Bought (Unchained Vice Book 3) (24 page)

It was only 9 a.m. but the day already seemed much older as Jerricho sat in the farmhouse study. Or maybe that was just him. He still hadn’t slept, and the hangover from the night’s events was starting to crash in. He was in no state to defend himself.

He stared across the desk at Killian.

He’d hurt the man. Fucked him. Betrayed him. The closest of intimacies.

Yet at this moment, he was a clear outsider.

After the chaos surrounding Romeo had calmed down, Killian had dressed and gone to inspect the old farmhouse. Jerricho had stayed and treated Scarlet for shock before stitching and bandaging his side.

He wasn’t surprised when Killian had come back, striding through the house and demanding to speak with him privately.

Now they sat across from each other in silence. The noose lying on the desk said everything.

“Big night.” Killian’s tone was measured as the man studied him.

Jerricho looked him in the eyes. He’d done the right thing.

“Why did you come back?”

“Scarlet.”

“She’d be devastated to know you left, I don’t think she’s realized yet.”

Jerricho looked away, out the window. The moody indigoes of the morning were long gone and the day was bright with clear skies. “I know.” His voice was rough.

“You’re lucky you killed the fuck or you wouldn’t be breathing.”

Jerricho nodded. “I know.” Romeo had come too close to hurting Scarlet.

Eli strode into the room, slicing through the tension as he casually perched on Killian’s desk. “Romeo is dead. I see I missed the party.”

“Black killed him.”

“Well, that takes care of that.”

As if anything was that simple.

Eli reached into his jacket pocket and dropped something on the desk. “You’re a real boy now.”

The French passport landed in front of him.

Confused, Jerricho looked at it.
His?
He was sure his passport was with the money in the bag. He leaned forward, reaching out to get a better look at it.

“Scar told me what you did to your hand. The punching bag.” Killian gestured at Jerricho’s raw knuckles.

Jerricho looked up, their eyes meeting in understanding.

Scarlet would’ve also said why.

Killian understood the reason for what Jerricho had done the previous night, and this was the closest to an apology Jerricho would get for being driven to do it. When it came to the events that led to this morning’s incident, they both shared the blame.

But there was only one betrayal.

You’re lucky you killed the fuck.

The cost of his absolution was just as fucked up as the rest of it.

Killian gave a small nod and Jerricho opened the passport.

Jerricho Black.

The name was in black and white, as if he really existed.

The rest of it looked exactly like his existing passport, even the old photograph. Killian must’ve gone through his belongings after the warehouse incident.

“The identity and the passport were the easy part because I can manipulate records online,” Eli explained.

Jerricho flipped through the pages with shaky fingers. There was a stamped 457-Visa giving him legal Australian employment status.

He sat there momentarily dazed.

He held the key to freedom in his hand, and he’d given it away.

His stomach lurched violently with the thought.

There was no way Killian would let him keep the passport now.

“There are things I can’t do for you,” Eli droned on. “I can’t get you on the airport CCTV cameras to prove a legal arrival. I can’t get you legitimate verbal references when you look for employment. You will have to manage the name change with your old colleagues, but …” Eli looked down at the noose with a wry grin, “you seem like an industrious type.” He turned to Killian. “Our friend at the crematorium is ready to turn Romeo into dust, these things have to be scheduled.”

Killian nodded as Eli stood and left.

Jerricho sat there lost. He’d thought he’d known what he could live with, but realized what he’d just lost—Scarlet
and
his freedom. The fact that he’d saved her life, gave him no comfort.

Jesus, he was always making the wrong fucking choices.

He slowly put the passport back on the desk. Stiff with reluctance, he pushed the little Bordeaux-red book across the desk and Killian’s fingers snapped down to catch it.

Killian’s fingers drummed. “You ever love something or someone so much you could almost destroy them?”

The question seemed to come from nowhere. Too hollow to reply, Jerricho just raised tired eyes to look at the man.

