Bound by Lies: A Dark Mafia Romance Read online

  He lowers my legs to the floor. His eyes remain fixed on me. He reaches around again and unclasps my bra. That too falls away and is discarded across the room somewhere.

  He steps back and makes a low growling noise as his eyes roam across my stretched out body, standing there only in black lace panties, stockings and a pair of heels. He’s already fucking me with those eyes.

  When he steps up to me again his hands roam across my bare skin. Across my neck and shoulder and arms and waist. Everywhere except where I most desperately want him.

  He kisses softly at my mouth, teasing me. I purr and push forward, desperate to taste his tongue. He reaches up to hold my neck firmly with his left hand and hold me back. He keeps his mouth far enough away so I can’t reach his lips but close enough so I’m breathing his hot breath. I watch as he brings two the fingers of his other hand up to his mouth. He stares at me as he laps at them. My pussy clenches when I see the moisture glistening at the end of his fingers. Please, touch me with them. Fuck me with them.

  Instead he rubs them across my partially parted lips, breath escaping from them in short bursts. He’s showing my mouth what he’s going to do to other parts of me. He dips a fingers in, finding the wetness on my tongue and withdraws it again. He teases my lips and the tip of my tongue until finally, slowly, he pushes his fingers in. They press along the length of my tongue. I cry out around his fingers. I keep my eyes on him as I suck. He watches me as he thrusts his fingers in and out of my lips.

  A small growl escapes him and both his hands melt down my body, his fingers making a moist trail across my skin. Down. Over my breasts, down my stomach. Please keep going. His fingers stop along the edge of my underwear for a moment. Bastard. He’s still toying with me. It makes me ache, but it feels so good.

  One hand slips into the lace. He fingers search until they find the slickness between my legs, exactly where I have been aching for three months. The shock of his touch makes me gasp. It doesn’t soothe the ache. It makes it worse. I tilt my hips and moan. I need more.

  His voice drops to a low rumble, “you are so ready for me.”

  I was ready the moment I laid eyes on you. My eyes flutter shut as I press my pussy around his…

  But his fingers are gone, snapping the band of my underwear as his hand leaves my body completely. My eyes open in shock. I cry out in frustration and pull against my finger trap.

  “Don’t move.”

  My body reacts like a sob between my legs, wetter and tighter at the loss of his touch. Oh God. When is he going to stop torturing me? I hang there, arms to the sky as if in prayer, needing him so badly that I’m shaking. That the only thing holding me up is this restraint.

  He walks to the side of the room and begins to blow out the candles. One by one.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Of course.”

  He continues to make his way around the room, blowing out the candles. As the room darkens shade by shade, old painful memories are shut out. As my eyes become useless, my other senses heighten to compensate. I begin to feel where the still air meets my skin. Just that touch alone makes my body break out in goose bumps. I begin to hear the difference in the sound when he steps on pieces of wood or glass, each crush and crumble sending little tickles through my inner ear. From under the smell of vanilla and rosemary potatoes the damp must of this place begins to surface.

  Soon, the only candles left are the three on the table behind me. I can see my shadow touching the far wall. I hear him walk back towards me. My shadow moves along the pitted floor, so I know he has picked up the candelabra and is carrying it with him.

  He stops behind me and I hear the soft clatter of the candelabra being placed on the ground. On the far wall I can see both our shadows. He’s so close, so close I can feel the heat rolling off him.

  I hear the sound of his jacket falling to the floor. I watch, mesmerized as the shadow-Cade on the wall unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off his rounded shoulders, revealing a gorgeous thick chest that tapers to his waist. He slips out of his shoes and socks. His belt draws from his body like a long snake, then that too is lost to the floor. Finally he unzips his pants and drops them to the ground.

  Cade is naked behind me and his shadow is naked in front of me. I draw in a breath, realizing that I had been holding it in. His fingers find my hips and he slowly peels my underwear down. I step out of them, having to rely on the grips above me to maintain my balance. I’m left in just my garter belt, stockings and my heels. I hear his breath huff out and the last three candles go out, leaving us in total darkness.

