron is unavailable tonight. Madame Delacroix personally selected another man for you. I am to give you her assurance he will not disappoint.”

  “Hmm.” Vincent rubbed his chin.

  Oliver’s knees shook. He gripped the back of the leather armchair. What if Vincent rejected him? What if, with one glance across a darkened room, Vincent deemed him unworthy?

  “He’ll do.”

  Relief poured over Oliver, though Vincent didn’t sound terribly pleased. If anything, he sounded bored.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Lord Vincent?” she said, an open invitation in her question. Her small pale hand caressed the sleeve of his dark evening coat.

  “No.”

  She must be accustomed to hearing the word no, for she simply gave Vincent a short curtsey. As she walked across the room, she reached out to trail a fingertip along the edge of the chest of drawers. When she neared Oliver, she murmured, “Try not to scream too loud. You’ll disturb the other guests.”

  Her superior smirk said it all.

  Gaping at her, he watched her leave. As the narrow door swung closed, it occurred to him. That damned madam had known all along what would be in store for him tonight. Her coy smile coupled with her parting words should have been a clue, but he’d been too eager by half for the chance to be with Vincent.

  “What is your name, man?”

  His head snapped back to Vincent. His mind went blank. Why hadn’t he thought to select a name before now? “Jake,” he blurted, giving his childhood dog’s name. The one who had never learned to sit on command.

  His strides long and easy, Vincent stepped further into the room. “Jake, why are the candles not lit?”

  “I prefer it this way,” he said, pitching his voice low and doing his best to match the servant girl’s accent. “Is it acceptable to ye, milord? It’s not completely dark. The fire is lit.”

  “I could be persuaded to accept it.” Stopping at the chest of drawers, Vincent selected one of the leather cuffs. Metal clinked as he undid the buckle. “I don’t recall Delacroix ever mentioning a man named Jake.”

  “I’m new.”

  “How new?”

  “You’re my first client.”

  Vincent’s hands stilled as he toyed with the buckle. His posture stiffened with obvious uncertainty.

  “I want to do this. I want ye, milord,” Oliver said, desperate for Vincent to accept him.

  Metal clinked once again. “I like the way you call me ‘milord.’ Very nice. Tell me, Jake, are you good at following orders?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Then we shall get along very well, you and I. Come here.”

  Forcing his hand to unclench from the back of the chair, Oliver did as he was bid. He stopped before Vincent, close enough to take in the man’s enticing sce
nt. Not a hint of cologne, only clean male skin, the starch from his cravat and something else, something undeniably Vincent. The golden glow from the fire behind Oliver barely reached where they stood, providing just enough light for him to make out Vincent’s rugged features from his shadowed face. The slightly Roman nose, the strong jaw and firm lips. Lips he wanted to feel against his own.

  Though he couldn’t see the details in the sparsely lit room, he knew Vincent’s eyes were so startlingly blue they would have appeared feminine in a less masculine face. And those gorgeous eyes were currently sweeping up the length of his body. He quickly bowed his head, using the length of his dark hair to partially obscure his face from Vincent’s probing gaze.

  “You’re in need of a shave.”

  Why hadn’t it occurred to him that the days-old beard would annoy Vincent? “My apologies, milord.”

  “There’s nothing to be done for it now.” He paused. “Remove your breeches,” Vincent said, as casual as could be.

  Careful to keep his head bowed, Oliver tore at the placket with shaking hands, shoved his breeches down and kicked them free of his legs. His cock jutted from his body, arching toward Vincent in a silent but very obvious plea to be touched. He was completely naked, yet Vincent hadn’t even removed his coat.

  The man was impeccably dressed, as usual. His coat appeared to be black, though it could be navy given the yellow silk waistcoat. The crisp white cravat was tied in a perfect Gordian knot, the ends secured by the jade pin. Dark trousers hung straight down his legs, the hems brushing the tops of his polished evening shoes.