“My father loved me. As fucked up as that sounds, I know he loved me.” Killian shook his head. “I’ve never understood if love saves you or damns you.”

They were the same, he and Killian; Jerricho had no idea either.

“There were teething problems with Daniel too, but Scar and I worked better with him …” Killian pushed the passport back across the desk.

Freedom.

The connection to the cartel had been severed with Dado and now he had his name, Jerricho Black. Naavid was gone.

But freedom was hollow without Scarlet.

“I’m sorry I showered so long.” Scarlet’s voice came from the doorway behind him.

It was not the voice he knew. She sounded thin and brittle. The events from the morning would haunt them all.

He stood up and turned, wanting to comfort her, but Killian had gotten there first.

“Can we go home?” She stared into her husband’s eyes. “I just want to go home.”

Jerricho looked away, briefly closing his eyes as he took a breath and picked up the passport. It should’ve felt better than it did, holding his future in his hand.

“Of course.” Killian squeezed the back of Scarlet’s neck. “Everything’s packed. Black?”

Jerricho met Killian’s gaze and nodded. He was packed to go. After everything, nothing had changed from the night before—he was still leaving, going away.

His steps echoed the heaviness in his stomach.

“Are you okay?” Scarlet’s head tilted as he approached.

For a moment, it looked as if Scarlet was going to reach out and touch him.

Break him.

“What’s going on? What have you been talking about?” She looked between the two of them.

“Black,” Killian answered before he could, “was just deciding if he wanted to stay in the boathouse or move up into the house.”

For a moment, the statement made no sense. His head was too busy trying to figure out his goodbye.

He tilted his head and Killian shrugged as if what he’d said was no big deal.

Scarlet slid her arm around his waist, her touch familiar and warm.

“Inside.” She looked at Killian. “Of course he’s staying inside.”

As if he had a choice, as if he’d ever had a choice.

He spoke past the lump in his throat. “Inside is good.”

Her slow smile, as she looked at him, was beautiful. “Then let’s go home gentlemen.”

To the readers who bought this book, a story doesn’t come to life until it has an audience. Thank you for being a part of this experience.

*

If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a review so that other readers may find it.

*

To find out more about the Unchained Vice series, please visit my 
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It feels with every book the list to thank gets longer, I like that this world of mine continues to grow.

The first thank goes to Sharon, you asked me to write a book from a male POV and Jerricho was born—got any other good ideas? I also want to thank Peregrine, whose poems move me in profound and sinful ways, I was humbled that you were gracious enough to let me use your words in my epigraph.

Thank you to the talented Hang Le for the beautiful cover, the wonderful ladies at Hot Tree Editing and the faultless proof by Nerine, you all helped me put together this book and I am very grateful.

A big thanks to Cate, Letitia, Carly, Emma Rose and Cari for braving a messy manuscript to do a beta read. It felt really good to have the story validated through your feedback, and all your suggested tweaks only made Jerricho, Scarlet and Killian’s story stronger.

Lastly, my deepest thanks to the people who support me in this writing endeavor. To Mark, no one knows how much the time and space you carve out for me to do this, I love you. To Simon and Nikki for sitting through weekly breakfasts, patiently listening to me talk incessantly about my characters and story. And of course, to Catherine and Elsa, my writing family, who spend every day on the rollercoaster with me, riding the highs and lows, and making it so much fun.

Grace Cantrell felt the smooth sticky slick of body paint on her skin as a man signed his name across her left breast.

Splayed against the solid timber X-frame of a St. Andrew’s Cross, Grace was completely naked except for leather cuffs restraining her ankles and wrists, and a black satin blindfold. Above her head hung a sign: “Guestbook. Dom(mes) please sign in”. Body paint crayons sat on a small occasional table beside her. Grace was the first thing guests saw on arrival; living graffiti in a stranger’s house, where deviants danced and played.

