Bound Guardian Angel (8 page)

Until now.

Trace had crashed into her world and
awakened not just her ability to feel, but everything she’d tried
for so long to forget.

As she’d done a hundred times in the last
two-and-a-half weeks, she mulled over what Trace’s influence on her
sense of touch could mean as she shoved open the door and marched
back out into the pouring rain, leaving the guards and cleanup crew
behind to deal with the mess Micah had made.

She couldn’t allow Trace in. If she did, and
he didn’t mate her . . .

Oh, God, she couldn’t even bear to think
about the repercussions.

She’d fallen for Gideon, and when he didn’t
bond to her, she lost one of her senses. If she fell for Trace and
he didn’t bond to her, either, she could lose her life. Because
there was only so much hurt and pain one heart could take before it
stopped giving a fuck and shut down.

Which was why, no matter how magnetic and
exciting Trace was, she couldn’t let her guard down and allow him
in.

Besides, Trace had Sam and Micah. He didn’t
need her.

The thought was enough to put a fire under
her ass. Maybe Trace didn’t need her, and maybe she refused to give
in to the way her heart beat a little harder at the idea of feeling
all that coiled power inside her as he pinned her to the
mattress—or the wall, the floor, the kitchen table, or wherever—and
fucked her senseless, but the fact that Micah had taken him without
her consent demanded retribution, right decision or not.

At least the excuse sounded good in her
head. And she welcomed any excuse to expend some of the frustration
coursing through her veins.

Yanking the door of her Range Rover open,
she hoisted herself into the driver’s seat, which was covered with
a pink and blue blanket she’d pulled from a plastic crate in the
back to keep it dry, and cranked the engine.

Next stop, Micah’s house.

* * *

Micah gazed down at Trace’s back and bare ass. He was
lying on the massage table, which was covered with a dark-blue
sheet. The dark color would hide the wax stains better, which was
more aesthetically pleasing in his dungeon. Another sheet covered
the floor. To his right, his specially modified potpourri Crock-Pot
was filled with melted wax, and several variously colored
wide-based Japanese candles burned, their wells filling with hot
wax.

“Have you ever engaged in wax play?” he said
quietly, taking a velvet blindfold from the table.

“No, Master.” Trace’s voice was muffled as
he spoke against the thin pillow.

Surprising. All those years as a sub, and
Trace had never been waxed.

“Lift your head.” He secured the blindfold
over Trace’s eyes. The velvet-lined mask performed a dual purpose.
Not only would it protect Trace’s eyes, but it would also heighten
his anticipation and sensory response.

Micah retrieved a length of rope from a hook
and looped it through a ring on the wall directly in front of the
table.

“Lift your arms over your head.” Micah
knotted the rope around his wrists, pulled out the slack, and
anchored the end to the wall so Trace’s arms hung parallel to the
floor.

“Is that comfortable?” Micah gently caressed
the back of Trace’s shoulders.

“Yes, Master.”

“I’m going to begin soon.” Micah set his
waxing brush in the pot so the residual wax could melt off the
bristles. “I’m going to give you a safeword. One that I know you’ll
never use unless I’ve truly gone too far. If you need me to stop,
you will say your safeword, and I will stop immediately. Do you
understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Your safeword is . . .
Cordray.”

Trace tensed.

“Say it so I know you understand.”

“Cordray.” Trace’s voice practically growled
the two syllables.

Micah ran the fingers of his left hand along
the muscular ridge down the center of Trace’s back.

“I chose this safeword because I know how
you feel about her, and I know you would never purposely say her
name unless I’ve indeed gone too far. Is my choice of safeword
acceptable to you?” He kept his voice quiet, yet stern.

“Yes, Master. Your choice is
acceptable.”

Micah heard the contemptuous undertones in
Trace’s voice, indicating he would never willingly say Cordray’s
name unless he was forced to. Good. Keep that bitch out of their
lives.

He lifted the brush from the wax and held it
over his own wrist to let a drop fall to his skin. It burned, but
it wasn’t too hot. He wouldn’t hit Trace with heat too high this
first time. If Trace tolerated it well, he would make the wax
hotter next time.

