Unrestrained

Chapter One

Just looking at these photos might make me a pervert.

Holly dismissed the idea until the third photo, at which point everything inside her froze.

Whoa.

She moved a hand to cover the screen but stopped mid-gesture. I’m a grown woman and I’m allowed to look at whatever the hell I please. She clicked to enlarge the photo as an act of rebellion, but it was hard to convince herself she was a rebel while gazing at a naked man locked against a bound, naked woman, indulging in the most intimate of acts.

The couple shared what looked to be the man’s bedroom judging by the cream walls, heavy wood paneling and absence of frills.

But who really gave a shit about the décor?

The woman’s arms and legs were spread wide, tied to the thick, ornately carved wooden posts of a four-poster bed. A floor lamp spilled lasciviously bright light over her nude form and even as Holly felt a dark, strange stab of excitement at the woman’s vulnerability, she also winced at the thought of all her own imperfections being so mercilessly exposed. She could never do something like that. Not in a pink puffy fit. The longer she looked, the more the woman’s pose echoed that of a pinned butterfly, a human specimen laid out for leisurely inspection. Or, in this case, consumption. The man between the woman’s legs was so obviously straining to bury his head, his mouth, his tongue deeper that Holly’s guts hitched into a tight ball. It was so animal. Raw. Those powerful hands, the fingers clawed into biting restraints, gripped each generously spread thigh to seal the woman tighter to his face. To eat her out. The term, so crude, was so perfectly apt.

Hell, those hands, that intensity. Not something she’d ever experienced in bed herself, though she wasn’t jealous, or not in the way one would expect. She’d never believed, despite what various romance novels and women’s magazines told her, that lots of women had a stable of hot lovers matched by even hotter memories of scorching sex, and that she was missing her dues as a woman. No, she was jealous because the dark head eclipsing the caramel tint of the woman’s belly also eclipsed any humble satisfaction she’d found in her anniversary celebration. Hard to remain happy with macarons and hot chocolate when so rudely confronted with proof of how others celebrated life. What a poor job of it she was making in comparison.

The thought settled upon her like a damp parachute, but despite her deflated mood, her eyes continued to store each detail of the photo in the small, secret corner of her mind she called her mental porn pantry.

Below his dark hairline, the man’s nape gleamed pale and bare. Underneath, a jagged sea of midnight letters tumbled across his broad shoulders and the rugged invitation of his back. The punctuated flesh made her squirm and she wasn’t sure why. She couldn’t be turned on by that, could she? Not her, not with her distaste for tattoos and other forms of body modification that pierced the flesh.

An illegible tangle of ornate Gothic letters licked the knob of bone at the top of the man’s spine and winged out to each shoulder blade. What the hell did it say? She wrestled with the sinuous stream of font winding over muscle and bone, rolling out like a ribbon of road; the world’s best crossword puzzle ever, all for her.

With the screen view enlarged to its limits, she traced a fingertip over each letter, reduced to remedial reader status by the diabolical font. Her eyes grew dry and she had to blink. And realized she was reading German.

She made out one word: Gebunden. Bound. Her high-school German had come in handy after all. She took a moment to scan the café for the waitress, or, god forbid, an angry-looking iPad owner, then her greedy eyes glommed back onto the slab of muscle with its ribbon of letters. She followed each letter just for the hell of it, from one muscle to the next, from one sliced arc of definition to another. Forget the letters, his muscles spelled out a different word: sex. Imagine being in the same room with that man, tied to that bed, wondering what he was going to do next. No wonder her mouth was flooding with anticipation. Not that she’d ever get the chance to be in the same room with a man like that, doing something like that. If a man looked at her twice, it wasn’t with appreciative lust but shock, and a little bit of awe and fear. She squashed the thought and focused on the woman.

Neither statuesque nor blessed with a model’s flawless body, the woman still compelled the eye. Mocha skin and lustrous dark hair complemented full breasts and round, high hips; her form dark, curving and sinuous, an elegant ampersand. Where the bindings wrapped around her shapely forearms and calves, the ripe flesh devoured them. Equally lush, her face screamed sex. Bold, sweeping brows, bee-sting lips and canopy lashes mocked Holly’s own plain features, and under the lamplight, the woman’s lightly parted lips glistened a deep pomegranate red; a dark, thrilling, decadent shade Holly could never hope to carry off, even if she’d been the sort to bother with make-up.

