Worth The Wait.

A Nature of Desire Series Novel.

Joey W. Hill.

Is he worth the heartbreak? At nearly forty, Julie isn't so sure she'll ever find a man who is, so she's vowed that all her big 4-0 decisions will have zip to do with relationships. A successful theater manager, she agrees to travel to North Carolina and help a friend put her erotic performance theater on its feet. Julie has always been curious and drawn to the BDSM world, and now she can safely explore that world in the environment she knows best.

Desmond Hayes is the roofing contractor repairing their rundown theater building, but he's also a rigger, well-known in the BDSM world for his rope artistry. He's not just a top, though; he's a Dom whose unexpected quirks mesh too well with Julie's eccentric personality and awaken her submissive side.

From the time he was born, Des has been fighting the odds against him. Because of that, he's kept his relationships inside the BDSM scene, with clear boundaries. While Julie has almost given up on finding a person worth loving through better or worse-or pleasure and pain-Des never expected to receive that gift.

He's not letting that treasure get away-no matter how much rope he has to use to bind her to him.

Acknowledgments.

This book presented a couple of research challenges for me. As always, I am indebted to readers, friends and many online and book sources for helping me round out Julie and Des's story: To Andy for his community theater management insights. Also, Bo Metzler's wonderful book What We Do turned out to be a G.o.dsend for a clueless author writing about theater.

To Jeanie, for inadvertently striking the spark that sp.a.w.ned Des's character.

To the many wonderful BDSM groups that provide access to hands-on information that inspires and enriches scenes in my books. Those who teach workshops for these groups often have very specific scene names, so I want to respect their privacy by not citing them here. However, my thanks to the presenters who demonstrated creative options for liquid nitrogen, fire and wax play.

I also offer a tremendous thanks to the presenter of a rope bondage cla.s.s I saw in 2015. He brought such personal enthusiasm and charisma to the workshop, Julie's hero evolved from a spark into a three-dimensional character during it. This presenter showed me the type of rope artist Des would be.

I also want to thank my invaluable volunteer editing team of Lauren, Judy, and Terry for their beta reads of the final galley. Thank you also to Angela and Sheri for their professional critiques of the book. You all made the book shine! Any mistakes remaining are all mine.

Then there's my wonderful husband, whose graphic and technical expertise has made it possible for me to include self-published books as part of my offerings to readers. He's navigated all the aggravations of that path so I can continue to focus on the writing. Plus, we get the chance to work and be with one another every day, which I love! Twenty-seven years, and it only keeps getting better, darling.

One final BIG thanks. Thank you to all my readers, new and existing, for taking the journey with my characters, and for giving me the support and encouragement to continue creating new ones. I cannot thank you enough for that.

Author's Note: In the Afterword at the end of this book are further acknowledgements, but since they also provide significant spoilers as to where the story is going to go, I've put them there so you can enjoy the unfolding of the story as it is intended.

Prologue.

She was naked, and curled up on her stomach like a trusting child. Her cheek was pressed to the floor, her knees folded beneath her, her arms threaded under her body between them. A double strand of rope ran over her hips, bisecting the tattoo of a flower at her lower back, just above the pale pink thong she wore. That rope connected to the wraps around her ankles, as well as to her bound wrists, folded prayer-like between her feet.

A man wearing jeans and nothing else rested on his bare heels next to her. His fingertips trailed along her spine, questing, seeking response. Her lips parted, her eyes lifting to his shadowed face. His dark, close cropped beard had threads of silver. She had blue eyes. They were pretty any day of the week, but when she looked at him, the emotions that filled them were what every woman held deep in her heart. Those feelings couldn't be summoned at will, consciously given. They had to be earned, with trust and love.

The blue became the bluest possible blue, the shine in them like the light of a temple.

"Master," she whispered. When he touched her mouth, he had a belt folded over in his hand. Her lips pressed against his knuckles, the strap. She had no fear. Only desire, and a craving to feel his touch, the strike of that need...

Julie paused the video on her phone. Madison had sent it to her months ago, to give her an idea of what she wanted to accomplish with Wonder, her erotic performance theater. How many times had she watched it since then? The Dom in the video was never clearly in the camera, but he was as strong a presence as if he were center screen. Whenever his submissive looked at him, Julie felt what she felt. That aching yearning, the edge of all she wanted, just beyond her bound fingertips.

Only she wasn't the girl in the video. She merely wished she was.

"I'm almost forty, and no one has ever fallen in love with me." Her voice echoed against the concrete walls.

Julie put her feet in the hotel's indoor pool. The Hampton Inn outside Wytheville, Virginia was a quiet place on a weeknight, so she had the s.p.a.ce to herself. A gla.s.s wall allowed her to see the faint outline of the rolling hills behind the hotel. In daylight, she'd probably see the details: green pastures, farmland and forest. Maybe a hint of the distant mountains of West Virginia, through which she'd pa.s.sed on the winding turnpike to get this far from New York City in one day.

