The Bound Heart by Elsa Holland Read Free Book Online Page B

never been on the other side of his control, had fashioned rules, and a lifestyle to ensure he never did.
    It had been the worst part of growing up in the knock house. Clothes everywhere, no one following the house rules, the bickering and poor behaviors and the use of sex to manipulate and bring men to their knees.
    Not me.
    It was the one thought that he’d had again and again from as young as he could remember. And so far he’d been able to ensure that was the case.
    Olive was a threat and a promise in the one package. She promised the ideal bond he sought with another through his erotic art and yet she drove him past his plans and into a realm of unplanned and uncontrolled hunger.
    Their brief encounter in the workshop, the softest and simplest of touches and he had dropped all his good intentions and push forward. If Mr. Howard had not knocked on the door he would have taken every liberty she allowed even though it wasn’t what he’d planned.
    The new bookbinder started in the workshop next week, and there was little probability of seeing Olive again before he left.
    That was for the best.
    Okazaki, sank to her knees, the tray placed on the mat, and then proceeded to transfer a hot, rolled towel in a half round of bamboo in front of him.
    “I have work tomorrow night. I’ll look after the front door.”
    “Will you need help?” Okazaki asked.
    He shook his head no and picked up the roll of cloth. It was piping hot. He juggled it in the air to cool it. How she managed to get it that hot and not scorch her fingers was an ongoing mystery.
    Then he placed it over his face. The heat was immediate, clinging to his skin. The soft cotton towelette hugged the contours of his face as he pressed it against himself.
    The intimate heat, his breath against the fabric, and there she was again, Olive Thompson. He wanted to push his face into her heat. The damp of her skin at the base of her neck, under her breasts, between her thighs.
    Jamie lifted the cloth, wiped the day off his hands, and then placed it back in the bamboo receptacle.
    None of that was going to happen. His appetite for Olive would pass. It always passed when he liked a woman. After a time focusing on his work Olive would fade away too.
    Okazaki continued to lay out an array of small tasting size plates of Japanese food, chopsticks, rice, and miso soup. He’d asked for the lot. Asked for the room to be opened for the first time after Sensei’s death; he wanted a full Japanese dinner here.
    “Are you sure you won’t join me?”
    He’d wanted Okazaki’s company; she wasn’t ready, not ready to be in a room full of memories of her old lover. She sat back on her haunches but her posture said she was not staying.
    “Do you have a good model?”
    “You know I use Madeline.” Jamie knew exactly where she was taking this. There were other models but of all of them Madeline, although still not what he wanted, was the most reliable and focused.
    Okazaki poured some sake for him then sat back on her haunches. She may be in her fifties, but her flexibility and strength would be almost the same as when she worked in rope with Sensei.
    “She has no feel for the rope.”
    “She has a feel for the camera.”
    And for most of what he did that was perfect. This more focused direction to develop the rope, well she was better than his other options.
    Jamie picked up the small sake cup and threw the warm liquid back. A soft, smooth heat filled his mouth and slipped down his throat.
    “Kobayashi-sama was not wealthy enough for you? You must earn from men of the street? Sew books?”
    Okazaki refilled the sake cup.
    His jaw tightened. “I’m proud of what I have done and I like what I do; you know that. Besides, I have given my notice at the bookshop. And the bulk of my photo plates–as you know-are with rope. I see no need to stop the in occasional erotic photo plate work because of Sensei’s inheritance.”
    Although less frequently now, he made images, which were