The thing that struck her—besides the oddness of how she, Little Miss Mind Her Own Business, was the one to stumble across all this—was that while the woman’s face was arresting, and the man’s body calendar-worthy, neither their physical beauty nor the sexual act itself fascinated her as much as the woman’s expression. It wasn’t anything Holly could make sense of. Neither discomfort nor embarrassment at her spread-eagled position, nor the mix of ecstasy and excitement one might expect from a naked, bound woman being eaten out with devotion and diligence. Contentment? She squinted. Nope, not that, either.

What, then?

She magnified the image as large as it would go, but the harder she looked, the more everything blurred into pixelated nothing. There were no clues in the picture to that expression. What did it mean that she couldn’t get a grip on that look? Was there something wrong with her?

Giving up, she let her eyes roam back to the man.

If the man was busy and the woman’s hands tied, who’d taken the photo? Was there a cast of thousands hidden in the wings, all part of some secret bondage scene every local was in on except for her? Though she couldn’t be certain these two were locals because she had no idea who they were. They could be lovers, two enthusiastic strangers enjoying a spirited sport fuck, or porn stars, for all she knew.

That was the problem with pictures, they never told you the whole story.

Her eyes narrowed at the iPad. Even though she hadn’t asked for them, hadn’t told the waitress, ‘Oh, and could I please have some porn with my hot chocolate’, she could probably get arrested for looking at photos like that. Plus she had the ridiculous yet unshakeable conviction that everyone in the world could tell what she was looking at, and that the same ‘everyone’ knew that she couldn’t stop her eyes from straying back to the images no matter how hard she tried. Knew that and knew all about the rabbity skip of her pulse and the tiny ellipsis of sweat punctuating her brow.

She slid a glance around the café. No one was looking. Of course they weren’t. No, aside from her and the waitress, the café was stone cold empty, not exactly a ringing endorsement but the lack of people and abundance of dark corners and sheltered booths were what had lured her in. And the cake menu.

If only she hadn’t spotted the iPad when she’d pushed aside her table’s refuse of chocolate-smeared napkins and coffee mugs rimmed with lipstick. Then it could have been just her and the awesome meringue-based confection on her plate—an indulgence rare as certain passing comets.

She stared at the mini iPad.

What sort of muppet left a several-hundred-dollar device filled with racy selfies under their dirty napkins? That sort of carelessness was just not on. It distracted innocent people like herself from the swilling of Belgian hot chocolate and the mainlining of macarons. Not to mention it was delaying her reading of Taming the Duke, thus putting the brakes on the improbable sex life of randy Regency nobility who would be outraged by such an act of cock-blockery.

Speaking of cock-blockery, was the waitress ever going to bring her hot chocolate?

Ever?

Focus.

Tiles smattered the gorilla glass of the screen. The thing was infested with apps and folders. No doubt the owner was one of those annoying people who constantly fiddled with their device, even during meals and face-to-face conversation. Still, she supposed she should try to work out who they were, find their contact details and reunite them with their baby before their thumbs atrophied or, god forbid, they had to interact directly with other human beings instead of tweeting or messaging them. She sighed.

She could check the owner’s emails, that might offer some clue. She opened the email program and read the recipient’s name: Luisa Delago. The woman in the photo looked like a Luisa Delago. Hey there, Luisa, you naughty girl, show us your rope burn.

Here you go, one hot chocolate.

She winced, shoulders stiffening, and glanced at the waitress’s feet. Barefoot. Shit, what was she, a freaking ninja? This was a café for Christ’s sake. She avoided the waitress’s gaze which she was certain would be fixed on her scars.

Let me clear some of this.

Thanks. About time. The last patrons’ cups, plates and cutlery still littered the table.

She forced a tight smile, her glance bouncing off the girl’s nostril where a silver ring hung like a glistening rogue bracket. Why did people willingly pierce their flesh? Would they still do it if they’d had their flesh pierced against their will? Unlikely.

While the dirty plates and cups were cleared, she studied the long list of emails and wondered whether she could track down the man’s name by pillaging Luisa’s private correspondence. The man was German, judging by the tattoo, so all she need do was look for a German name. But for some reason reading someone’s email seemed more intrusive than looking at their sex photos. She waivered, unsure what to do next, staring absently out the grimy window while the waitress did her thing.

She couldn’t just ignore the iPad, nor could she turn it in to the waitress, that dreadlocked sprite with sweat-stained armpits whose cell phone squawking had a distinct nasal twang. She couldn’t. Whether it was because of the monstrous bloom of green and red cartoon figure tattoos on the girl’s arms and legs or because of the way she had looked at her like she was some sort of leper she wasn’t sure. No wonder she and the waitress were never going to be friends, the waitress should know better—the customer was always right, and was never, ever a leper. And, oh, dear Christ, she didn’t look that bad, did she? Or was it just that she had been recognized?