  “Hold out your arm.”

  Oliver hesitated. His arm trembled as Vincent buckled the cuff around his wrist. Loose enough not to pinch but tight enough to be secure. The leather was pliant and warmed from Vincent’s grip.

  As he placed the second cuff on Oliver’s other wrist, he asked, “Have you been restrained before?”

  “No.”

  “Nervous?”

  “A bit,” Oliver admitted, his voice wavering. There was no point denying it. He shook like a damn leaf, from nerves, from excitement, from being naked and close to Vincent.

  “There’s no need.” Vincent’s tone softened, turned reassuring. “If you wish to stop at any time simply give the word. I’ll take care of you, Jake, and it is critical you trust me to do so.”

  Oliver nodded.

  “Good. Now get in place.”

  He swallowed hard. His cock bobbing with each step, he moved directly beneath the chained iron bar.

  “Lift your arms.”

  Oliver didn’t give himself time to think on it. He raised his arms until his hands brushed the cool metal chains. Chin down, he watched under his lashes as Vincent approached. There was no hurry in his step, no impatience. The man moved as if tying up another was a common occurrence.

  Vincent stopped beside him. The fabric of his coat shifted as he reached up to secure Oliver’s wrists. Through sheer force of will, Oliver resisted the urge to watch. He kept his gaze on the chest of drawers in front of him. The tail end of the leather bullwhip hung from the neat coil, grazing the side of the chest. The firelight flickered on the oil-filled, glass bottle and cast shadows over the other objects. Would Vincent use every one of those objects on him? Or would he choose depending on his mood? Or on how well Oliver followed orders?

  Would he have to be good or bad for Vincent to paddle his arse?

  His cock jumped, signaling its approval. Instinctively, he made to reach down to wrap his hand around the needy length. Chains rattled as he was stopped short. He glanced up. A metal ring on the leather cuff was fixed to the clip on the end of the iron bar. His other wrist was similarly secured.

  Panic chilled his nerves. Closing his eyes, he tried to push the rising anxiety aside.

  “Take a deep breath,” a calm voice said from behind him.

  Oliver gasped but air wouldn’t reach his lungs. What if Vincent lit a candle? What if he left him here?

  “Do it,” Vincent said, all sharp command. He grabbed a handful of Oliver’s hair and tugged.

  Oliver winced. The pain penetrated the stifling fog, pulling the word “stop” off his tongue. He took a deep breath, taut muscles settling on the exhale.

  “Good boy.” Vincent’s voice flowed over his shoulder like warmed honey. A pause. “All right?”

  “Yes,” Oliver said, nodding. And surprisingly, he was all right. The anticipation was back—a delicious hum that occupied his senses. Vincent would take care of him, and Oliver trusted him to do so.

  Vincent crossed to the chest of drawers and returned with the two larger cuffs and the other iron bar. He dropped to his haunches, his bowed head inches from Oliver’s erection. His coat stretched across the broad width of his shoulders and the expanse of his back as he buckled the cuffs onto his ankles.

  Oliver clenched and unclenched his hands. His fingers itched to tousle the neatly combed dark hair, to grip the short length, to pull Vincent’s head up and push his cock into the other man’s mouth. A moan of longing shook the back of his throat.

  Looking up, Vincent lifted one eyebrow. “Widen your stance.”

  He complied, spreading his legs to accommodate the length of the iron bar.

  Vincent secured the bar between his ankles then went to the chest, returning with the dog collar. “Lift your chin.”

  Straightening his spine, he did as instructed. The dark sweep of Vincent’s lashes were at half-mast as he did up the buckle. As soon as his hands left Oliver’s throat, Oliver tipped his chin back down, letting his hair swing forward again to partially obscure his face, thankful the two-inch-wide strip of plain leather wrapped around his neck wasn’t any bigger or it would have prevented him from doing so. Hopefully it and the lack of light would be enough to continue to fool Vincent.

