Bound Guardian Angel (6 page)

In a confused daze, Trace looked from
Micah’s strong, angular face to his own hands, which trembled in
his lap. His shirt was torn as if he’d ripped it with his own
fingernails. Jesus! His power had almost consumed him. This was the
closest he had ever come to completely losing control and falling
prey to the mixed-blood gift his mother had given him. But as Micah
lorded over him—all alpha dominance and intensity—Trace felt his
power shrink and ebb toward the shadows.

Micah stepped between Trace’s legs, placed
his hand under Trace’s scruffy chin, and lifted his face. Micah
gazed straight down at him, chin to chest. “You will address me as
Master, slave.”

The two stared at each other for a
heartbeat.

“Say it.” Micah squeezed his chin between
his thumb and forefinger.

Trace swallowed. This was what he had wanted
for months. Years, even. Micah as his Dom. And praise God, the
moment was finally, blessedly here. Sure, they’d played with the
idea in the weeks before his incarceration, but they had yet to
play in his dungeon. “Yes, Master.” The two words slid reverently
from his mouth.

Micah let go of his chin and stepped back.
“And how do you present yourself to your master, slave?”

Trace lowered his gaze to the floor and
slowly slid off the bench to his knees. With every second that
passed, his power slipped further into the shadows of his mind,
leaving him emotionally and mentally naked . . . and
what a welcome feeling that was. With just his authoritative voice,
Micah freed him at the same time he bound him into submission. This
was what being enslaved to a Dom—to Micah—did for him.

He sat back on his heels, head bowed
forward, palms on his thighs.

“Good,” Micah said, strolling in a circle
around him. “This is how you will present yourself to me in my
dungeon or whenever you need my services.” Micah caressed Trace’s
peach-fuzzed scalp. “Now rise, slave. And take off your clothes. I
won’t have you defiling my dungeon with this rankness you brought
into my home.”

Steam rose from the shower as Trace scooted
one foot out from under him and pushed himself to his feet, head
still down. As he slipped out of his dirty clothes, Micah paced
slowly around him.

“We will discuss our limits later,” Micah
said. “And rest assured, slave, I have limits even if you
don’t.”

Trace dropped his shredded, filthy shirt to
the floor, and Micah swatted his hand. “Is this how you disrobed
for your previous Doms? By throwing your clothes so casually on the
floor?”

Trace shook his head. “No, s—Master.” He
would have to get used to Micah’s style, but excitement prickled
his skin at Micah’s harshness. Already, Micah was more than any of
his previous Doms had ever been and ever could be. Not just because
of his demeanor, but because of the connection between them.
Something ethereal—some invisible gossamer thread—linked them to
one another in a blissful, spiritual, almost supernatural way. One
that uplifted Trace’s soul and made his heart sing, even as Micah
scowled and used a firm tone.

Micah tapped his booted foot on the floor
near his shirt. “Pick it up. Fold it. And set it on the bench
behind you.”

“Yes, Master.” He reached for his shirt, but
Micah stopped him.

“On second thought, throw that shirt in the
trash. It’s ruined. I don’t want it here.”

He did as he was told then removed his
pants, folded them, and placed them on the bench after setting his
worn boots neatly underneath it. Then he turned toward Micah and
bowed his head, arms behind his back, legs slightly apart as if he
stood at military at ease.

Tremors still rippled through his body as
his power continued to wane, but for the first time since Cordray
had given him the razor in his cell, he felt almost normal.

“Nice,” Micah said. “Very good.” He
hesitated for only a moment. “Now bathe yourself.” He opened the
glass door to the shower and stood aside.

The water felt like a slice of heaven as he
stepped into it, but as much as he wanted to luxuriate, Micah
wouldn’t let him. The time for soaking would come later. For now,
he was in Micah’s world. His master’s world. And he would do as
commanded.

His skin prickled with vibrant
anticipation.

“Wash your feet first,” Micah said from
outside the glass. “Spend no less than fifteen seconds on each
foot.”

Using a shower loofah, he scrubbed his feet
with Sam’s lilac-scented shower soap. So what if it made him smell
flowery. That was better than smelling like dungeon shit, and the
floral scent comforted him. It made him think of Sam, who was
almost as calming for his soul as Micah.