  “Did you miss me?” His arms close around my waist from behind.

  “Yes,” I say as his hands move across my skin, one hand travelling up, the other travelling down. One hand grips my jaw, two fingers teasing my mouth again. He runs his other hand between my legs, his fingers teasing my folds.

  His breathe is hot in my ear. “I missed you.”

  At the same time he pushes inside me with his fingers, two inside my mouth and two inside my pussy. Pleasure thrums like a tightened band between my lips all the way down to my core. He starts to thrust, slowly at first. I moan around him, I suck, I tighten. I try and push out with both ends of my body so that I can get more. He gives in to my need and pushes faster and deeper.

  Faster and deeper.

  Until I can’t hold on any longer. I come around his fingers. My muffled cries echo into the ceiling of this warehouse.

  His fingers slow and his teeth nip at my neck as I float back down. This buzzy need for him is already building again, so I start to move against him again. He pulls his fingers away from me, the space behind my lips feeling empty. “Cade?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He keeps his hands on me and uses my body to guide him as he walks around me until he stands facing me. His hands find my face and I can smell my arousal around us. His lips find mine in the dark. His tongue is rough and insistent. I can feel he’s done with waiting. His hips draw forward, trapping his erection between us. His arms are bent between us, still holding my face. His forearms press against my breasts and I can’t help move my but rub my nipples against them. The hairs on his arms are rough and feel wonderful against me. We both pour our groans into each others’ mouths and around our tongues.

  His hand slips between my legs to rub the head of his cock against me. Oh. Yes.

  “Please,” I whimper, “please take me.”

  “No, kitten.” He positions his erection between my legs. “This isn’t me taking you. This is us giving ourselves to each other.”

  He enters me, filling all the emptiness inside. And my heart explodes like a bomb.

  The notes from Caden continue to come. Our dates have turned to sleepovers, never at his or mine, always at a hotel or a rented holiday home. At first I’m so consumed by our love-making that I don’t question his rules. I think that what we have is enough. I don’t realize something in me is shifting…

  Today, the note comes through a letter.

  When I return home from work, it’s there: the only envelope in my mailbox. Plain and white. I know it must be from Caden because no one else sends me letters. No one else knows where I live.

  As I pull the envelope from my mailbox my heart starts beating against my ribs like a trapped animal against its cage. In some ways it is, and he is the only one who can set it free. I know that this letter will contain a note. And this note means I will see him again soon.

  My address on the front is written in black ink and I recognize his neat cursive handwriting straight away. I brush my thumb over the stamp, a stern face of a foreign president, and notice it is postmarked express from Colombia. Another one from Colombia.

  I turn the envelope over and catch the whiff of a masculine scent of musk and wood smoke. His scent. Like always there’s no return address. Without caring that I’m still standing in my cramped gray apartment lobby, I touch the envelope to the end of my nose an
d inhale, breathing him in deeply. My belly clenches as his scent cascades down through my body and pools between my legs.

  I shut the mailbox, snatch the mailbox key from the rusted lock and run up the stairs two at a time, my groceries and bag slapping against my hips. I unlock my door and push into my apartment, tripping over the small rise of the doorframe in my haste.

  My apartment is a compact studio; a single room with a small kitchen immediately to the right of my front door with a slim kitchen table that doubles as a work bench. An armchair sits alone next to a window, which allows me to sit in the sun when it’s out and read fifty-cent paperbacks from second-hand stores. At the end of the room is a double bed, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers and a bedside table. The only other door leads to my compact but usable bathroom. The paint is peeling, there’s a weird musty smell that hangs about if I shut up this place for too long, and I’m on the wrong side of town, but I don’t care. It’s cheap and somewhere to sleep.