  Vincent took a step back. Arms crossed over his chest and head slightly tilted to one side, he appraised Oliver.

  Did Vincent like what he saw? Collared and tied up tight. Arms and legs spread. Wrists and ankles secured. Oliver was absolutely helpless, yet strangely, arousal rode over every inch of his skin. And how the hell had Vincent restrained him without once touching his skin? Not even a brush of his manicured fingers against his throat.

  Vincent unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it off, revealing the yellow silk waistcoat and the sleeves of his white lawn shirt. His evening shoes clicked against the floorboards as he went to the fireplace and folded his coat over the back of an armchair. Crouching, he stoked the fire, the wood popping and crackling, the flames flaring before settling back to a low even burn. When he walked back to Oliver, there was the tiniest bit of hurry in his step.

  His paced slowed as he circled Oliver then stopped behind him. “Sleek yet strong.” He drew his hands down Oliver’s back, leaving a path of tingling skin in his wake. “Beautiful,” Vincent murmured, palming his arse, thumbs tickling the crease.

  Closing his eyes, he greedily soaked up Vincent’s touch. He was the furthest thing from beautiful, but the reverent tone in Vincent’s voice almost made Oliver believe him.

  “I paid you a compliment, Jake.”

  Oliver bit his bottom lip. Vincent sounded annoyed. Did the man expect a response? “Ah, thank you, milord?”

  “Very good and don’t forget again.” Vincent reached around Oliver’s raised arms. Two fingertips brushed his lips. “Suck on them.”

  Opening his mouth, he took them inside. He swirled his tongue around the digits, reveling in the slightly salty, masculine taste of Vincent’s skin. Suckling hard, he drew them further into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing, as if he were sucking on Vincent’s cock and not his fingers.

  A barely perceptible grunt sounded behind him. “Enough. Let go.”

  Cool, wet fingertips probed between his arse cheeks. Oliver trembled, wanting more than anything for those fingers to press deep inside. But Vincent toyed with him, circling the puckered flesh, tormenting him. He brought his fingers to Oliver’s lips again. Oliver didn’t n
eed to be told twice. He eagerly took them inside, wetting them thoroughly.

  “Good boy,” Vincent said, pulling free of Oliver’s mouth.

  Satisfaction shot through him at Vincent’s praise. He would do whatever the man wanted just to hear those two words. And he didn’t mind in the slightest that Vincent called him “boy”, even though Oliver was one year older than Vincent’s twenty-four.

  Those teasing fingers returned to his arse, tickling lightly. Then he let out a moan as Vincent pushed past the tight ring of muscle. Slick from his mouth, Vincent’s two fingers slid smoothly inside him.

  Slow and easy, Vincent finger-fucked his arse. Pleasure spiraled through him. Pleasure that was so much more intense than when he did it himself. Whimpering, Oliver arched, wanting more. His cock bobbed, lifting higher, the skin stretched unbelievably taut. His ballocks were drawn up so tight they tingled with the need for release.

  Grabbing hold of Oliver’s hip with his other hand, Vincent pressed deeper, massaging that perfect spot inside him. Sharp sensation seized his nerves. Sparks danced before his eyes. “Ah, yes!"

  Vincent tightened his hold on Oliver’s hip, long fingers digging into the firm flesh, and pushed even deeper. Groaning, Oliver tried to buck back, to get even more of the lush pleasure, but Vincent held him steady. On the next backward glide, Vincent pulled out completely.

  “Don’t stop. Please, milord,” Oliver begged.

  Vincent let out a satisfied chuckle and smacked Oliver on the arse, light and playful with just enough force for the sting to linger. Unbuttoning his waistcoat, he walked past Oliver. He shrugged off the garment, folded it and set it next to the leather bullwhip on the chest of drawers. Dark braces crossed his white-shirted back. Wool trousers hugged the muscular curves of his arse.