Page 108 of Bound

“Would you just get your sassy arse up those stairs?” Oz quipped. “He’s been waiting too long.”

“He who?” she asked.

“And our little princess is looking ever so cute.” Jagger gave her a sultry once-over as Oz snuggled into his neck. “So Marian Librarian in that swing skirt. But he will love those Mary Jane heels most of all.”

“He who?”

But by the time she burst it as an outright demand, her friends were wrapped up in each other once more. For a second, Jayd was just wistfully mesmerized—until an unsettling force took over her senses.

She glanced up and then around. Was it dejá vu? Perhaps, but not likely. She had definitely never been to this part of Sancti before. But the feeling continued, now tied into more organic sensations. She studied the sky, wondering if a sudden storm was about to hit. Not a single cloud lingered in the thickening lavender of twilight. The trees barely moved.

But Maimanne Naturelle was still speaking to her.

Or was it…Paipanne Naturelle?

Technically, she had just made that one up—though in the primal parts of her, buried deep between her animal instincts and her soul’s songs, she connected with the presence as if it were masculine.

And she felt it connecting back.

Watching her.

Reaching out to her.

Was it the he who was up on the third floor, waiting for her?

And if it was, should she be afraid of going up to meet him alone? Did she need to set up a safe call thing with Requiemme, perhaps? Four weeks of missing the hell out of her Sir had made her a very curious girl about the world of Domination, submission, and power play. She knew all about safe calls now, which ranked on the milder side of the subjects to which her studies had taken her to. Subjects that pounded across her mind like scary hail as she continued to vacillate in the building’s pretty courtyard.

At last, she shook her head firmly, deciding against the safe call. In the same moment, she came to other decisions.

She had gone cuckoo. At the very least, persnickety and paranoid. Next thing she knew, there would be voices in her head along with the daunting pressure in her senses. But her reasoning was a case of imbezak on crack. This was not the Adam nor Eve District. This was not even the sketchy outskirts of Faisant. Moreover, Emme was right here with the car and a burly driver. If anything went wrong, even during this courtesy stop-in…

Nothing will go wrong.

Nothing will go wrong.

The mantra provided a catchy off-beat to her steady footfalls up the stairs. By the time she reached the top, she was a little out of breath but a great deal better in the head. The power of affirmations was a mightier force than she imagined…

Until it was not.

Until she opened the big door in front of her and beheld an ornate desk in front of a wall that was wallpapered in black and gray fleurs de lis. The only thing interrupting that pattern was a black medallion, at least a meter in circumference, hanging from thick gold chains. Embossed into the large sphere was a distinct design that she had beheld for the first time only last month. In the heart of Montmartre. In the moments before her eyes were opened to a whole new world of interpersonal dynamics.

Before Brickham had shown her exactly what the BDSM triskelion stood for.

Brickham.

She stepped inside despite how her pulse sprinted, her chest throbbed, and her body shook.

She walked toward the desk, illuminated from beneath in purple and from above in red. There was no banishing him from her thoughts anymore. Definitely not here. Absolutely not now.

Brickham.

He was a cataclysm in her mind, forceful and sensual, taking her hand to guide her through colored depths just like these. Leading her into a room with smells so similar to the ones around her now. Polished leather and fruity lubricants. Earthy rope and unforgiving steel. So many heady intoxicants…

Except for one.

The most important one.

The aroma of sex.