Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

hour.
    "Sam?" I twisted my aching neck to look around. I'd heard something. Maybe it was the beginnings of a dream, but I didn't think so. My heart raced, and my breath sounded loud in my ears. "Is that you, Sam?" I figured if he'd come home I'd have heard him, or he'd have taunted me awake for whatever the fuck his intention was with this crap. I didn't know what else it could've been though. We didn't have a cat, and our neighbors were generally very quiet.
    Then I heard it. I tried to sit up, but the ropes held me slouched in the chair. Ankles bound to the legs and wrists bound to the back support, everything ached. Shit, what I wouldn't give to be able to stand and stretch. Or sit upright. Or strangle Sam.
    But the more pressing point was getting free. No, the noise at the door. At first I thought someone was testing the knob, but then I heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and slowly, the door swung open. Finally!
    "You'd better have a damn good reason for this," I said, "or I'm going to kill you."
    "Oh, I do." The door opened toward me, so I couldn't see the face that went with the silky voice, but it sure as hell wasn't Sam's. I craned my neck, straining against my restraints to see the intruder. A slim hand with long fingers and black nails wrapped around the edge of the door just before a heart-shaped face peeked around it. A face I didn't recognize. What the fuck was going on?
    "A very good reason," the stranger said in a low, sultry voice.
    He took my breath away. Cliché, sure, but in that moment, I forgot I was mad at Sam, and I forgot I was tied up, and I even forgot basic English and how to close my mouth. He was beautiful. Yeah, I was the biggest proponent for calling guys handsome and women pretty, but damn, this guy was pretty, and not in a flaming, I need attention, screaming gay kind of way. Just pretty, beautiful, breath-taking. Despite my aches, my dick took notice, which was what finally snapped me back into the real world because trussed up like I was, with my shoulders pulled back, and my thighs spread, this stranger would get a full view of just how much he affected me.
    I reined in my hormones long enough to start with my unreasonable demands again. "Who the hell are you?" Like I could do a damn thing about it. "Hey, come untie me." Like anyone breaking in would release the resident who'd call the cops. "What are you doing here? With my key? Looking like that?" Okay, calm down, damn it.
    That last question made the least sense, so I snapped my mouth shut and did my best to scowl at what I could only call a dirty little angel. He was tall and thin, but the outfit he wore did little to make him look like a heavenly creature. He had a smooth, pale complexion highlighting his high, sharp cheekbones, watchful eyes, and full lips that curled into just a hint of a smile. He wore leather pants that could've been painted on latex they were so snug. A full mesh shirt stretched across his chest showed off his flat abs, and hugged sinewy, defined arms. What did they call it? A swimmer's build? Leather and water didn't mix, but it worked for him. He wore purple Sketchers and purple eyeliner that matched his purple faux hawk, and the plastic bracelets clustered around one wrist sparkled with purples, greens, and oranges. Okay, maybe he was screaming it out loud, but he could pull it off like Lady Gaga could pull off a meat dress. I'd invite her over to a barbeque, and I wouldn't dare mock this enigma of flaming gay punk.
    If I hadn't been in pain, tied up, and plotting Sam's agonizingly drawn-out death, I'd be all over this guy.
    "Sam didn't tell you?" the purple angel asked.
    That voice went straight to my balls. Why the fuck was it so hard to stay mad at this stranger? He was sexy, sure, but I was all kinds of pissed off.
    "He told me a magic fucking word that was actually two words. Where the fuck is he?"
    Ignoring my question, the sexy little punk shut the door and walked across the room. He dropped a heavy looking backpack on the floor when he stopped in front of me. "Good," he said, "he remembered to tell you your safe word."
    "What?" I was staring at his hands. What had looked like black nail polish from the door shimmered with shades of cracked gunmetal grey and a deep, dark purple. Purple, again. I should be thinking freak , but instead, I wanted those hands on me, his pale skin conflicting with my naturally deep Mediterranean color.
    "You like?" he asked, fanning his hand in front of me.