Bound Brits

Excerpt from: 'The Retreat' by Portia Da Costa

"Ooh!"

"Are you all right, Sarah?" he asked, his voice soft and powerful in her ear.

Was she all right?

She supposed she must be, but in the space of an instant she just couldn't stop shaking.

Sarah's heart fluttered and raced as she advanced into the spacious room. It was almost as if she'd just entered some kind of arena, before a huge crowd, with an ordeal ahead of her. Which was stupid, really, because this was the most luxurious and beautiful bedroom that she was ever likely to stay in. The Retreat was an exclusive country house hotel, a heritage listed building and five stars to boot, so it was about as far from a horrible ordeal as it was possible to get to stay here.

But it wasn't the original beams, the open fireplace, or even the huge bed with its brass head and foot rails and traditional English chintz bed linen that had caught her breath, and made her pulse race…it was a simple, almost inconsequential thing that had just happened in passing that had made her gasp.

As they'd entered the room, Ben had tapped her oh so lightly on the bottom to encourage her forward.

It should have been nothing. It was nothing. Just a harmless, affectionate gesture from a man she really, really, really liked, and possibly more than liked. Something that by rights she should barely even have noticed.

But the tiny gesture, over so fleetingly, had almost pole-axed her. She was still trembling and she'd broken out into a sweat.

It was as if the world had just changed, and she'd changed with it, irrevocably.

"How do you like it then?" Ben's hand settled on her waist as she stood looking around, not really seeing or appreciating the lovely room or the breath-catching view from the window, of the early evening sunset gilding the park outside. The porter was waiting just behind them, and she fought for composure, hoping he couldn't tell she'd suddenly gone slightly mad, or work out why her face was suddenly bright pink and blushing furiously.

Get a grip, woman!

"It's gorgeous…I really like it. I love the chintz and the furniture and the view…it's all so…um…old English."

I'm babbling, she thought, trying to focus on the traditional furnishings and the gentle scent of cottage garden potpourri that filled the air.

She turned, hardly daring to look at him. Had he felt the change too? It had been so huge it couldn't just be restricted to her, surely?

Ben was studying her, as he so often did. His warm brown eyes were mild, yet intent and full of secrets. If he'd sensed the turmoil inside her, he wasn't giving any indication. But then, he was the sort of man who gave very little away at the best of times. He was so composed, so contained, always in control.

Excerpt from: 'S&M 101' by Sierra Cartwright

"I'm not just bored," Julia said, popping a peanut into her mouth, "but out of my skull, mind-numbingly, someone-please-save-me bored." She dropped the empty shell onto the pub floor, then rubbed her hands together to clean off the salt.

"And?"

"I think you should spank me."

Trevor Kendall's hand froze, the pint of beer mid-way to his lips. Without taking a drink, he lowered the glass back onto the table. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've heard rumours."

The incredibly hot, sexy man sitting across from her raised a brow, but when he said nothing, she propped her elbows on the table, and linked her hands together. Very deliberately, and fortified by more than a few sips from her margarita, she leaned forward, placed her chin on top of her hands and went on, "I've heard rumours that you like a little…variety in your sex life."

"Let me get this straight…"

His blue eyes darkened, as if there were a storm brewing somewhere inside. She shivered in excitement.

"You've heard that I like variety, and you're bored, so I should spank you?"

Despite the noise in the London hotel's pub, she heard him perfectly. His voice was rich and deep, commanding. She gave a little shiver. She so wanted to hear him command her, telling her to strip, telling her to stand, how to spread her legs… God, it was getting hot in here. "Yes," she said. "You should spank me. And then fuck me."

"You must be bored," he agreed.

Frustratingly, she couldn't get a sense of whether or not he was going to take her up to his room.

"We've been at this trade show for a week," she said, "smiling at potential customers, being on our best behaviour, trying to pretend our feet don't hurt like mad. Behaving. Well, I've had enough. I want to be bad." She cracked another shell and poured the nut towards her mouth, catching it with her tongue.