“I’m going to apply the first coat of wax
now.” He guided Trace into the scene. After all, anticipation was
as much a part of wax play as the application itself.

As the brush touched Trace’s shoulder, he
hissed, tensed, and then relaxed as Micah painted a strip of red
from shoulder to spine. He waited about twenty seconds to let the
full force of the heat transfer seep into Trace’s skin as the wax
hardened, and then he applied another strip of red from his spine
to the opposite shoulder. Trace’s muscles clenched again, and he
moaned softly in his throat. Not so much from pain, and not quite
from pleasure. The sound was somewhere in between.

Taking his time and milking the heat
application as much as he could, Micah repeated the pattern until
he reached the middle of Trace’s back. Luckily, Trace had very
little body hair other than on his head and face. Otherwise, this
could have gotten tricky.

Once he reached the lower half of Trace’s
back, the reactions became more intense, which wasn’t uncommon.
Most people were more sensitive in their lower back than their
upper. And even more sensitive on the front of their bodies, which
was why Micah had wanted to start on Trace’s back. Being his first
time, this was safer.

Trace might have been an experienced sub,
but that didn’t mean his reaction to wax play would be in line with
how he reacted to flogging, physical torture, or humiliation, which
seemed to be what most of his previous Doms had put him
through.

With Micah, Trace would experience so much
more. Wax play, mindfucks, knife play, fire play, whipping—not to
be confused with flogging—and all manner of edge play. Trace had
only just touched the surface of Micah’s capabilities.

Trace shuddered and groaned as Micah stroked
another swath of red wax across the small of his back.

“You’re doing well,” Micah said. “So good.
You should see your back. It’s beautiful. Are you still doing
okay?”

Trace nodded slowly against the circular
pillow.

“Answer me with your voice, Trace. That way
I’ll know you’re lucid.”

“Y-yes, Master.” Trace’s deep voice sounded
dreamy, as if he were floating in his happy place. Subspace.

Micah knew the feeling. He was in his happy
place, too. He loved seeing his artwork on a sub’s back. Micah
picked up a black candle.

“I’m going to apply more wax,” he said.
“This will be hotter.”

He tipped the candle and black wax streamed
down like black blood over the layer of red. Some splattered onto
bare skin while a trail dripped down his side.

Trace no longer reacted except for an almost
imperceptible flinch. He was completely absorbed in the heat
transferal from the wax to his body, and the pain of the burn
seemed to no longer bother him.

After waiting fifteen seconds, Micah
dribbled wax from another black candle so that black dots, streaks,
and blotches like Rorschach inkblots formed against the red
background.

He lost track of time as he continued,
checking in with Trace every few minutes. Trace was flying but
aware, and that was good. If Trace went so deep that he could no
longer respond, playtime would be over.

Once Trace’s back was covered in a thick
layer of red and black wax that looked like a miniature Jackson
Pollock painting, Micah began to close the scene. Trace had lasted
longer than he had expected.

He picked up one of his Japanese candles,
tipped it over Trace’s ass, and let a trail of heat rain down over
fresh skin.

Trace shuddered and groaned long, low, and
deep as his hips flexed and his glutes tightened.

He grabbed another candle and held it over
Trace’s other cheek. As a thin stream of black wax trickled over
Trace’s ass, Micah eased his free hand between Trace’s legs.
Trace’s entire body seemed to pull in on itself as his thighs
parted, allowing Micah’s fingers to find the heavy sac pulled up
tight at his groin. Micah pushed his hand up farther, cupped him,
and squeezed as more wax splattered Trace’s skin.

Trace grunted as his entire body quivered
violently. The muscles not obscured by a layer of wax shuddered and
quaked. A moment later, the subtle wave rippled down his legs, all
the way to his feet, which twitched then sent the shockwave back up
his calves and hamstrings. A split second later, the chains
securing Trace’s wrists rattled as his arms shivered.

Mmm, so responsive. If only Micah could see
inside Trace’s mind and share the journey with him—feel what Trace
was feeling—the moment would have been so much better. More
powerful. More exquisite.

“Lift your hips.” He spoke quietly, and his
tongue peeked out to wet the seam of his mouth.