Stop. Breathe deep, focus on your macarons.

Round and smooth, a perfect pastel pink, they were the sugary equivalent of a pacifier. Holly stuffed one in her mouth and let mind-numbing sweetness curl around her tongue, each granule a soothing hug of the soul, a pink, fluffy invitation to bliss. Heaven. But not heavenly enough to distract her from the annoying mystery device.

She wanted to look at another picture, she was going to look at another picture. It was her anniversary, after all. Her special anniversary.

Once the waitress was gone, she dug deeper.

You’re a pervert. She pictured a white envelope turning up in her mailbox, inside it a small brown card, the word ‘peeper’ typed neatly in parentheses next to her name and a cream note attached with the hand-written message: The Raincoat Brigade welcomes you, Holly Unthanks, please find your membership card attached.

Well, screw it, surely the card came with membership benefits, like looking at dirty pictures whenever she wanted to.

Brain knotty with self-justification, she counted the tiles stacked in the photos folder. Twenty-one files in all, twenty more files for her greedy little eyes to choose from. Might as well start at the top and work down. She tapped open the uppermost file.

A three-quarter profile of the man with the tattoo seated on a couch wearing serviceable jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It was meant to be a candid shot, the photographer surprising the subject with a tumbler of spirits raised to his lips, but instead of wearing a silly grin or a befuddled look, Mister Grumpy drilled the camera with a flat, expressionless stare that told the whole world to go fuck itself.

How could such a pissy expression look so hot?

And who the hell was this frowny, rope-happy Hun without a name? She burned to know more about the big, built dude with a knack for knots and giving head—two wildly admirable traits in a man, or so she’d heard. Not that she was the stalker type, the type to hunt him down. She was just curious. Who wouldn’t be? Well, maybe that woman from accounts, the one who always looked like she’d sucked a lemon whenever somebody dropped the F-bomb around her. But anyone else would be curious, right?

Her nosiness gave her pause. As a rule, she didn’t interest herself in the lives of others. And yet... She ran the back of her fingers feather-light over the iPad, brushing them back and forth over the slick, cold glass of the screen.

The nagging tones of her conscience—a do-gooder bird with an iron corset laced up tightly with should, must and ought to—insisted that reading any more of Luisa’s emails would be an invasion of privacy. How Holly hated the way that steely-eyed, bespectacled bird always appeared on her shoulder at the least convenient moments to tweet loudly and shit on her fun.

The bird could go fuck itself. Just one email.

Skipping through the ladder of messages she noted dozens addressed to one Burkhart Stein. Bingo, one Teutonic god named Stein. How aptly harsh. Chiseled hotness aside, the man looked as forgiving as a nail pounded into a coffin.

The dates on the emails blurred as she scrolled down the list. Which one? Which ‘one’ would she allow herself the unnecessary luxury of peeking at to verify what kind of relationship Stein had with Luisa? Think, Holly, pretend for a moment you’re Luisa. What day would you pick to send a naughty email about your hankering to be tied to a four-poster bed and eaten out by a muscular Teutonic god with some serious ink? What day would you schedule that kind of date for?

Oh, a no-brainer. Friday. She filtered her search, hoping Luisa subscribed to her own ‘no bondage on a school night’ way of thinking. On a whim, she stopped at the most recent Friday and clicked. She skimmed the words and frowned.

"Fuck you, you fucking Nazi kraut, I don’t want to see you again anyway. And I’m going to post all the pictures I took of you on the internet, with your name, so every woman in the city will know what a fucking freak you are."

Was that meant to be a threat? Publish those photos online and women would be hammering the man’s door down—trying to get a date. Unless he was a neo-Nazi? Unlikely. There wasn’t a single swastika, heil Hitler, or Waffen-SS tattoo on his body.

Pondering the malice of the casually tossed Nazi slur, Holly experienced a familiar sinking feeling. The same feeling she got on the rare occasion she watched the news or read a newspaper and was reminded that on most days half the world hated the other half and aspired to kill them.

Her hand went to her scarred throat.

Once, she’d thought she was tough enough to handle that, to handle anything. She’d been the most cocksure cabbie in the whole of Sydney. She’d driven the night shift, and—determined to pay her own way through university—had accepted both sober and drunken fares. Any fare, really. With her judo skills and street smarts she’d figured she could handle anything, but then she’d brushed against evil and had found out differently.

She stared at the iPad, weighed it in her hand. Trying to stop break-up blackmail promised only similar trouble, grief and disaster.

Coward.