"Do you have any idea what you're asking for?" He picked up his pint again. This time he took a long draught from it.

She'd bet big money, big money, that he would be divine at eating her pussy. "I've been fantasising about you for two years, Trevor," she confessed. "Two years. Do you know how long that is in dog years?"

He smiled.

"It could be another six months, maybe a year before I see you again." And that was the truth. They worked for different companies, on different continents. New York was a universe away. But they had the trade shows in common. "Rumour has it you're staying on for a few days of relaxation."

He nodded.

"And I put in for some holiday time. Hoping."

"Hoping?" he prompted.

Good God, was she really this bold? "Hoping we could hook up." It was an American statement, but she trusted the meaning would translate just fine.

Excerpt from: 'Getaway Girl' by Lisabet Sarai

Be careful what you wish for. Peg's mum used to tell her that. It was the standard response whenever Peg wandered off into one of her daydreams. You never knew whether you'd really enjoy all those things you craved, riches or fame or adventure. Every dream had its price.

Mothers do have a way of being right. Look at Peg's situation now.

She lay on a pile of burlap bags scattered over the floor of a commercial van. Her wrists were tied behind her back with grocery twine. Her ankles were bound together in a similar manner. A handkerchief stuffed into her mouth effectively prevented her from making any sound.

Seated opposite her, cross-legged, was a man with a gun.

All she had wanted was to get away from the soporific quaintness of Kirkby Malzeard, just for a while. Some new sights, a bit of fun, some relief from her responsibilities and the boredom of day-to-day village life.

Now look at her, a hostage in the custody of desperate criminals. Trussed up like a turkey under the watch of a gorgeous but obviously dangerous man whose name might or might not be Lionel, whose devilish smile made her insides quiver like pudding, who pretended to be kind but who never for a moment took his eyes off her body or his hand off his revolver.

Peg contracted her arm muscles and discreetly tried to pull her wrists apart. If anything, the loops of twine grew tighter, biting into her flesh.

"I wouldn't recommend struggling," said Lionel, his grin broader than ever. "You'll do yourself damage."

He seemed to be right, just as Peg's mum had been.

Peg flopped over onto her side and brought her knees towards her chest, trying to find a more comfortable position. Her skirt rode up around her thighs. The burlap scratched against her bare skin. Lionel's eyes narrowed at the view, and his breath quickened. He's turned on, Peg realised. He fancies me. Fear lanced through her. She was a helpless captive. He could do whatever he wanted.

It was strange. The thought was more thrilling than terrifying. Not that he could do much now in any case, with her legs bound together tight, and the two of them lurching back and forth as the van bounced along the country road. Later— well, she would worry about later when it arrived.

"Hey, Jack. Any idea how close we are?"

The driver grunted. "Haven't got a clue. Ask her, why don't you? She's the native."

Lionel leaned forward, close enough that Peg could smell his forest-scented after-shave. "If I take out the gag, do you promise not to scream? It wouldn't do you any good anyway, but the sound of a girl yelling always puts me off."

The handkerchief seemed clean and Peg could breathe through her nose, but the gag was hardly comfortable. She nodded. Her captor obliged her by removing it and stuffing it back into his breast pocket.

"So, how far is it to your gran's cottage?"

"I can't really say without knowing where we are, can I? Have we passed the Grewelthorpe crossroads?"

"Jack?"

"It was too dark to read the signboard, but there was a four-way junction about two miles back."

"What about the railway? We should have crossed the rails a mile or so before."

"Yeah, there was a grade crossing, I think."

"It should be about two more miles, then. There'll be a sign on the left for Lawton Dale. Turn there; the lane dead ends at the cottage."

Despite Peg's instructions, Jack almost missed the turn. He swung the van wildly at the last minute, tossing his passengers around in the back. Peg's body was thrown almost into Lionel's lap.