Trace did as he was told, raising his hips
off the table just enough for Micah to push his hand farther
underneath and wrap his fist around the base of Trace’s steely
cock.

Fuck but his friend was hard. He’d seen
Trace aroused before. He’d seen him hard and straining. He’d seen
him come during their twisted love-triangle trysts. But never had
he been the one to provide the friction to get Trace off. Sam had
assisted doing those honors only once, but Micah had never felt for
himself how turgid and thick Trace was. And Trace was very thick,
his erection’s circumference big enough to hurt someone if he
wasn’t careful.

He set down the candle and reached up to
grip the back of Trace’s neck as he began working his other hand up
and down the length of Trace’s hard-on.

The reaction was instantaneous. Trace’s dick
swelled even more, and a powerful, intense shudder jolted his
entire body. Then his hips jerked forcefully as a harsh, guttural
groan vibrated from deep inside his chest. His cock kicked in
Micah’s hand as the muscles in his ass and thighs convulsed.

“Fuuuuuck.” The syllable breathed from
Trace’s mouth more like a robust exhale than an expletive as his
body continued to forcefully contract and release, his cock
grinding against both Micah’s hand and the blanket covering the
massage table. He was coming hard as potent convulsions pulsed
through his body in time with every vigorous kick of his dick.

For at least thirty seconds, Micah massaged
the base of Trace’s cock through his orgasm, which seemed reluctant
to end and was one of the most erotic episodes of sexual release
Micah had ever witnessed from one of his subs.

Then Trace’s body went limp. He didn’t even
seem to care that he was lying on his own spunk.

Micah gently drew his hand from between
Trace’s legs, caressed his smooth, wax-speckled ass, and took a few
long moments to compose himself as Trace’s body rose and fell as he
breathed through the aftereffects of his orgasm. The only thing
that would have made the experience better was if Micah could have
connected with Trace’s thoughts the way he did with Sam’s when she
came. There was nothing like riding out her orgasms with her. He
had a feeling sharing Trace’s would be just as good, if not better.
Well, maybe not better, but certainly different.

In time. One day, Trace would open to him,
and he would have what he wanted. Micah refused to accept this was
as close as he would ever get to his friend. His submissive. His
last
submissive. He already knew he would never take another
if Trace ever ceased to be his. From now on, they were linked at
least in that respect. But Micah wanted more. He wanted all of
Trace. Not just body and soul, but mind, too.

Micah took a deep breath and gathered
himself then placed his hand on the back of Trace’s head. Trace
purred low and deep within his chest with every exhale.

“Time to clean you up, buddy,” Micah said
quietly. Without taking his hand off Trace’s head, he turned and
blew out the candles then shut off his small Crock-Pot before
unplugging it. “You were amazing, Trace. You did such a good job.”
He removed the blindfold and stroked his friend’s head, beginning
his aftercare, which was his favorite part of a scene. The tending
and caring that came after a session completed the circle and
always sparked the deepest emotional response inside him. The love
he felt before and during a scene magnified in the crucial steps
afterward, when he released his sub, wiped him down, bathed him,
held him, and ensured his mental well-being and safety. Any worthy
Dom always provided this crucial coming-down phase to ensure his
submissive didn’t free fall into darkness and feelings of
incompleteness and confusion.

Moving quietly, he stepped in front of the
table, untied Trace’s wrists, then gently laid his arms alongside
his body.

“You were perfect.” He caressed Trace’s
shoulder and arm as he moved back to his bench. “I couldn’t be more
pleased with your performance.”

He picked up the knife Sam had set out for
him. It was one of his favorites. Not his Bowie, but one made of
black steel, with a charcoal-colored handle.

Turning back toward Trace, he said, “I’m
going to remove the wax now. Just lie still and relax.”

Carefully, so as not to cut skin or break
the wax canvas, Micah slowly peeled back the thick, hardened sheet.
As Micah gently pulled it away, Trace’s mochaccino skin stuck to
it, so Micah had to work slowly. He didn’t want to cause Trace any
discomfort. Not when he was so relaxed and gliding over invisible
clouds.