What incredible stillness. Where she lived in New York there was always noise. Cabbies honking at all hours, and an undercurrent of movement, people, and energy. Here there was the distant trundling of the elevator, the occasional murmur of voices, and this. Tiny ripples of water echoed against their wavy reflection on the gray satin painted concrete wall.

Her whispered words joined the echo. She'd never said them aloud, and she'd definitely never say them to anyone else. Emotional masturbation was best done in private. Though it hadn't been reciprocated, she had considered herself in love, several times. But tonight she was wondering if that was really true.

Julie folded her ankle socks into s...o...b..a.l.l.s, as she liked to call them, and put them in her canvas sneakers. She aligned them with toes out, because shoes spent most of their lives having to point toward one another. At least when hers were off, they could see what else was out in the world. Though there were worse things than always having to gaze at your other half, if you were lucky enough to find him. Shoes came predestined as couples.

Yeah, she was in one of those kinds of moods. Dramatic melancholy, a permanent side effect of working in theater.

"He has to make my knees weak when he kisses me. Not just when we first start dating, but after a hundred years together. And he has to be able to make me laugh, even when my heart is breaking. Why is finding a man who can meet those two simple requirements so freaking hard?"

She moved her feet back and forth slowly. The water was cool but not cold. She liked that. Extremes no longer interested her. The cold icy water of a lake, the powerful heat of summer, used to seem so exciting. Backdrops against which she could push herself to the limit of experience, daring the cup of life to overflow like a waterfall. The roaring, Niagara Falls kind.

She rotated her feet in opposing circles, watching the ripples drift out, collide. When she'd embraced those extremes, she'd wanted a pa.s.sionate love story. She'd sought out the cruel, beautiful men who had pa.s.sion for certain, but no love to give. They were more than willing to take all she had to offer, though. An endless, painful well.

Now she wanted a pa.s.sion that started as fire and melted into warmth. A steady heat, holding fast for a lifetime against the coldness of the world. Without that hearth, small disappointments could magnify and link, forming a chain that could strangle the heart.

She remembered being a child and summoning the courage to sled down the hill behind her house. Reaching the bottom, heart pumping and her face wreathed in smiles, she turned to see if her mother was still at the window watching. She wasn't.

Her phone buzzed across the concrete like an irritated mosquito, bringing her back to the present. He'd already left three texts. If he was resorting to a call, he was getting p.i.s.sed and insistent. She sighed and reached for the phone.

"Are you calling to wish me a happy birthday?" she asked.

"We were coming over to take you out for a magnificent night on the town. Dinner at a restaurant you can't afford, dancing at a club you can't get into if you're not with someone important-like me. We were going to finish it off with a midnight boat ride around Lady Liberty so you could do your usual ritual of tossing a coin and making your wish for the coming year."

"It sounds wonderful." She was so maudlin, the thought that she'd hurt her best friends' feelings choked her up. "You guys are wonderful. I love you both. You know that, right?"

"Thomas, she's telling me she loves us and she's about to cry. Find out where she is so I can go get her."

"No, Marcus-"

"Where are you?" Thomas took the phone, all calm and concerned. His soothing Southern tone was as dear as Marcus's sharp New Yorker impatience. Different versions of the same love and care.

"I left. I need you guys to water my plants and watch after my place while I'm gone. I don't know for how long. I'm on my way to North Carolina. I'm going to take Madison up on her offer to be managing director for the first couple shows at her erotic performance theater. It's my birthday present to me."

She'd turned over the running of her current community theater to her very capable stage manager, Belinda. After getting over the initial shock of hearing about her promotion via ten p.m. phone call, Belinda had been unable to contain her excitement. The Juilliard graduate had been ready for some time to move into the managing director role. Sheila, her a.s.sistant stage manager, could move into Belinda's shoes capably. Julie estimated six months on her return, but with Belinda, she knew she didn't have to worry about it. The dusty hole-in-the-wall Julie had turned into a community theater in her little corner of the big city had evolved into a recommended attraction for the niche fans of amateur and avant-garde performance. Belinda would tend to it well.

In a matter of hours, she'd turned her life upside down. Julie was sure this sounded like madness to Thomas and Marcus, but she wasn't stopping the train. She had to do something different, or nothing would change. Somehow, something had to change. She was going to explode out of her skin otherwise.

A significant pause conveyed a lot. Or rather, they'd noticed her state of mind these past few weeks, confirmed by Thomas's next words. "We know you've been restless. If this is what you want, what you need, we're behind you all the way. Charlotte's only a couple hours from our North Carolina house. My Mom would welcome you at her place. Any time you need feeding and mothering, she'd love to have you come stay overnight. And it goes without saying Daralyn and Les would be thrilled to see you."