Excerpt from: 'All Roads Leads to Ripon' by Barbara Huffert

See Jane. See Jane run. Did it count as running when the reason for fleeing the country was self-preservation? Jane Templeton had been asking that question for a week and a half, ever since she'd gotten on the plane in the Pittsburgh airport and left her old life behind forever. She wasn't sure where she'd end up starting over but it certainly wouldn't be anywhere near Pittsburgh. She'd throw herself off a roof before she let herself get sucked back into that life again.

Jane took a calming breath and stared blindly out the train window. She shouldn't be thinking about that now. She had almost three months to come up with a plan and there was no way she was going to waste the entire time dwelling on it. Not when she was finally taking the trip she'd dreamed about. True it was ten years later than originally scheduled but she was determined to enjoy it as much as possible before facing the reality of her new life, whatever that may be.

Noticing the passing scenery, Jane sighed. The Yorkshire Dales. As pretty and inviting as she remembered. Soon she'd be in Harrogate, a place that held many fond memories. Unfortunately none of her friends lived there anymore but the quaint town itself still held enough appeal to draw her back even without them.

The train pulled into the Harrogate station. Jane grabbed her military surplus duffel and made her way to the exit. She stepped onto the platform with a smile. She was almost there. A day in Philadelphia, six in Toronto, three in London, four planes, two trains and now just a short hike from the station to Agate's Guest House and she would finally be able to let herself relax. She really was going to make it. All on her own. Without any major disasters. Without even getting lost. Her smile grew. See? She was competent enough to accomplish this so that meant she was more than capable of looking after herself the rest of the time too. Didn't it?

Walking along Leeds Road, Jane was more than tired, but in a good way, for the first time in what seemed like years. She'd started coming back to life four months earlier when she walked out of the Mount Lebanon house that had become more of a prison the last few years than a home. As it turned out, leaving the structure hadn't severed her tethers as she'd expected. Once she accepted that, she knew the only way to truly end things with her former jailer was to put enough distance between them to make any continued harassment impractical because she knew there wasn't a place on earth she could go where it would be impossible. There was a slim chance that having an entire ocean separating them would make it so inconvenient that it would manage to discourage him, or so she hoped. She'd left some false trails along the way and hadn't told anyone her final destination. She'd have at least a little reprieve before he located her. Not that there was any doubt he would sooner or later. Maybe, with luck, he'd have decided it really wasn't worth the effort and give up before then. Luck. She was definitely due for some of that since she'd had absolutely none for several years now. She shook her head. There were two things she'd never understand. One, how the man she'd lived with for almost seven years knew so little about her and two, why it had taken her so long to realise that.

Excerpt from: 'Kit and Mouse' by Dakota Rebel

"Excuse me miss?"

I turned to see a young man standing behind me with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was blushing severely and biting his lower lip.

"Yes?"

"Um, my friend over there wants to buy you a drink." He turned and pointed to the end of the bar.

I glanced over to see a tall, muscular, blond guy waving at me.

"Then why didn't he come over here and ask me himself?"

"I don't know." The kid blushed again and looked down at the floor. "Maybe he's shy."

"Him?" I laughed softly. "No offense love, but you seem to be the shy one out of that boisterous group."

I had noticed the entire pack of them walk in to the pub an hour earlier. They were drunk and loud and pretty obnoxious. All of them except this one. He was definitely younger than the others, by at least five years. I figured he was legal, but probably not by much. Nineteen, twenty tops. He was also a head shorter than the rest of the guys, which would have made him barely taller than me at five foot five. He was kind of scrawny, with dark hair cut military short and big, wide blue eyes framed by the thickest eyelashes I had ever seen. Basically, he was exactly my kind of man.

"What's your name sweetie," I asked him.

"Mouse," he said softly.

"Mouse? That can't be your real name."

"No, my real name is Colin. But everyone calls me Mouse."

"I wonder why." I smiled.

"Because I'm so quiet I guess, and I'm kind of small," he said.