The Dom made small-talk with his companion as he signed. Grace focused on the shapes he drew on her skin, trying to guess the letters, his name. It was her own private game. Part of her wondered how many guests she would be able to match to their signatures after the blindfold was removed. What personal traits flowed into the curves and lines made by their hands?

Another part of Grace, the part that was winning out, was being slowly seduced by her predicament. After a year’s drought this was like the breaking rains – enough to get her wet, but not enough to saturate her parched soul.

And still, doing this, being here, was wrong.

If you keep breaking yourself, you’ll never be whole.

The man and his companion left Grace to wrestle with her inner demons. She wanted to stay and succumb to every dark pleasure. She wanted to go, just to prove to herself she could.

In the end, reason won over desire. She should go.

Grace had just opened her mouth to call Ben, the doorman, when she heard him speaking to someone new. The other voice, more sound than words, was warm, lightly accented and very masculine.

*

“Mr. Wright,” the doorman shook Jason’s hand and let him in.

Jason clasped Ben’s beefy arm as they shook hands. His mind was still back in his studio, but he needed some release.

Deep into planning and shooting for a new exhibition, he didn’t have time for wining and dining. His pursuit of pleasure became more carnally focused. A play party provided the perfect convenience. Besides, he’d promised friends he would show.

“Master Liam asks that you please sign in tonight, Sir.” Ben directed Jason’s attention inside.

Jason’s lips twitched with a smile as his gaze followed the doorman’s gesture . It was impossible to miss the girl with the guestbook sign above her head. Nudity inside the door was commonplace, but seeing her offered up like that, her skin a canvas – she called to all his artistic inclinations. He felt an irresistible urge to fill the blank spaces.

A male submissive carrying a tray of drinks passed between him and the living guestbook. Jason  reached out and grabbed the sub’s arm.

“You occupied, Thomas?” he asked, his eyes only briefly flicking to the sub in service.

“No, Sir.”

“Right answer. Put the tray down. Pants off.”

The sub was naked except for leather wrist cuffs and simple black trousers. While Thomas obeyed, Jason stepped around him, continuing his contemplation of the girl.

Her skin was flawless. It glowed with a pale luminescence against the inky black of her hair. Skin like that was made for higher art. She was petite. Slim. Her breasts no bigger than his hand. Full lush lips that cried out to be ravished, nibbled and nipped, contrasted with the otherwise delicate features of her face – high cheekbones, a slight point to her chin and the short feathered haircut that fell over her blindfold. She was bound in all her fragile beauty against the worn timber, like a sacrifice of purity. He wanted to capture that, corrupt it, restore it, then corrupt it again.

He walked closer, deliberately stepped into her space. Robbed of her sight, he let her feel his presence.

“I’d very much like to draw on you,” he whispered intimately. “I’d very much like for you to say yes.”

Classically trained, he could paint and draw well enough to sell, but his passion and artistic identity were behind the camera. Tonight, however, his fingers itched to draw …

The girl swallowed hard.

“You’ll be safe with Mr. Wright, love,” Ben vouched behind him.

She didn’t answer immediately. Jason waited, their bodies almost touching. The air grew thick and warm between them.

Eventually, she nodded, just as he’d hoped she would.

He smiled.

“What’s your name?”

Her mouth twitched. Was she shy? Nervous?

“How about I just call you Kiki?”

She slowly nodded.

“I’m going to let you down now, so you need to tell me I can touch you, Kiki.”

He watched for any sign of hesitation. It didn’t come. Instead, she nodded again, wet her lips as if impatient to get to that part.

Jason reached for the ankle cuffs as he sank to his haunches. He lightly brushed her feet and watched for her reaction, testing to see if she had pins and needles from standing still for so long.

He was sure someone would’ve been checking on her, but if he was going to play with her, that made her his responsibility. Satisfied her feet were fine and would hold her steady, he loosened the cuffs and stood back up.