Daralyn was a family friend and Celeste was Thomas's sister. Julie always had primo girl talk time with them whenever she visited. Thomas had once said they considered her like their big sister.

Tears stabbed at her again. Thomas's family had made her feel welcome from her first meeting with them. They'd offered her a sense of belonging, one of life's true treasures. She wanted it to be enough, and sort of despised herself for wanting, needing more. For longing for her very own just-for-her person. Other women went through life without this craving. Maybe she'd read too many romance novels as a teenager.

Yep, that's what she'd do. She'd blame it on the romance industry. Maybe she'd gather together a million sad, lonely women still waiting for Prince Charming, thanks to Harlequin and Pretty Woman, and bring a cla.s.s-action lawsuit. Maybe Richard Gere would appear at the trial and they could have dinner together...

"When you don't talk, the gears in your mind are going full throttle. Grunt so I'll know you're there."

She summoned an unladylike, pig grunt and heard Thomas chuckle, a deep, s.e.xy sound that gave her vitals a little spin. d.a.m.n him and Marcus for being so decidedly gay, and rabidly monogamous on top of that. Another of life's little 'f.u.c.k you, Julie' messages, without the literal and very pleasant f.u.c.k you.

"We'll be back in North Carolina after we get this next gallery tour out of the way," Thomas continued. "We'll come see you then."

Please, not too soon. She took a breath. "I love you guys for caring about me, but don't worry, okay? And don't take this wrong, but unless you and Marcus convert to bis.e.xualism and decide I'm the answer to your threesome dreams, don't call me for a few weeks. I depend on you two too much, and I'm too raw right now. I don't know if it's having another birthday and I'm in the grip of some tediously typical a.n.a.lyze-my-whole-life crisis, but I need some alone time in my head. Without someone who knows me better than I know myself interrupting the flow. I need to recreate myself. You know how it is when you're painting."

"Creative s.p.a.ce. I get it." The gentle note in his voice said he did. She needed to get off the phone. It was time for a really ugly, cathartic cry. "But promise to text us every couple of days so we know you're okay. Proof of life. Send us Madison's phone number so we have a backup emergency number."

"Okay, Dad." But she would, because they watched after her, as she watched after them. It's what the people who cared about you did. "Love you guys."

She was choking up, so she disconnected, hoping he would understand.

She wished that her entirely interesting and fulfilling career, and the many wonderful friends she had, could be enough for her. Most of the time she convinced herself it was.

This was not one of those times.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she let the silence wrap around and hold her as she forced optimism into her bleak mind. Change was good. If she couldn't have what she'd always dreamed of having, maybe running an erotic performance theater in North Carolina would help her. She could immerse herself in s.e.x. Not s.e.x for herself, but the artistic expression of it.

Sure. Seeing beautiful, idealized depictions of erotic intimacy was a great plan to end her clawing, aching need to be in love.

She was going to add Disney to that lawsuit. She'd been duped into thinking of romantic love as Cinderella with a happy circle of blue birds chirping around her. It was more like a circle of vultures, ready to tear out her heart with their sharp claws.

"Ugh." She groaned, bending over at the waist to press her face into her knees and link her hands over the back of her head.

Dramatic melancholy. Its vivid imagery never let her down. She was going to snag a fresh baked chocolate chip cookie from the front desk and go to bed. The smell had been a.s.saulting her since she'd arrived. Maybe she'd have two, and imagine having someone in the room with whom she could share them, touch his mouth if some of the melted chocolate smeared it. She'd collect it on her finger and try to taste it, but he'd grip her wrist and draw her finger to his mouth, sucking on the digit and then clasping her around the waist to bring her close. He'd turn that tease into a mouth-to-mouth transfer of fresh baked cookie and chocolate scent, heat and pleasure.

Body-wise, her fantasy lover was always a compilation of the best parts of Thomas, Marcus and a.s.sorted Hollywood stars. Yet his face remained shadowed, because the eyes, the cliched windows of the soul, had to be real, not fantasy. If they couldn't be, the best way not to disrupt her fantasy was to keep them hidden.

Yeah, thinking about s.e.x was sure to make her feel better. Not. She wasn't above using an intense workout with her vibrator to help put her to sleep, though. It wouldn't be the first time.

Oh, c.r.a.p on Crisco, enough of the wallowing. She was starting a new chapter tomorrow. It would be the turning point in her personal story, the post-intermission act where things started to go in the right direction. This was going to be her best year yet. f.u.c.k love, f.u.c.k dating, f.u.c.k Cupid. She had a great life.

She'd never needed a partner to dance wide open under the stars, and she wouldn't let a few minutes of moping change that.

North Carolina, watch out. Here I come.

