Bound Guardian Angel by Donya Lynne

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.
    “What did you do to your arms?” Micah tugged
Trace’s cheek with his fingertips and ran the razor up his
stubble.
    His arms? He began to look down, forgetting
that he was bound, but he knew what Micah was referring to. He
wanted to know about the cuts and the self-inflicted bites. In his
cell, the self-mutilation had been all that had stood between his
sanity and full-on mutation.
    “Well?” Micah cleared the shaving cream from
one side of his face and moved to the opposite side.
    “I cut myself. It was how I kept my sanity
without you.”
    Without you. Something Trace never
wanted to endure again.
    “The cuts aren’t healing,” Micah said
nonchalantly. “When was the last time you fed?” He wasn’t talking
about food. He was asking about blood.
    Trace shrugged. “I don’t know. I lost track
of the days in there, especially at the end.”
    “You need blood.” Nothing in Micah’s tone
betrayed what he was thinking, but when he tipped Trace’s head back
to shave the underside of his chin, he bent down and licked the
side of his neck. “You’ll feed from me,” he whispered against
Trace’s skin.
    Just the thought of taking blood from his
master—from Micah—sent warmth into his belly, along with a stab of
hunger.
    “Micah—”
    “I’ll hear no protest. It will be my gift to
you if you please me in our session. And I know you will please
me.” Micah’s lips caressed his neck as he spoke. “I can replenish
myself from Sam later.”
    The razor made one last pass over his skin,
and Micah stood without making eye contact, grabbed the towel, and
wiped the remaining shaving cream away.
    “How is Sam?” Trace said, his body alive and
eager for more as Micah continued to reawaken his senses.
    “Ready for you to rejoin us in our play with
one another.”
    In other words, Sam wanted Trace to return
to his role of voyeur to her exhibitionist. “And you?”
    Micah disappeared behind him, and Trace
heard the rustle of his cargo pants as he crouched and released his
bound hands. “What are you asking me, Trace?”
    Before Trace was sent to King Bain’s
dungeon, he had admitted to Micah that he was attracted to both him
and Sam. How could anyone not be attracted to either of them? They
were beautiful. Just look at Micah. Trace’s gaze drank in his best
friend as he stepped in front of him again. Micah’s face was all
sharp angles, the perfect balance between handsome and brutally
sexy. Black hair hung in lustrous waves past his shoulders, and the
black shadow of facial hair lining his jaw made him look more like
a god than a sloppy bum. Micah was a sculpture of flesh and bone. A
vision. A magnificent work of art worthy of the Louvre.
    Trace cleared his throat and rubbed his
thumbs over his wrists. “Are you eager for me to rejoin you
in your play with one another?”
    A smile teased the corners of Micah’s mouth.
“You’ll just have to wait and see.” He pointed to the floor in
front of the chair. “Now, present yourself to me, slave.”
    The time for talk was over. It was time to
revert back to full submission.
    Trace dropped to the floor, on his knees, towel
still around his waist, head bowed. He placed his hands on his
thighs and waited. This was it. His dreams were coming true.
    Micah’s black Doc Martens entered his field
of vision. “Every Dom you’ve had before me is nothing, slave.” He
paced to the side. “They could never give you what I can. They
never knew you like I do . . . like I will .
In time, you