Cuffed to Him Read online

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Cuffed to Him

  ISBN # 978-1-78184-276-8

  ©Copyright Cerise DeLand 2013

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright March 2013

  Edited by Eleanor Boyall

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2013 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-melting and a sexometer of 3.

  This story contains 41 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 7 pages.

  CUFFED TO HIM

  Cerise DeLand

  Joanna Carter needs a scintillating interview from hunky, jet-setting billionaires, Giff and Josh Spencer. When they show her their island—and their dungeon—Jo knows it’s folly to resist.

  Joanna Carter earned—and carelessly dashed—a reputation as a hard-driving journalist. Now she has a chance to resurrect her career by interviewing her childhood friends and billionaire brothers, Giff and Josh Spencer. The men were once her next door neighbours. Now, they have bad press as playboys and Jo figures they need her as much as she needs them.

  But when they fly Jo to their private island, dumping her laptop, her camera, and her tape recorder, they cuff her and usher her into their private dungeon. Then they thrill her with replays of their loving when all of them were young.

  Yet now that they are older, is it wise to resurrect the BDSM and menage that fulfilled them? And what happens to Jo’s career if she throws over a good interview for lots of their good loving?

  Should a woman give up everything for two men who once meant the world to her?

  Dedication

  For the marvellous staff at Total-E-Bound, you are a delight to work with, professional, efficient and oh, so creative. A writer’s dream come true!

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  The Economist: The Economist Group

  Cigar: Cigar Magazine, Inc

  The New Yorker: Condé Nast

  Google: Google Inc

  Chapter One

  Objective. How was she going to remain objective?

  Joanna Carter snapped shut her laptop, even though her notes on the delicious Spencer brothers swam in her brain. With a wince, she told herself to relax and sank further into the plush chair in the private jet terminal. She was about to leave known civilisation for a remote Caribbean island owned by the two brothers who were the third and fourth richest men in the States. On their island she would work hard, play never, and interview the two grown men whom she had adored since she’d been four. Her journalism career—her own self-esteem—depended on whether she could keep her cool and write the profiles like the award-winning professional she had once been.

  Could she do that? Hell. She had to, if she wanted to eat for the rest of her life. Too bad the only way to make that happen was to write an exposé of two men who had once been her best friends. And my fantastic lovers.

  She scanned the ultra-modern terminal and worried her lower lip over the prospect of seeing the famous—the infamous—Spencer brothers after fourteen years. When she had lived next door to them in dusty west Texas, they had treated her like a third wheel, their buddy, their chubby little tag-along. Then they had been as nerdy as she was girly. As skinny as she was chunky. As funny as she was dry. And when she turned eighteen, the two men had introduced her to games, sexy ones.

  And she had loved every minute.

  But now?

  I’m a wreck. She froze, ceased fiddling with the straps to her camera bag and dropped her cellphone in her briefcase. Her hands were sweating, for God’s sakes, like a kid’s. She wiped them on her slacks, trying to suppress comparisons of who she was today to the two men who were food for every magazine from The Economist to Cigar.

  Gifford and Joshua Spencer were the worldwide darlings of green technology. Billionaires from Giff’s invention of super-sensitive wind turbines and Josh’s investments in other energy-efficient systems, the two thirty-somethings were alternately recluses or playboys of the global social scene.

  And I am a washed-up investigative journalist trying to launch myself back into major publications. Trying to fill up my bank account by dishing dirt about my two old pals. Hoping to rebuild my credibility, which I so quickly destroyed being a sucker for a tycoon who played me for a chick who needed massive cock and thought with her pussy.

  She was not going to do that with the Spencers. Giff and Josh might have been gracious enough to consent to their interview, but she would bet good dollars they had done it for old times’ sake. Everyone knew—why wouldn’t the Spencers?—that she had been persona non grata at most magazines ever since she had done a hatchet job on her former lover, Renaldo Costas, the billionaire CEO of a huge Brazilian gas and oil conglomerate.

  Crossing her arms, she glanced out of the windows at the cream-coloured executive jet that Giff and Josh Spencer had sent to pick her up and fly her from Miami to their secluded island near the Dry Tortugas. She was going to write a sterling piece on the Spencer boys and make it accurate, make it insightful, make it sing with their own personalities.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and promised herself she would not be charmed by either one of them. Especially Giff. She wouldn’t look sideways at either, much less fall into bed. So what if she had measured every man she had ever met against the Spencers’ wit and intensity? She needed to return to New York in a few days with three invaluable assets. Great photos of the fabulously wealthy siblings. Sharp recordings of their interviews. And objectivity.