Once he finished, Micah said, “Now your
ankles and calves. And don’t stop washing them until I say you
can.” After what felt like a minute, Micah said, “Rinse and move up
to your thighs.”

Trace had never had anyone tell him how to
shower before, and he wondered at Micah’s reasoning, especially
when he jumped from his thighs to his head and began to work his
way down. When he rinsed his abdomen, he waited for Micah’s next
instruction.

“Now your ass,” Micah said, just as
clinically as before, except there was a hint of sexual
undercurrent in his tone. Trace couldn’t be sure if that was
accidental or intentional, but knowing Micah, Trace would put money
on the latter.

“Do you like your ass fondled, slave?” Micah
kept his gaze on his watch, but he was clearly trying to get under
Trace’s skin.

“Yes, Master.” Trace worked his soapy
fingers and the shower loofah over one cheek, then the other,
straining not to look at Micah.

“How many male Doms have you had,
slave?”

Trace felt his cheeks flush. “Three,
Master.”

“And did they all play with your ass?”
Micah’s gaze never wavered from his watch.

Trace’s hands slowed as he continued to wash
himself. “Yes, Master.”

For several seconds, Micah said nothing,
then, “Rinse.”

Trace set the loofah down and let the water
rinse his hands and backside.

“Now,” Micah said. “Wash your cock and
balls.”

Trace took a shallow breath, picked up the
liquid soap, and squirted a generous amount in his palm.

“Did they all fuck you?” Micah said.

Trace nearly dropped the bottle of soap as
he lifted it back to the shelf, but he recovered quickly, set the
bottle in place, and worked the soap into a slick lather between
his hands. “Yes, Master.” He hazarded a glance at Micah in time to
see one black eyebrow tick upward before settling over his eye
again.

“Wash yourself, Trace.” Micah’s gaze shifted
to issue him a warning glance, as if he were reminding Trace not to
look at him without permission.

Trace’s gaze fell to his semi-hard cock as
he worked the lather up and down his length and sac.

“Did you enjoy being fucked by a male?”
Micah’s voice was softer now, but still stern.

“Yes and no, Master.” There was no point in
lying. Trace had been fucked by another male, and while it wasn’t
his ideal sexual encounter, it got the job done, sending him into
such humiliation that his power practically evaporated into
nothing, allowing him to expend himself sexually when it was
impossible to do so at any other time.

“Yes and no?”

“Yes, Master.” Even now, the memory of the
debasement he had allowed himself to suffer in the name of power
control caused his cock to swell, and he struggled not to stroke
himself as he continued scrubbing his dick.

Micah didn’t push for more and instead
dropped his arms to his side and said, “Rinse off, shut off the
shower, and dry yourself.” Then he turned and walked toward the
marble counter, which he leaned against as he watched Trace finish
up and do as he was told.

“How do you feel?” Micah said as Trace
stepped out of the shower.

His erection tented the towel around his
waist like a good little camper. “Good.”

Micah sternly arched one eyebrow.

“Good, Master,” Trace said, correcting
himself.

“That’s better.” Micah pushed away from the
counter, grabbed a can of shaving gel and a razor, and bobbed his
head toward the door. “Follow me.”

Without another word, Micah turned and
walked out.

Trace followed him, his bare feet pattering
quietly on the uncarpeted floor. Now the reason for the
deliberately slow shower, body part by body part, was clear. His
entire body hummed with awareness, fully alive. Every nerve ending
tingled as air flowed over his skin and cooled him.

For two weeks, Trace had endured sensory
deprivation, held mostly in darkness and shadows, with nothing but
a cold floor and a scratchy, dirty cot to lie on. No breeze had
flowed within his cell, and aside from Cordray’s one and only
visit, the only people he had seen were the guards who brought him
tasteless food and tended to his waste. He hadn’t been allowed to
bathe, and he’d had no way of knowing day from night.

Now he was free. At home. At least, this was
the only place he’d been in a long time that felt like home. The
trailer where he resided had always felt more like a tomb. Lifeless
and without joy. That was why he used to spend his downtime at AKM,
inside his dorm. Now he spent that time with Micah and Sam.