No, she should definitely not get involved in the murk of this devolving relationship. Luisa was obviously one pissed-off ex and the mudflat stench of trouble was wrapped ripe around this whole business, starting with the iPad in her hand. She should leave the thing on the table where she found it. If she left it where it was and just walked away, the temptation to help would fade along with her memory of the pictures.

Yet what wouldn’t she have given to have somebody help her when she’d needed it? A dark memory stirred, swam by lazily, threatening to surface, and she quickly submerged it. She was not going to think about that.

But what would she say to Stein, assuming she could even track him down?

Hey, you know those dirty pictures Luisa took that she’s been threatening you with? Well, don’t sweat it, I’ve got them, because she left her iPad somewhere and I found it. You look pretty neat, so I’d like to keep a couple of pictures for my own personal use, but you can have the rest back if you want ‘em.

What’s that? Who the fuck am I?

Nobody.

Nobody at all.

She sighed. This was what she got for leaving home this morning, for venturing out on her anniversary. Grief. She should have known, should have stayed at home where it was safe. She opened the web browser and typed ‘Burkhart Stein’ and ‘Brisbane’ into the web browser and ran an eye over the hits.

Burkhart Stein, Stonemason, 182 Irving Road.

Easy. Too easy. So Stein was a local lad. The optimist in her had expected to find nothing, or that he lived far, far away, which would have taken the need to make a decision from her. Well, so much for optimism, now she had to act. But, really, a small voice insisted, sometimes the best thing to do when faced with a difficult decision is nothing.

Bullshit.

She read the ad again. Stonemason. That explained the muscles. All that hewing and grinding and turning of stone obviously kept a man in shape. If her high-school German served her correctly, the German word for stonemason was ‘Steinmetz’. Herr Stein the Steinmetz. Catchy. The closest German word to ‘metz’ she knew was ‘Metzger’—butcher. That made him, literally, a butcher of stone. It was all too easy to picture his flinty gray eyes weighing up a terrified slab of granite for slaughter.

Under Stein’s name, occupation and address was a phone number. And a link to a gallery. She clicked on it and sucked in a tight, dry breath. Headstones. Lots of headstones. He carved headstones for a living and he had a gallery.

Jesus H Christ, fuck me sideways with a hyphen. What had she done that was so bad, so heinous, that she was being punished like this?

Calm down. Carving headstones for a living didn’t make him the Grim Reaper. He was just a man, a man being blackmailed.

To call or not to call? She hated that the very idea of doing it immediately made her skin prickle with discomfort, and that it wasn’t just the thought of the man himself that made her uncomfortable, but the physical act of calling him. It was hard to pass for normal, to be normal, with her almost pungent aversion to phones. Landlines, cell phones, business and personal calls, she hated them all and it wasn’t unusual to catch herself pretending she couldn’t get to the phone in time to answer it, or deliberately letting her cell phone batteries go flat, sometimes for weeks at a time. It had lost her many editing clients and yet still she did it. Because she remembered the shrill sound of her cell phone ringing and ringing while she was busy dying.

Don’t be a pussy, Holly. Man up.

She had to force herself to do it, to take out her phone, which actually had some charge left. Poor planning on her part. Her fingers misdialed twice on the suddenly too-small keys before she nailed the third attempt. Three rings, four rings, five. No answer. Maybe he’d changed his number to dodge the stalky, threatening Luisa. Maybe his hands were full of tombstone. Maybe he was busy tying someone up. Or perhaps he was ignoring the phone like normal people did now and then. Except there was nothing ‘normal’ or ‘like most’ about Herr Stein, the butcher of stone, and now there was no hiding the truth from herself, that his looks, his very being, intimidated her. Thoroughly. As well as everything else about him. His job. His name. That stare.

Fuckity-fuck.

Stein.

She hung up, the rich baritone reverberating in her ears. She focused on her hot chocolate as she replayed the sound. His voice was subterranean deep, wrapped in a harsh German brute of an accent. He’d uttered a single word, yet it had transformed him instantly from a picture to a flesh-and-blood man, a man she didn’t know, a man who didn’t look at all friendly, and who more than likely had an attitude to match his insanely powerful body.

Sweet splicing semicolons, Holly, you would have to be out of your gourd, bat-shit, flesh-eating crazy to get mixed up in this. Don’t even think about it.

Unease settled around her shoulders and not even the sweet waft of cacao from her hot chocolate could settle her jangled nerves. She stirred extra sugar into her mug. Screw the calories. Poking her marshmallows with her teaspoon, she imagined crawling inside one of the puffy sugar pillows, pulling the spongy top down after her until she was safely cocooned inside a padding of sweetness. How foolishly unnerved