Total pages in book: 172
Estimated words: 155984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 780(@200wpm)___ 624(@250wpm)___ 520(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 780(@200wpm)___ 624(@250wpm)___ 520(@300wpm)
Cain had looked at her speculatively and asked her if she had ever considered any of the practices. She shook her head and answered honestly that she hadn’t. He immediately invited her to come in the evening and watch from his office, where she would be safe and no one would see her or know she was there. At first, she declined, telling him she didn’t think that was fair to the others who were in the private rooms, but he assured her that if they opened the curtains, they were fine with anyone who wanted to observe them.
She had gone that first night and stayed alone in his office watching the security screens, a little shocked by some of the things she saw, but mostly excited. Mostly sexually excited. Then Sevastyan Amur had stalked in, looking more confident and arrogant than any man she’d ever seen. He was scarred, rough looking and as dangerous as any man could get. She knew immediately that he was a shifter. He commanded every room he went into. Instantaneous silence fell when he entered a room. It was very clear to her that he could have his choice of any woman— or man for that matter—that he wanted.
She kept her gaze fixed on him as he indicated a woman with a jerk of his head. He wasn’t particularly nice as he pointed to a chair when they entered one of the viewing rooms. The woman removed her clothing and folded it neatly as he stalked over to the wall where a row of ropes hung in neat clusters. They were in various colors and made of different types of material. He selected a deep green and an olive color, both ropes looking rough.
Flambé shivered as she watched him return to the woman. Sevastyan looked like a prowling leopard as he circled her, his muscles rippling in his scarred chest. His trousers hung low on his hips. His eyes glowed a vicious, almost dense glacier-turquoise layer over the deep blue ice of the cat’s eyes. It was impossible to look away from him. He was magnetic. Spellbinding. So incredibly impressive she forgot to breathe.
He whispered something to the woman, his fingers on her pulse as he moved around her, the rope sliding through his fingers. Flambé was so fascinated her heart began to pound. The woman was nearly swaying as he leaned his head down toward her. Sevastyan was a big man, tall, his shoulders wide, and even though she was tall, he seemed to dwarf her. Flambé knew it was because he dominated the room.
He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her to her knees. The woman knelt obediently. Flambé gasped when Sevastyan grasped her long hair and braided it, weaving it expertly. He shoved the mass over her shoulder and then caught first one arm and then the other, thrusting her forward by putting one hand between her shoulder blades. The woman went down farther, prostrating herself on the floor, so only her bottom was up in the air.
Sevastyan laid the rope against the woman’s skin with quick, sure confidence. Every knot was tied with that same sureness from her neck to the curve of her bottom, anchoring around her hips. There was no hesitation. He worked fast, laying his lines and fastening the ropes into a piece of beautiful art, as if she were a canvas. That piece was done in the dark green and he wove it back up her body, laying the knots up her front without seeing what he was doing, laying them almost blindly. She could tell he was laying them perfectly as he built the sleeveless blouse for her.
Standing in front of the woman’s bowed head, Sevastyan suddenly popped the rope, tightening the knots so the entire shirt clamped around her skin. Her body jerked and she cried out, whether in agony or in pleasure it was difficult to tell. The sound was muffled and barely discernable when the audio in the room was only coming over one speaker. It was impossible to hear anything Sevastyan said; he spoke too low as he tied off the rope and picked up the olive-colored one.
Goose bumps broke out all over Flambé’s body. Her nipples tightened into hardened peaks. Her breasts ached, straining against the material of her bra. Between her legs, she felt the brush of fire, almost as if that lash had stroked over her clit. She wanted to be that woman. Desperately.
Sevastyan pulled the woman’s head back by her braid and began to weave the braid into the rope, knotting it every other inch until she was straining, the position awkward, one difficult to maintain. He pulled her arms behind her and wove a harness made of intricate knots from her shoulders, hair and then down her arms to her wrists, so she was completely helpless.