But this was the first time he had been
inside Micah’s dungeon, and it didn’t disappoint. The space was
large and packed with equipment he both recognized and had never
laid eyes on before. The St. Andrew’s Cross was familiar, but the
contraption that looked like a combination ramp and deformed bench
wasn’t. He wondered what that thing was used for.

One terra-cotta wall was adorned with
floggers, and two large, custom-made storage units that looked like
dressers stood nearby. In one corner sat an ancient Iron Maiden
that looked more decorative than functional, and beside that was a
wrought iron bed with enough loops and hooks molded into both the
head- and footboards, as well as in the frame and the ceiling
overhead, to make for some interesting bondage.

How often had Micah tied Sam to that bed?
And would Micah eventually tie him to it, too?

He could hope.

The ceiling reminded him of the Sistine
Chapel, only the mosaic in Micah’s dungeon included erotic images,
not angelic ones. Men and women engaged in all manner of congress
stared down at him as he followed Micah to a straight-backed chair
in the center of the room. Micah set the shaving gel and razor on a
small, nearby table.

“Sit.” Micah gestured toward the chair then
opened a nearby cabinet and pulled out a plush hand towel.

It wasn’t Trace’s place to ask what was
happening. His job was simply to do, to trust. Not think or
doubt.

He sat down as Micah grabbed a deep, silver
bowl from a cabinet under the counter. He took the bowl to the
bathroom, filled it with water, then returned and set it on the
table beside the towel. In the next blink, Micah was behind him,
grabbing his arms. Hard.

He almost moaned as Micah bound his wrists
to the rear legs of the chair so that they hung straight down past
the wooden seat.

The delicious sensation of being bound
vibrated through his muscles, and his helpless dick nodded in
approval. He always got hard during play sessions. And even though
he was only just out of a two-week incarceration, all it had taken
was that first slap in the bathroom to awaken his depravity and
give his annoying power a kick in the nuts.

Without a word, Micah came back around to
the side of the chair, filled his hand with shaving gel, lathered
it into thick, musky foam, and slathered it over Trace’s head. “If
only I had a straight razor,” he said thoughtfully as he wiped his
hands on the towel. “Oh, the fun I could have with you if I
did.”

Trace looked up to see the corner of Micah’s
mouth turn slightly upward, as if he were entertaining a private
thought.

“May I speak, Master?” Trace said.

Micah met his gaze and nodded, that
half-smile still on his face. The guy looked as content as a nurse
in a hospital, right where he belonged. Exactly where he wanted to
be. It made Trace feel loved.

Not like sexual love. More like familial
love. Brotherly, but not quite . . . a little more
heated than that.

Theirs was such a strange relationship.

“Yes. You may speak.” Micah lifted the razor
and smoothed it down the side of Trace’s head. The quiet sound of
stubble snapping off against the blade mingled with gentle,
synthesized music piped into the room.

“Thank you.”

Unfazed, Micah dipped the razor in the bowl
of water and went back to shaving his head. “For what?”

Heat spun in the air around Micah, who gave
off strength and confidence unlike anything Trace had ever felt. It
was why Trace had longed to be his sub. Micah was self-assured,
virile, and yes, attractive. He was what Marilyn Manson referred to
as one of the beautiful people. Easy on the eyes and hard on the
body, with an intensity that measured itself not just on his face,
but over every inch of his skin and right down to his bones. Even
his clothes—black cargo pants and a long-sleeved, body-hugging
Under Armor shirt—seemed alive with his energy.

“For coming to get me.”

The razor skimmed another line down his
head. “I told you I would . . . that I would take
care of you.”

“I know, but . . .”

Micah switched sides and continued to strip
his scalp of what little hair had grown in over the past couple of
weeks. “I wouldn’t have left you there,” he said quietly, his voice
deep and resonant. “I was ready to kill to get you out of that
place.”

Nothing was said for a while as Micah
finished shaving his melon then wiped off his head, grabbed the
shaving gel, and collected another palm full of it before smoothing
the foam over Trace’s jaw, cheeks, chin, and mustache.