He placed a hand on her belly, supporting her as he reached up to unclip her wrists. Not having held her weight for a while could leave her feeling a little unbalanced. She felt fragile under his hand, her skin as luxurious as he imagined.

She moved away from the cross. She didn’t try cover herself but her hands hesitantly lifted toward the blindfold.

“Uh-uh. Blindfold stays on.” Eyes would make her human. Tonight, he wanted art.

The stipulation seemed to relax her, her shoulders dropping as her hands fell to her side. She nodded, giving him an awkward smile, nipples pert as she fidgeted from foot to foot. Normally he would enjoy her nervous tension, but to draw on her, he needed her calm and still.

He reached out, caught one of her hands and stroked it with his thumb. With his free hand, he slipped some of the crayons into his pocket.

“Ben will you handle the rest?” Jason nodded toward Thomas and the empty cross.

“No worries, Sir.”

Jason paused for a moment to consider the easiest way to lead his new blindfolded toy through the bumping crowd.

She gasped as he scooped her up into his arms.

“Hold tight, Kiki.”

*

Grace clung to the darkness, savoring the comforting anonymity of the blindfold. It wasn’t being naked, she just didn’t want to face anyone, didn’t want to face what she was doing. In the dark she could pretend she was dreaming. So close to going home, doing the right thing, but then his damn honeyed voice made her an offer that was impossible to refuse. From guestbook to sketchbook – an impersonal plaything, just the way she liked it. This was how she got into trouble, but God knows she missed the buzz of it.

She ran a palm over his chest, following the muscled curves, the hard warmth of his body melting away her last lingering doubts. He felt strong, powerful, unbreakable. Grace shivered and snuggled in tight.

When he stopped, he set her down on what felt like a padded bench. Pushing lightly against her chest, he laid her flat on her back. Without the shield of him, the world returned. She could hear people around them. She loved an audience. Hell, audience participation wasn’t a problem either, but as soon as he touched her, the crowd faded away.

His hand slowly dragged down her chest, passing between her breasts and over her abdomen. When he’d helped her off the cross his hand had easily spanned her stomach, a brute instrument of masculinity, but now the tip of a finger dipped and swirled into her belly button with a delicate finesse that spoke of a refinement that seemed more dangerous in its cunning.

For most of the evening, Grace had felt disconnected from her body. Being robbed of her sight had, in a way, made her form cease to exist. Even the guests signing her skin had felt academic, their impartiality to her body matching her own. The thrill had been more in the immodesty than in sensation.

Now, feeling his fingers trace her curves, outlining her and restoring her, she felt her consciousness grow and expand. Her skin prickled with new awareness.

“Do you have a safe word?” he murmured, his thumb lazily stroking over her hip bone. He spoke loud enough to be heard, but soft enough that she had to focus all her attention on his words.

She shook her head. She didn’t want to be safe. She wouldn’t get anything she didn’t want or deserve.

Grace thought she heard him mutter something, but it was too soft for her to be sure.

“No safe word, no play …” His hand left her hip and a finger traced along the crease of her thigh, over her neatly trimmed mons, down the seam between her thighs. “So what’s the word going to be?”

For a moment, her mind went blank, unable to think of a single word. All she could focus on was his hands on her body, his voice in her darkness – need.

“G–” She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes tight. She was raw with emotion. It had been too long. Relief that the numbness would soon be over washed over her like a wave.

“All good, Kiki?” That voice again, this time concerned.

She nodded and gave what she hoped wasn’t a shaky smile, because the truth was, his hands felt fucking fantastic and she was way past the point of no return.

“Yeah? Not really talkative are you? That’s okay. You don’t really need to talk, you just have to do as you’re told.” A low, sexy laugh. “Put your hands above your head.”

She lifted her arms, her limbs heavy and foreign, but as he ran his hands up from her shoulders to her wrists he made them hers again. He turned her hands palm up, then rested one hand on the other. She heard him clip the cuffs together.