  Really chilly objectivity.

  Nice work if I can get it.

  Jo shot up from her seat and paced before the window. What was keeping the pilot? Why weren’t they in the air already? Digging her phone from her briefcase, she resisted the urge to call her editor and babble at him.

  I know what I’m supposed to do when I meet Giff and Josh Spencer.

  “Get the real men, Jo,” Mark Waldyn had told her. “Not this bullshit about their latest bedmate, their favourite gin and their custom tailoring. We’re a global reach mag with savvy readers who keep tabs on the eco-technology that Giff Spencer invents and Josh Spencer invests in. Give me probing insights to character. Get lucky and preview what they’re working on now. Do not let them steamroller you into covering their sex sideshow.”

  And what if I want to become part of their sideshow?

  She mustn’t. Her livelihood depended on it.

  The two men had discussed only their sexual escapades to any journalist who got within shouting distance of them. Known as big-time party boys who flew to Cannes, Rio and Ho
ng Kong on whims, Giff and Josh Spencer graced reporters only for half an hour here or there. Society columnists, international hostesses with the most-est and anyone else who yearned for more than a few minutes with the men got exactly nada. The Spencers continued to be as much of an enigma as they had been when they’d first burst into the headlines six years ago with Giff’s dramatic wind energy innovations.

  No wonder no one had got decent interviews, Jo had told Mark. Each of those who sought in-depth profiles of the brothers had gone at their subjects exploring the men’s jet-setting ways. ‘The Spender Brothers’, as the two men from west Texas were known to the paparazzi and gossip rags, had crafted ignoble reputations burnished with wine, women and bling. If all the tales of Giff and Josh’s conquests were true, then the two had laid more women than the Beatles and the Stones combined. And to each lucky lady, so said the glossies, the Spencer boys had bestowed gifts of appreciation. Most had been small and pricey, but a few had been big whoppers. One had got a ten-carat diamond, another a Fifth Avenue condo, while a third had received a private island off the African west coast. Each woman had gone away, never to return to the men, with their pretty mouths clamped shut.

  “But I know Giff and Josh. Well,” Jo had added and intrigued the editor of the largest, most profitable worldwide print magazine still operating.

  When Mark had asked her how she knew the brothers, she’d told him part of the story.

  “I grew up next door to them in Midland, Texas. Knew them my whole life until my family and I moved away after I turned eighteen.”

  Sensing a deeper story, Waldyn had shut up then. Hitching a hip up on the corner of his desk, he had crossed his arms and stared at her, waiting for more of an explanation.

  She had let him drag it out of her. “Giff is four years older than me. Josh two years older. They were always very close to each other. Their father had died in a gas explosion and their mother was disabled with multiple sclerosis. To earn money, they each had jobs after school. Giff worked in an oil and gas equipment repair shop. Josh helped a widow across the street run her feed supply store. Giff understood engineering. Josh knew money.”

  “And what did you know, Jo?” Waldyn asked, digging for the private info she wouldn’t tell a soul.

  “That Giff and Josh are not the playboys they seem to be. They’re hardworking, good ol’ Texas boys.”

  “Really? So why do they work this scene with starlets and villas and yachts?”

  They’re covering their success with glitz. They know it sells ink—and gets investors interested. “I’ll find the answer for you and your readers.”

  Jo fingered her camera bag, hoping she could find the answer to her lingering attraction to two men she had not seen in years.

  “Miss Carter?” A short, prim-looking woman in a navy suit entered the waiting area through the terminal door. The smile on her oval face was polite and kind. The two men behind her, however, were the spitting images of Special Ops dudes, big, buff and bad. “We’re ready for you now. Mr Havilland? Mr O’Connor? Help Ms Carter aboard, will you please?”

  Jo sized up the two men who moved as efficiently as bouncers—or bodyguards. But before Havilland and O’Connor got near, she rose to her feet. “I’m quite capable.”

  One of the men took her by the elbow. If she hadn’t put one foot in front of the other, she was certain he would have lifted her mid-air and hustled her forward. “We’re here to make your life easier, Miz Carter.”

  “Well, you can’t do that by dragging me to the plane.” Trying for traction on the slippery floor, she floundered in the towering stilettos she’d worn.

  Both men frowned, then checked each other’s eyes.

  She fumed. “I doubt you have ever hustled any other women onto the Spencers’ private plane.”