Chapter One.

Six weeks later.

The radio beeped. "Julie, the roof contractor is here to discuss those leaks."

"Great. I'm in front of the stage. Send him down, Harris."

Putting her hands on her hips, Julie rocked back on her heels. It was coming together. The load-in for the first production was scheduled for next week. That meant the much-antic.i.p.ated arrival of rented sound and lighting equipment, the building of the scenery, the run-throughs with the cast, the tedious yet essential technical direction.

Today, another milestone had been reached. The fire-r.e.t.a.r.dant curtains had been delivered and installed, a particular thrill. Madison had purchased a traveler curtain with a border and a simple fly system, the typical choice for a community theater with limited funds. Narrower curtains, the "legs," shielded the wings of the stage. The acoustic panels for the walls surrounding the audience were also in place. Julie could already tell the difference in the sound, one of the biggest challenges in adapting a building to a theater purpose.

A whisper at a key moment in a BDSM session could change the whole mood and direction of a scene, so it was important that whisper be heard.

When Julie closed her eyes now, she could already see the set pieces. Lighting and sound set-ups, dialogue and visuals, were tools that could bridge the distance between audience and players. They'd balance powerful drama with touches of levity, and take the audience surfing on a wave of erotic discovery and emotional exploration.

Typical for amateur theater, the individuals Logan and Madison had auditioned were not, for the most part, experienced actors. However, they were confident and pa.s.sionate about their skills in the BDSM world, and those core talents would drive this first offering.

Consent would be a montage of BDSM skits and skills, a tempting glimpse at what they'd be offering at Wonder.

As Julie considered the dark blue color they'd chosen for the pleated velvet traveler, and how all the curtains made their playhouse look even more like a theater, she heard an exchange of voices, Harris's and another man's, the tone deep and even. It distracted her, because the unknown person had an excellent stage voice. Compelling and intriguing, especially when combined with the unexpected appearance of the man who possessed it.

She'd never met a professional roofer, but her a.s.sumption of what one of them would look like was set by the subcontractors she'd seen when driving by construction sites. Rangy, sun-darkened men in old clothes, with bill caps pulled down low over their stubbled faces. Cigarettes often dangled from their lips.

The man striding down the aisle toward her had the same body type, but there were key differences. He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt with a Celtic knot design printed on the front against a black background. The words "East Coast Riggers Hotlanta" curved along the edge of the design. The shirt was loose over jeans faded to a thin softness that hugged hips, groin and thighs. He was slim without seeming insubstantial. She noted he moved like a rock star, with a hint of a saunter that wasn't c.o.c.kiness exactly, but as if he was moving to music in his head. Heavy on the ba.s.s, with heart-accelerating drums and the occasional piercing strike of a guitar.

Several rope bracelets were knotted on his right wrist. The tattoo on his forearm, visible because he had the shirt sleeves pushed up, was Marilyn Monroe, restrained in a complicated design of rope that made the most of her voluptuous figure. On the opposite arm was Betty Grable in a different pose, but also an erotic arch, legs tied ankle to thigh, thighs spread and arms behind her, head falling back and full lips parted. Betty wore a dark green dress and Marilyn a gold one, both clinging to curves that were fully articulated.

"The ladies tend to be distracting. A friend was practicing her craft on me Friday night. They're temporaries. They should wash off when I'm in the mood to give them a good scrubbing, but I haven't had the heart to do that yet."

When her gaze slid up to his face, she changed her mind about rock star. He was more like the guy in charge of all the roadies. She could see him in the shadows, absorbing the vibe, his sharp eyes, extensive experience and fully tuned intuition pulling in every detail. He was the guy who elevated the show from merely good to fully awesome.

He had dark brown long hair, loose around his tanned face. The natural curl in it made it thick and touchable. While a woman would despair of that thickness in the Southern humidity, Julie expected he tied it back with insouciant care and let it be a contained chaos of waves.

His face wasn't cla.s.sically handsome, nor pretty, but it was charismatic, interesting. He had a scar on his chin, it and his jaw layered by a couple days of dark stubble. A good jaw, strong, not weak. Great cheekbones enhanced it.

When she reached his eyes, she wasn't sorry to have saved them for last, because she might have been caught there and missed all the rest. The irises were like the bands of a Grand Canyon wall. Shades of brown, gold and rust with a dark ring around the irises. The longer she looked, the more earth colors she saw, shifting with the light as he moved to stand before her.

"Your eyes detract from the ladies," she said practically. "If someone looks at your face first."

"Yet you didn't."

"You were coming down the aisle. I started with what I saw first." She considered his work shoes. "You need new laces." She counted three knottings where the strands had broken.

"These still work." His deep set eyes lifted from the laces. As he traveled to her face, she realized he was giving her as studied an appraisal as she had given him.