  My bag of groceries and satchel are dumped and forgotten by the door. I pause long enough to turn the key in the lock and test the door handle, then I flick on the deadbolt that I had installed when I moved in. I turn, leaving the keys swinging in the lock, and go straight to my armchair, a second-hand ratty thing with a suspect stain that I’ve covered with a throw. Not beautiful, but it does the job and it was cheap.

  I sit, the letter still in my trembling hand. I take a deep breath as I caress the edges of the rectangle, enjoying this little game of torture I play with myself, seeing how long I can sit here without tearing the envelope apart to get at the secrets within. My insides burn to see the contents. How many hours and minutes and seconds until I see him again?

  I run my fingers along the lettering and I can see his hands, thick and strong and rough with a single perfect freckle marking the back of his right index finger, holding a pen and writing these words for me. I hold the envelope up to my nose again and smell him. I run my bottom lip where I imagine his tongue has licked across the lip of the envelope before he sealed it.

  Enough. I give in.

  I tear into this flimsy outer layer. The shredded envelope flutters to the ground and the note, again on plain white paper, is now in my hand. Like always, written in his handwriting, is a single line.

  Midnight Falls. Cabin #11. Monday 4pm.

  After searching the internet for Midnight Falls I know that it’s a group of cabins in the mountains of a nearby National Park, close to a nature trail that leads to a waterfall of the same name. It’ll take exactly one hour and seventeen minutes to drive there. The way I drive, I’ll make it in under an hour.

  I stand in front of my closet like a solider about to choose armor. Sometimes I feel like I need armor with Caden. Even if I could wear it, it wouldn’t help. That man can strip me bare with his eyes.

  Caden hasn’t stopped buying me dresses. Since I realized he wasn’t going to demand I wear any of it or insist that I owe him, I have stopped resisting. His gifts are all designer labels and silk and lace, elegant and lush. All clothes I would have never chosen for myself. Or had the money to buy.

  My fingers reach for the emerald dress, the very first one he bought for me but I didn’t wear. I realize I haven’t actually worn it for him. I have had plenty of other dresses to wear.

  Yes. This is the one for tonight.

  When I put it on, the silk skirt flows over my body like melted chocolate. It makes me gasp as my sensitized skin accepts this little pleasure. The thought that Caden will soon be pulling this dress off me makes me bite my lip.

  Damn him. He has infiltrated every corner of my life. He has even turned dressing myself into an act of foreplay. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  I don’t bother with jewelry. Apart from a pair of pearl earrings that used to be my mother’s, I don’t own any. I finger my hair, which is sitting in loose waves over my shoulders. The softness of the strands tickles my back where the dress scoops low.

  I put on the barest slick of mascara then glide on red lipstick. I imagine how sexy the red would look leaving rings around his cock. I can only imagine it. I still haven’t seen him naked.

  Rule number three: I can’t see him naked.

  Finally I dab a simple lavender perfume on my wrists. With one last gratifying look in the mirror, I grab my small overnight bag, a small envelope, and lock up.

  I get in my second-hand car, parked out on the street. It’s a non-descript white sedan, pre-owned but solid and reliable. This is exactly what I need when I have to hit the road and never come back. I keep a stash of cash under a slip in the floor carpet under the passenger’s seat just in case.

  I drop the bag on the passenger seat floor. I place the envelope on the seat, my fingers lingering on the edge before I turn on the ignition and pull away from the curb.

  I have almost three hours to get to the cabin, but I have one thing I need to do before I get there. I set my GPS to Navajo Valley.

  Navajo Valley is another large city in this state. It’s about two hours out of my way but I was going to make this journey anyway. My eyes are peeled when I enter the outskirts. I have never been here and I’ll never come back after this.

  I choose a quiet suburban street to roll down slowly. The houses are quiet and with my window down I can hear dogs barking. I spot what I’m after across the street. My heart skitters a little, but I force myself to keep going until I reach the next intersection. I hook into a U-turn and go back the way I came. I pull up to the slightly dented postbox.

