***The Fall - Book 2 picks up where Book 1 left off***
Réalta has spent her entire life locked in a tower, haunted by visions of a man in pain.
Unbeknownst to her, this tortured soul is Bucky Barnes, the former Winter Soldier...a man whos...
My eyes fly open, my heart racing and desire-laden heat coursing through me.
'No, brain! Go back to sleep!' I think, wondering why I woke up at all.
I glance at the clock on my bedside table, seeing that it's almost eight-fifteen. I roll over to tell Bucky we overslept, and find his side of the bed empty, except for a note on his pillow.
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Good morning, my beautiful wife, I brought the pump in here for you in case you need it. It's on the desk. I'm making you breakfast in bed, so you just stay up here and relax, and I'll be back with food. I already checked with Pepper, and we're picking Conall up at lunchtime, and going out to eat with her, Tony, and Morgan. So, again, relax. I love you.
I slip out of bed, padding into the closet and pulling on a pair of underwear and a nursing sleepshirt, then cross the room to the desk and grab the pump. I carry it to the bed, setting it on my nightstand while I prop the pillows against the headboard. I settle against them and get situated, then do my best to relax while holding the pump in place.
'Next time, I'm trying out that pumping bra Pepper got for me,' I think. 'Being able to do this hands-free would be nice...even having one hand free would be nice.'
I finish pumping, and transfer the milk to a storage bag before disassembling the pump and rinsing the parts in the bathroom sink, laying them on a fresh hand towel and making a mental note to take them downstairs later for a proper washing. I emerge from the en suite to see Bucky lifting the bag from the desk.
"Heard you walking around; figured you were done. I'll take this downstairs."
"Thank you."
One corner of his mouth tilts up slightly. "You're welcome."
He pecks my lips and starts out of the room, turning back to tell me that breakfast will be ready in about twenty more minutes. I nod, and once again slip beneath the covers, leaning back on the pillows.
Without my focus being occupied by pumping, my thoughts drift to the very erotic dream I was having before I woke up, and desire flares within me, causing me to go damp between my legs. My mind replays snippets from the dream—starting with the one I woke in the middle of: Bucky's guttural groan of my name as he slammed into me—and, in response to the carnal images and sounds, my centre contracts and the heat in my veins grows.
I shift beneath the covers, pressing my thighs together in a bid for relief, but my efforts are futile since the replay just continues, my brain deciding to move away from the random snippets and start at the beginning.
I'm trussed up like a Christmas turkey; my legs are bent at the knees—satin ties knotted around my thighs and shins—and my wrists are bound to my thighs. I'm spread open, unable to close my legs, and I'm drenched, because Bucky—clad only in black boxer briefs—is standing at the foot of the bed, looking like the cat that ate the canary.