The cocoon of his body heat disappeared and was replaced by a full kiss on her exposed palm. Cool air where his lips had been as he pulled back. Her fingers curled, as if to catch him but he was already gone. He smoothed opened her fingers before settling something light, smooth and round into her hand.

“No word. Hold onto this apple. If you need to call it, just let the apple fall. Nod if you’re with me, Kiki.”

She cradled the fruit in her palm and nodded. His finger caressed her cheekbone and she leaned into his touch. He drew his finger down and across her clavicle, random touches still filling in the outline of her body as he made his way an inch at a time back down to her feet.

The trail of his finger was sensual and teasing; it held her rapt. Her skin tingled with life as he lit her up. It took forever and no time at all before there wasn’t a stretch of skin he hadn’t awakened with his touch. She was fully corporeal, heavy with expectation.

He finally touched her foot with what felt like the smooth oily glide of the body marker. Aroused, she squirmed as the crayon slithered up her leg and torso in a smooth, curving line. Heat covered her body as he leaned over her, so aware of him even without actual contact. Another line, then another, and another. Each stroke built longing. Grace stopped counting the lines that licked over her contours.

While he drew, his free hand caressed her skin. When he drew on her shin, he lightly stroked her feet, caressed behind her knee, tickled up her thigh. His teasing moved with his art to the apex between her thighs. She panted as his fingers rubbed and smoothed the body paint onto her skin.

God, she wanted his fingers in her but he was all about the art and the teasing. She rocked her hips in frustration, trying to entice him. But only the wisp of his breath came as he leaned in to inspect his work, the tickle of his hair on her sex making her twitch and push up into the silky softness.

She wasn’t sure how long he drew on her. His hands spoke for him as he worked in silence, but her breath, her low, torn moans, became louder. He made her soft and pliable under him. When he leaned over her to continue the drawing up her arm his shirt lightly brushed her turgid nipple in a constant tease, almost to the point of pain, causing her to twist and groan, to squeeze her thighs together.

“Be still,” he admonished, with a slap to her breast. She bucked from the pleasure of the sting, almost came from it. But his touch fell from her body and she was left rasping for breath as she tried to chase the edge of pleasure.

A pause of wanting, then he started again.

*

It had become impossible for her to keep still and he was forced to pin her wrists as he finished drawing on her arm. He leaned over her, his knee on the bench between her thighs, pushing up against her, giving sweet friction as she ground her sex against him. Trembling, she rode the only part she had of him between her legs, desperately seeking relief. She was shameless with hedonistic need. The painting had been foreplay – the bastard knew what he was doing. He had taken her to the edge and kept her there, teetering. She wanted to come so badly the need was a driving ache.

“Almost done.” He pulled his thigh away just before she tumbled over that edge.

Grace whimpered as she squirmed in frustration.

“For the next part I don’t want you to move.” His lips came back to her ear. “That’s an order, Kiki.” His voice was thick and husky.

Fuck, that felt almost as good as everything else. The thrill of having that effect on him was a heady rush, spiking her desire even higher.

She nodded, even though she thought it would be impossible to do as he asked.

He pulled away, taking every scrap of warmth with him. She shivered from the unexpected cold.

A stinging heat bit into her wrist. She yelped, her body arching with the burn.

“No moving, Kiki.” Stern words to settle her into her place.

He gave her a moment to obey, then dribbled wax down her arm, a line of biting heat .

Grace mewed, but she didn’t move. She knew this game. If she relaxed instead of trying to brace against the next drop, she could turn the burn into a welcome warm and lingering sensation.

The drops of wax slowly stung their way down Grace’s body. It blended with her own heat and burned inside her. Little bites of pain, followed by pulses of dark pleasure. God, she wanted to writhe, to chant, to scream, to release … to move.

Wax splashed onto her mons, a hot trickle between her legs.