The Crimson Rope Read online

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 Evernight Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-622-5

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: JC Chute

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE CRIMSON ROPE

  BDSM Anthology

  Evernight Publishing

  Copyright © 2013

  The Exhibition by London Saint James

  Amazing Maisie by Raven McAllan

  Liberating Lua by Elyzabeth M. VaLey

  Taboo by Doris O’Connor

  Lock, Stock, and Spank Her by R. Brennan

  The Cowboy and the Schoolmarm by Nikki Prince

  THE EXHIBITION

  London Saint James

  Copyright© 2013

  Prologue

  I stood there slack-jawed and wondered when Slater Nolan had changed up his artistic medium. At the last showcase Jayce, Slater’s younger brother and my best friend, had taken me to, Slater showed off his gritty, urban photography in an upscale Chicago loft.

  But not this time.

  This time we were in a large warehouse, staring at huge painted canvases. Each canvas was its own vignette and formed the backdrop for life-sized, erotic sculptures.

  Jayce and I moved with the flow of the onlookers, stopping to see Slater’s next set. Only they weren’t carved. They were nude, muscled-up, body-painted men. While some were draped in chains, others held whips, cuffs or paddles. I almost reached out to touch one of them. They were so well painted it was hard to tell the difference between them and Slater’s sculptured statues.

  Jayce tugged on my arm, bringing my attention to a bevy of beautiful naked women who had been elevated up from the concrete floor. Their stage was a slow spinning podium. Like the men, the women didn’t move. They were all frozen in haunting forms.

  Live mannequins.

  I held on to Jayce’s arm as we did a well-timed one-eighty, staring at it all. The only way I could best describe it, was “bondage artwork.” Each woman had been intricately tied with crimson ropes. Some were bound at the wrists, while others were tied off at the ankles and thighs. Even more of Slater’s female displays dangled from the overhead rafters, their petite frames completely wrapped in elaborate rope configurations. Everywhere I looked, it was like the Cirque du Soleil of sensuality and sexual expression. Even if you weren’t into kink, or art, it was impossible to miss the stinging overtones of pleasure. Of pain. Of dominance. Of submission. More than an art exhibition, I was standing in the middle of a full-blown, invitation-only, erotic show.

  Chapter One

  “Jayce,” I whispered next to his ear. “What’s the deal? What happened to Slater’s focus on photography?”

  Jayce shrugged his shoulders. “Slater has always been involved with the BDSM scene.”

  That actually explained some things. “He has?”

  “Yep.”

  “I never knew that about him,” I admitted.

  “I guess this is his artistic way of coming out of the closet.” Jayce chuckled.

  I glanced around the space, seeing exhibit after exhibit. “I suppose he did it in style.”

  “Ahem…” Jayce muttered. By the sound of it, his attention was lingering somewhere other than our current conversation. “Bianca. I see Adam.”

  “Where?”

  He nudged his chin toward his right shoulder. “Over there.”

  I looked in the direction Jayce had indicated. “Yeah, that’s Adam all right.” There was no mistaking Jayce’s ex. Adam’s six-foot-five frame towered over most of the crowd, and his long, normally sunny-blond hair was styled in intermittent, haphazard dreadlocks dyed in Adam’s signature deep shades of midnight black and navy blue. He was standing by the temporary bar, beer in hand, talking to a beautiful fiery redheaded woman who appeared scantily clad in a red dress and spiked blood-red heels. “Who’s the woman?”

  “I don’t recognize her. Probably one of Slater’s groupies.”

  I giggled. “Your brother has groupies?”

  “You know how it is,” Jayce said. I nodded. Slater always had beautiful women lurking around him. Of course they never stuck around, but I figured their leaving wasn’t always their idea, but Slater’s. “I’m going to go over and see if Adam will actually talk to me now. It’s been two months since our break-up. Perhaps he’s cooled down.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed.

  I didn’t want to discourage my dearest friend, but I wasn’t sure Adam was ever “cool” when it came to him and Jayce. Adam was jealous, clingy, and dramatic on a world-class scale. This became even more apparent when Jayce had made his announcement at their second annual Christmas party. After the New Year, Jayce would be leaving for a three-month dance tour. Adam made sure everyone knew he didn’t appreciate Jayce “leaving” him.

  I knew from our emails and phone calls that Jayce and Adam had a rocky time during the tour, mainly due to Adam’s behavior while he was gone. But I figured they would work it out when Jayce came home.

  It was the end of April when I picked Jayce up from the airport. He was excited to be back in Chicago and could hardly wait to see his boyfriend, Adam. His excitement didn’t last long, though. As we pulled up into the designated parking space at Jayce’s condo, we both saw Adam’s packed bags come tumbling out the front door. Jayce cursed. I put the car in park. He bounded out the passenger door of my Mazda. There wasn’t anything I could do. I sat in the driver’s seat, watching Adam and Jayce have a heated argument out on the front lawn. There was screaming, with accusations being flung about before Adam picked up his bags and loaded them into the cab parked beside me. Adam’s leaving had been perfectly timed. Part of his flair for the dramatic, of that I was positive.

