His memory twigged.
“Are you in need of a Kostan slave-girl costume, sir?” Ruth inclined an eyebrow.
That was brilliant. As brilliant ideas were ranked, he gave it a ten out of ten.
“I believe the current erotic fantasy is of catching a slave girl and taking her home again, across one’s saddle.”
Thoughts buzzing, John picked up the top half of this costume made of golden chains meant to run beneath and around the breasts of the slave. “And you don’t tell the future?”
“Never.”
“Hmmm.” He peered up at her. “Would you have somewhere we can try this on?” Then he spied some red bondage rope that instantly hardened his dick. “Uh. That there too.”
A tug on the rope in his hand made him look to see what the princess was doing. Kneeling beside the upside-down Ruff, she was patting his tummy.
How had she managed that? The critter always tried to bite him.
“Did I hear a we?” She rose and came to see what he was doing.
Already she drew an indignant breath. “Mister John Wickerman, you cannot possibly imagine that I—”
“I can.”
Gleefully, he towed her into the tent behind the stall, protesting still, but not that loudly—whether she feared public embarrassment or if it were some other reason that stopped her from screaming, he did not care. Ruth slipped the costume and the red rope into his hand as he went by, along with… He frowned. A tiny fat dildo with a furry tail?
Oh. For once he felt like blushing. The things people did. Though now she’d stirred his memory, Kostans did use these.
It would add to the authenticity.
He probably shouldn’t.
“You cannot dress me in that!” Po hissed, meaning the costume, and raising her hand as if to admonish him.
“I will do as I wish to and need to.” He dropped most of the items to the rug and spun her, holding her hands at her back while he undid the original rope and loosened the coil of pretty red rope. “You will behave for me.”
“You cannot make me!” He could hear the grit in her words. “Kostan is not mine. If the rulers there find me, they will keep me as a hostage, use me to gain some advantage from my kingdom.”
He should have figured that out earlier. So should she, way back in her bedroom when he first grabbed her. Why hadn’t Miss Ultimate Planner done so?
He didn’t know.
To keep her from betraying him at the border, he needed to do more than tie her up. As he looped rope and snugged down knots, feeling a familiar fire build within, John stared at her bound hands. Teeth half-bared, he slid his hand up her arm, then past her elbow, under her hair until he reached her nape. There, he gripped the base of her hair, tilting back her head. He listened to her panting deepen, halt, then pick up, slower but more urgent.
That shiver she gave, meant a great deal. It echoed to his balls. It told him vast things about her, intimate things.
She liked this.
She loved this.
He smoothed his hand downward and gripped her again, encompassing her whole neck this time. Her muscles tensed, relaxed, but she did nothing and said nothing. Goose bumps rose on her skin, ran down her arms.
Bad man, his morally burdened conscience whispered. You mustn’t.
I will. He walked on air with lust rampant in his veins. He took a small, careful bite of her neck then released it. She tasted of sex to him—future sex.
“You like this, Princess?” His voice was low, husky. “My hands on you? My rope? Speak the truth.” He shook her a little then forced her to her knees where he buried his nose in her hair, her neck. Those red tresses unraveled down her skin. “Say it.”
“I will not,” she replied, most firmly. Too firmly. He knew she lied. She cleared her throat. “You’re about to carry me into what is essentially enemy territory. There must be a safer means of doing this? Please. Think on this before you commit us to this course of action.”
“I have thought.”
So, she liked being bound and being held by a man. It wasn’t that unusual. She was a woman, and many women had enjoyed his lovemaking and his ropes. There were more pressing matters today than bondage.
“You know you should have done more,” he said, forcing her further down to her belly on the dusty rug so he could remove her pants, cut away her shirt, her underthings. By undoing and redoing ties, he could have preserved her clothes. He was rushing this, and he was loving it too, her struggles, the cutting.
Out of breath, having her under him whimpering and squirming…
He was being so bad that he finally paused and wiped his forehead with the hand holding the knife. He stared at the knife, his hand. Least he wasn’t shaking.
But she was.
Finally, his moral conscience had a say. Stop. She is afraid.
In spite of all he’d subjected her to, this was the first time he believed this had happened.
The princess, afraid of him? Before, there’d been some trepidation and minor anxieties—one didn’t birch a woman’s ass and not get that.
However, this was truly fear.
And so, he cursed himself.
A plan, another plan? He only had the one.
Fuck.
From where he kneeled beside her, he turned her over, onto her side. “Do not fear me. I promise I will keep you safe once we pass the checkpoint. No one will find you. You will be with me.” He looked down into her eyes, and gently moved the hair from across her startled eyes.
“I wasn’t. I wasn’t afraid.”
The quietening trembles contradicted that.
“Okay.”
“Thank you, for the consideration.”
As if this were a