  I reach over to the passenger seat and pick up the envelope. On the front is an address that I know well. I lived there for two years before I was forced to start running. Seeing it fills me with memories of warm cashmere hugs that smelled of baby powder laundry soap, the sound of poetry being spoken out loud, and the scent of pumpkin pie and rosemary potatoes. A stab of longing fills me as the faces of my grandparents float into my mind, the two people who raised me. The two people I failed the most.

  I’m sure they hate me. I’m sure they hate that I still send them cards. Just to let them know I’m alive. Just so I can feel some sort of connection with them. I can’t stop. Just knowing that these written words connect us by an invisible thread makes me feel better. And I’m selfish.

  Inside there’s a card with a poem by Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both… Frost is one of my grandfather’s favorite poets. He used to read poems to me at night in bed when I couldn’t sleep. Which happened often in the months after my parents died.

  I sometimes find myself wandering stores for greeting cards and I collect the ones with poems on them. Is it sad that the only way I can speak to my only living family is by using words written by people long dead?

  Other than the poem the card is blank. No “Dear Grandma and Grandpa”. No “I miss you” or “I’m sorry” even though I feel these things. I haven’t signed it. I didn’t even write their names on the front and I didn’t write a return address on the back of the card. They’ll know it’s from me. I didn’t lick the stamp so no one can get my DNA. I’m paranoid, but it has kept me alive so far.

  I get out of my car. I crush the envelope against my chest in a hug, just for a moment. Then I slip the envelope and my love through the dark slit on the postbox and imagine it now flying through the ether towards them. When I hear the soft thud of the envelope hitting the bottom I force myself to cut these feelings off. With all my insides walled up again, I slip back into my car, noticing a small gap in the blinds of the house closest to me has just flicked closed. Someone noticed me. Shit. I need to go. I try to stamp down the rising paranoia and pull away from the curb as fast as I can.

  As I drive along the tree-lined mountain road nearing Midnight Falls the low buzzing in my core starts to rattle with anticipation. This need I have for Caden Thaine is like a phoenix in my body. Arising again and again from the ashes, no matter how many times I am consumed by him. What he gives me is more than sexual, more than physical… th
ere is an exquisite alchemy to the joining of our bodies and our souls. When we are together we absolve each other of our sins and we fill in each other’s missing pieces to become whole. Without him I am broken pieces. With him I remember that I am worthy.

  I eye the sign for Midnight Falls and turn off the gravel road onto a slim dirt path through trees. I wonder if Caden is already there. I wonder what he was doing before he came to see me. I try to imagine what he ate for breakfast. Did he read the morning paper while he ate? Then I let myself wonder what it would be like to wash up breakfast dishes next to him.

  Of course, things are better the way they are, aren’t they? Maybe, if we could see each other like two normal people, the excitement would die and we would become like every other couple, sharing the vapidness of our lives; the laundry and shopping for groceries and brushing our teeth next to each other.

  As I spy the first of the cabins up ahead, I try to shut this line of thinking off. It doesn’t help to be this curious. If I wanted to know who he really was then it would only be fair that I would have to reveal who I am… who I was. And I’m not about to do that. Although a part of me yearns to tell him. A part of me is dying to take that next step and reveal the truth to him. Most of me is terrified that he won’t hesitate to run.

  Cabin number 11 is the furthest cabin along this private road. A single white sedan is parked out front. A rush goes through me. Caden is here. I park next to it and check myself in the mirror before I get out. The air here is fresh and it feels cool against my bare forearms. Through the thick trees that surround us I can hear the distant rush of water. I eye the sedan briefly as I pass it on my way to the front door of the cabin. It’s a rental. Of course. If he doesn’t bring his motorbike he always drives a rental.

  The door opens and all my previous thoughts are lost to the wind when I see him. Caden leans against the doorframe taking up most of its space with his sheer size. He wears fitted cream pants, topping them off with a black button-up shirt. He looks so damn good it makes my mouth water.