  Jayce remained still, with his shoulders slumped, staring at the cab drive away. It was in that moment, observing Jayce’s defeated demeanor, that I decided I’d never seen him so distraught, and I never wanted to see that look upon his face again.

  “Bianca, will you be okay mingling in this crowd?”

  “You don’t need to babysit me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, Bunny,” he said, and turned to give me a peck on the cheek. “Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck, Duckie.”

  I watched Jayce go, listening to the music wafting through the space. It soon changed into a deeper, throbbing beat. I pondered how Jayce and Slater were both artistic souls. Each brother was different in the choices they’d made, but equally talented. Slater, a photographer/painter/sculptor/whatever this form of erotic art was considered, and Jayce a dancer, for one of the foremost ballet companies in Chicago. Of course every time I reminded Jayce just how talented he was, he put the kibosh on my praise. He thought my opinions on his talent to be overblown, and based my so-called “bias” on the fact we had been friends since the second grade. According to Jayce, I didn’t see his obvious flaws.

  “So what do you think?”

  I recognized Slater’s deep voice. It came from somewhere close behind me and distracted my musings.

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted.

  Slater stepped in front of
me. His tall body and wide shoulders interfered with my view of the bondage scene behind him. Wavy, sandy-blond hair stood out in contrast against his tanned skin. His elongated, square sideburns emphasized his masculine jaw line. He hadn’t shaved. The stubble on his chin obscured his sexy cleft. I shifted my weight from my right to my left foot. When his dark, blue-green gaze snapped to my face, a lump formed in my throat. For as long as I could remember I’d always been unsure and jittery around Slater. “You have no opinion?”

  I swallowed. “Does my opinion really matter, Slater?”

  “Yes,” he said. I’m sure I frowned. Mainly because with all the time I’d spent with Jayce, I never registered on Slater’s radar. Or at least I never thought I did. He was always so aloof. Out of reach. Out of my league. “What’s wrong?”

  I shook my head. “Not a thing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” I fiddled with the V-neck of my dress. “So, you’re into whips and chains?”

  Slater chuckled, darkly. “Not whips or chains, but other forms of the BDSM lifestyle.”

  “Ah,” I mumbled, wondering what the other forms were.

  “I’m a Dom,” he offered. He kept his steely gaze on me. Perhaps wondering if he could make me squirm. I was always pretty good at squirming while in his presence.

  “Oh.”

  “You have no idea what that entails, do you?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Perhaps soon we will discuss just what it means to be a Dom and what it means to submit.”

  For an instant I pondered if there were ever more intriguing words spoken.

  I needed to break away from Slater’s penetrating stare. I glanced toward Jayce. By his body language I could tell he and Adam were having an intense conversation. Part of me wanted to go over and interrupt them, throw my arms around Jayce’s waist, and comfort him. Tell Adam to stop acting like such an asshole. Part of me wanted to remind Jayce he was better off without Adam, but then the expression on his face the day Adam left walloped me and I wondered. Is he really better off?

  “He’ll never look at you the way he looks at him.”

  I turned my head back to Slater with such speed, that it kind of hurt my neck. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, Bianca.”

  “I know Jayce is gay. I’m not—”

  “You wish he wasn’t.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I do not.”

  “My brother loves you, but he’s not in love with you. If you are waiting for him to change his mind about his sexual preferences, you’re wasting your time.”

  “Slater, why are we having this conversation?”

  “Sometimes it’s best to put all your cards on the table.”

  “Have you forgotten? I’ve been in your brother’s life almost as long as you have. I know Jayce loves me like a sister, and I love him like a brother. So you can take your ‘cards’ and put them back in the deck.”

  Slater smiled a slightly crooked smile. The right side of his mouth quirked higher than the left. “Has anyone told you, you are sexy as hell when you’re mad?”

  Did he say, sexy?

  “Huh?”

  Slater laughed. “We’ll continue this conversation later. I promise. But right now, I must excuse myself.”

  Slater sauntered off, the ease that came with his inner confidence evident. He looked like a tribute to the gods of wicked sex with his black leather pants hugging his assets. The pulling taut of leather against the back of his muscular thighs was emphasized as he took each long stride, and suddenly the large space seemed smaller, and hotter. I wanted to fan myself, but just as I was in the swing of a good ogling, I heard that little voice of reason. Every time I did something stupid, it tended to play like an old rerun inside my head: Seriously, Bunny? Don’t waste your time.

  ****

  The lights in the warehouse dimmed. Everyone stilled. A bright overhead light hit a spot on a round, raised dais. Upon it rested a large, blank canvas, hooked by the top to an industrial looking swivel and chain. Closer by Nine Inch Nails started booming through the space from unseen speakers and echoed. It created a luscious buzz that not only reverberated off the walls, ceiling, and floor, but skimmed over me, too.

