Prologue
Present Day
The metal dug into his wrists. As Reeve watched the red indentation forming on his skin, he never thought he’d be the one in this position. Even in his wildest hopes, he never imagined he’d be wearing only boxer briefs and cowboy boots while handcuffed to a bedpost.
But if he were to really analyze the situation, with complete and total honesty, the boots were probably the strangest part of the whole scenario. He’d never been a cowboy boots kind of guy. Combat boots, maybe, worn and tattered. Jeans and tee-shirts, for sure.
But genuine cowboy boots?
So not Reeve.
“Tell me when it hurts.”
“Doesn’t hurt,” he said.
A pair of hands wrapped around him, tugging on each end of the handcuffs, tightening them. He felt another pair of hands slide up his back. He sucked in a breath. Damn, why did it have to feel so good? Why wasn’t he the one doing the cuffing, and calling the shots? But then, the deal with Sutton Brenner had never started with him calling the shots. It had always started with her, with her glorious legs, ice-blue eyes, curtains of brown, silky hair, and the body that would put a Victoria’s Secret model to shame. He was pretty sure Sutton’s hands were the ones tracing long, lingering lines up his back.
The two women weren’t the only ones in the room, but Reeve did his best to keep his head down, his eyes off of anyone else.
“How about a cowboy hat before I take you for a ride?”
He heard the sound of a whip cracking against a palm, and then a wide-brimmed hat came down on his head, pushing his dark hair into his eyes. Sutton stepped back. Her role was done.
Sutton Brenner had seen a lot of young men with their shirts off. A fair amount with jeans off too. Yes, she definitely considered herself a top-tier appraiser of the finest specimens of toned, muscled, and eminently lickable male flesh. Not that she went around sampling the produce. Rather, she was known for being able to pick ‘em. She could identify a thoroughbred with one sharp-eyed stare. Reeve wasn’t the typical buffed, oiled and flexed 200-pounds of muscle you’d see in a fireman’s calendar, nor was he your standard-order bachelorette-party beefcake with a bowtie and a big smile. There was something a bit more refined about him. Not just in his face—those cheekbones had been sculpted by Renaissance Masters, she was sure—but also in his body. He was longer, lankier, with the tightly toned frame of a cyclist, but filled out in all the right places. Trim waist, cut abs, arms with just the right amount of delicious definition. And that hair, so soft and inviting.
Sutton bit her lip just thinking of all the days and nights she’d spent with him. Sure, he might be the one chained to a bedpost now. But she was an equal opportunity objectifier and she grinned privately as she rewound through all the times he’d had his way with her. But this moment wasn’t about her. It was about him. The spotlight was definitely on him.
Chapter One
Four Months Ago
Callback.
The word itself was alluring. It whispered of promises and hope and possibility. It was the thing an actor wanted most to hear after an audition, but hell if callback wasn’t the big tease. It was the carrot you chased and rarely caught.
Reeve longed to hear those words on his voice mail, to see them in his email. They came in fits and starts, and he hadn’t gotten a callback since he finished the run of an off-Broadway production of Les Mis. The producers had modernized the show so Reeve had gotten to sing like a rock star, and he felt like one too, earning comparisons by critics to the lead singer of Arcade Fire in one review, and Coldplay in another. The show closed a few weeks ago, and Reeve found himself where young actors in New York often find themselves. Looking for a job. It was a constant state as a thespian. You had to live your life on the edge of want every single day. If there was anything else he remotely wanted to do with his life—be a cop like his dad, or a high school English teacher, like his mom, he’d have signed up for the police academy or a teaching degree a few years ago. But acting was his passion, the thing he couldn’t live without, and so, at age twenty-four, he’d amassed a couple decent credits, and a few nice gigs, but not a ton of dough. Despite the reviews for Les Mis, he’d only made a few thousand bucks from the show.
That was the problem with theater. It barely satisfied the beast of New York City rent.
Sure, there were commercials, and Reeve had snagged a couple of spots, pimping whitening toothpaste in one, and flashing his bright, perfect smile. Hey, he wasn’t bragging. He just had straight teeth, thanks to years in braces as a kid. But he needed a bigger payday. Nab a meaty role in a film, or land a part in a TV show that makes it, and you’re on your way to no longer having to strap a messenger bag across your back, and zip through traffic like you’ve got a deathwish. Bike messengers were still in demand by law offices and financial firms, but the clients could be douchebags, and Reeve got tired of the dirty looks he’d get from the pinstriped-suited men in elevators. As if they’d never seen a guy with bike grease on his cheeks before.
Today was one of those days. A snooty lady in an office building had made him take the stairs fifteen flights rather than the elevator, then he’d been nearly clipped by a cab making an illegal turn on Third Avenue, and to top it off he’d almost gotten sideswiped by a bus when the driver didn’t bother to look whether the lane was clear. Was it so much to ask for drivers to pay attention?
Now, he was racing against the clock to deliver documents for a deal closing.
“Hold the door,” he called out as the brass elevator doors of a swank Park Avenue office building started to shut. The whole place was gold-plated and marble-floored and reeked of insanely high hourly billing rates, the likes of which Reeve could barely even imagine.