"Yeah, I got that. I was being sarcastic. You're not that great with people are you?"

"I'm okay. I just don't like to talk a lot."

"Not even to me?"

"Especially not to you."

His answer startled me a little. "What's wrong with me?"

"Well, for starters you're a vampire." His face turned so red it was almost glowing. I could see the blood pumping faster up the vein in his throat. Cute and smart…sort of.

"What makes you think that?"

He gave me an eloquent look, somewhere between confusion and "you're fucking kidding me, right".

I smiled, making sure my fangs peeked out between my lips. His eyes widened but he didn't step back, which impressed me.

"You're not so scared you'd run from me?"

"I never said I was scared, I'm just not a big fan of vampires."

"I see. And how did you know I was a vampire?" I watched his face to see if he'd attempt to lie to me. But he didn't. Instead he leaned closer and whispered against my ear.

"I could smell you a mile away." His tone made it sound sensual not offensive.

"And what do I smell like?"

"Peaches…and death." He moved back and watched me struggle with my next words.

"Not very flattering, love." I laughed softly, though not because of any humour in the situation. It was more of a nervous laugh. Which was ridiculous. I could have crushed the kid like a bug under my Manolo Blahnik clad heel. But something about the look he gave me made me question that thought as soon as I had it.

"It may not sound that way, but it wasn't meant as an insult, and it is not an unpleasant smell by any means." He stepped closer again. To casual observers, it must have looked like he was trying to dance with me. Slowly moving forward and back. Touching me then not. As if he couldn't make up his own mind what to do with me.

Excerpt from: 'Bound By Love' by Cassidy Ryan

Rhys Matthews jerked upright in his battered armchair, his head snapping from side to side. He groaned when he realised he'd succumbed to sleep in the old chair in his studio for the third night in a row rather than climb the stairs to the big comfortable bed in his living quarters.

A frown wrinkled his forehead and he wondered what had pulled him from sleep. Not a dream, he was sure. He was too damn exhausted to dream these days.

The answer to the question came before he had even finished thinking it, and he pushed himself out of the chair, moaning with discomfort as his body's cramped muscles and aching bones made their displeasure known.

He made his way down a short flight of stairs to the front door, feeling significantly older than his twenty-six years. He pulled the heavy, scarred door open and found a uniformed delivery man standing on the other side, a patient smile on his face.

"Mr. Matthews?" he asked pleasantly.

Rhys squinted against the early morning sun. "Uh, yes." His voice was thick with sleep and disuse. When was the last time he had spoken to another human being?

Rhys took the package and tucked it under his arm, then reached out and scribbled his name on the line indicated.

"Thank you sir. You have a good day now." With that the delivery man turned and headed smartly in the direction of his van, parked at the end of the narrow, cobbled lane.

Rhys stood in the open doorway for a couple of minutes, blinking dumbly at the package, then, giving himself a mental shake, he shut the door and climbed the stairs back to his studio.

For a moment he paused to consider the canvases in front of him. He was preparing for another one-man show, and as usual, had gotten lost in his work.

He couldn't help smiling around the inevitable nervous flutter in his empty stomach. He was pleased with the way things were going.

Forcing himself to move, lest he get caught up again before he had a chance to shower and eat something—when was the last time he had eaten? He grinned to himself. He'd last eaten about the same time he had spoken to another living being—the boy who had delivered the pizza two nights ago.

He placed the package on the battered workbench that held his materials and would have left it there to go upstairs and sort himself some breakfast, but the neat, copperplate handwriting on the wrapping caught his attention. A thrill so intense it took his breath away ripped through his body. He reached for the package and tore at the paper with the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.

Inside was a thrillingly familiar carved-wood box with a brass latch holding it closed, along with a heavy, embossed card the colour of parchment which read,

"Meridian, 8:30 tonight."

His entire body come to life. His blood rushed in his veins, his pulse raced and his skin fired.