  The canvas was hoisted up, revealing Slater and the redhead in the red dress talking to Adam earlier. As the lyrics started, Slater’s large hand moved to the top of the redhead’s fiery hair.

  “You let me violate you,” Trent Reznor, the lead singer of NIN sang. Slater brushed his hand down the length of the woman’s hair, his fingers coming to her neck, strumming, then sliding down to her shoulder. With sleight of hand, he produced a knife blade. He skid it overtop her shoulder, inches from touching her skin. She threw her head back to his chest. Red hair splayed across his midnight black shirt. The silver knife glinted in the light. “You let me desecrate you,” the song continued. Slater slipped the blade beneath the right strap of her red dress. Sliced. Her shoulder was free. Unrelenting, and still scant inches from touching her, he drew the knife across her collarbone, slid the blade under the left strap, and cut. “You let me penetrate you.” The red dress fell from her body and pooled at her feet amid an almost obscene splash of cheering. “You let me complicate you.” She stood, head resting on Slater’s chest, wearing a blood-red bra and nothing else but the spiked heels. The hourglass shape of her body seemed more pronounced juxtaposed against the background of Slater’s dark clothing.

  Slater placed the knife he held in his right hand to her chest and his free hand to her stomach. The song continued. He positioned the blade in-between her abundant cleavage, then slipped the blade lower, cutting the front of her strapless bra. Her supple breasts plunged out of the material and bounced. The bra disappeared into the red at her feet. Slater turned the blade to the flat side and circled her hard, gumdrop nipple.

  “I want to fuck you like an animal. I want to feel you from the inside.” As Trent’s voice filled the room, Slater painted the woman’s flesh with the flat side of the knife. She closed her eyes, her expression taking on that of pleasure. She worked her bottom lip between her teeth. The muscles in her stomach jumped when his left hand traveled downward, past her navel. He stopped shy of praising her mound of Venus with his fingers.

  Something about this gave me the chills, as if I were anticipating his intimate touch on my body. Heat stirred from deep within me. The more prudish side of me niggled. Then niggled at me some more. I needed to stop watching, but I was quickly becoming acquainted with another Bianca, and she couldn’t look away.

  The platform they were on lowered. They stepped off. A painted man joined them. From above their heads the blank canvas twisted. Slater handed the woman over to the man, stepped up on the platform, and elevated to the level of the canvas. He held out his hand. The canvas stopped twisting. Brandishing the knife, Slater brushed it over the blank canvas. You could plainly see the start of a painting appear. The crowd oohed and clapped. I don’t know how he did it, but with each swipe of the knife blade, the incomplete scene had more and more detail added. It was compelling. Slater had turned his exhibition into magic.

  Soon, the appearing scene depicted the same redheaded woman and the body-painted man who were on the floor. Upon the canvas the man was kneeling. The woman bent over his knee, her bare ass lifted and rosy from the blow he had obviously given her. Below the canvas, they mimicked the overhead painting. He knelt. She took her place over his knee.

  The man swirled his palm over the woman’s creamy white globes. Her head fell forward. Blazing red hair swished around the man’s thick ankle. Without further preamble he brought his large hand up, then swung it down, connecting against her plump flesh. She squirmed before she braced herself, palms on the floor, and lifted her ass for his next whack. With each well-placed spank, her ass resembled the rosy color captured in the completed painting, spinning once again overhead.

  Another swat marked her. She writhed, mixing her shouts of pleasured bliss into the ending of the song. And
to my shock, I realized the panties beneath my dress were wet.

  Chapter Two

  Music blared as I yelled out my order to the tattooed and pierced man behind the temporary bar. “Jack and Coke!”

  “You sure you can handle that, sweetheart?” the tender returned with a wide toothy smile, as he firmly rested his gaze on my breasts.

  “I’m sure I can handle it.” I turned, ignoring the probing stare of the bartender.

  Slater broke from the crowd, strolled up to the temporary bar with a clearly masculine swagger, and ordered a beer from the tender. I looked up to see his face. He casually tapped a package of Kool cigarettes on the top of the bar, and pulled one out. He lit it. Brought it to his luscious lips. Sucked in. The end of the cigarette glowed bright orange before he blew the smoke over his left shoulder. He picked up a bottle the bartender handed him. A Coors. He was still holding the cigarette between his fingers while his other digits curled around the neck of the beer. Tendrils of smoke slithered up. He eyed me, none too carefully, but didn’t say anything.

  The music lowered. My drink came sliding toward me on the bar.

  “Any opinion yet?” Slater asked me.

  “Perhaps,” I said, and then took a sip of my drink.

  “Ah…so we do have one, but I get the sense you’re not going to tell me.”

  “You’re right. I’m not, but I would like to know how you did that trick with the knife and the painting that appeared.”

  He wagged his finger at me. “I’m not going to tell you how I did it.”

  “It was wild. There was nothing there and then there was a painting.”

  “Sometimes it’s hard to see what’s right in front of your eyes, but change up the perspective and it’s amazing what reveals itself to you.”