  “You,” said one of the men, “are different.”

  “You bet.”

  “Our job is to make certain you get on this plane.”

  “You think I won’t?” That I’d run? So this meant that Giff and Josh wanted to know her motive for asking for the interview? She’d give it to them all right. “Oh, for God’s sakes. I proposed this interview to The Financial Weekly! What do Giff and Josh think I have done? Persuaded one of the most prestigious mags in finance and technology to run a fluff piece on them?” What credibility would that earn the periodical? Or me?

  “How much is Waldyn paying you for the privilege?”

  Half as much as I used to command, damn it. She gave both bad-asses a jaundiced eye. “What’s it to you, big boy?”

  The blond laughed. “We were briefed you’d be a handful.”

  “Yeah, well,” she said, looking from him to his dark-haired buddy, “no one warned me about you two. So unless you’d like a demo of my abilities with krav maga, you could unhand me.”

  “You know krav maga?” Blondie chuckled.

  “Learned it when I did a piece on the head of Mossad for The New Yorker.” She batted her eyelashes at them. “Whaddaya say, fellas?”

  Both men stepped back a pace and put their palms in the air, laughing. “Surrender.”

  “Good.” She picked up her camera bag and hoisted her briefcase. “Let’s go.”

  “We’ll take these for you.”

  She tugged both to her chest. “I don’t think so.”

  Blondie grinned, looking devilishly insistent. “We were told to carry your luggage. Help get you comfortable.”

  Arguing was getting her nowhere fast. Checking their congenial expressions, Jo gave in and handed over her equipment. “Oh, okay. Handle these gently, will you?” I need the camera to take pictures that prove I really did go to see them. I need the tape recorder and my laptop for the same reasons. Waldyn is taking no chances I make up anything I write, promising to listen to everything I record and making me date- and time-stamp all my shots. “They’re expensive.”

  “I bet,” said Blondie.

  They exited the door to the tarmac, walked down a gangway, onto the runway and rode up an automated stairway to the jet’s main door. A tall, elegant brunette with brown eyes and a ready smile greeted her. “Ms Carter. Wonderful to welcome you aboard.”

  “Thank you,” Jo responded, her gaze drifting beyond the spiffy flight attendant to the appointments of the interior. Her jaw dropped at the sight of four lushly upholstered seats gathered around a large coffee table and, beyond it, an open archway to the biggest, broadest bed she had ever seen. Meanwhile, her bodyguards had turned back towards the runway.

  Assuming they were leaving her, she pivoted to bid them goodbye when Blondie dropped her items into a trash can.

  “Wait!” she yelled at him, grabbing for her equipment as it clunked into the bottom of the can. “What are you doing? I need those!”

  “Everything you need, Miz Carter, you’ll get on Spencer Island.”

  “No.” She tried to push her way past him, but his buddy grabbed her around the waist and held her back. As the attendant closed the cabin door, Jo yelled at them. “My equipment! You can’t do this.”

  “What happens on Spencer Island,” the attendant said as if she were telling her to read the evacuation instructions card in the seat pocket, “stays on Spencer Island.”

  Chapter Two

  Four hours later, when the pilot landed the plane on a long wide runway in the midst of what looked like a jungle, Jo was still chewing nails.

  The flight attendant and Jo’s two bullies had disappeared up front into their own private cabin for the duration of the flight. Safer for them, Jo thought. If she had been anywhere near the two who had dumped her stuff in the trash in Miami, she would have clawed their eyes out.

  Meanwhile, she enjoyed the amenities of the comfy flight—and recorded them in her memory for her article. The rosso di Montalcino went perfectly with the three-course meal that some grossly overpaid chef in Miami had prepared for her. When she wandered past the bedroom into the mind-blowing beauty of the full bath, marble tub included, Jo yearned to jump in and soak her
worries away. She shook her head at the joys that money—and loads of it—could buy.

  If only she had her camera to take a picture of this.

  What she wouldn’t do to get it back. Plus her laptop. And her phone. Her recorder.

  And a wayward thought hit her. What would I have to do for Giff and Josh to get access to equipment like that?

  Is this one of Giff and Josh’s games?

  “Take off your clothes, Jo,” Giff had ordered her on her eighteenth birthday. “We’ll remove ours and give you a great present.”

  Standing in the brothers’ family room, Jo had snorted. She had gone next door to visit them because they had just come home for Thanksgiving from college. “What kind of a gift is that?”

  “Knowledge,” said Giff, his physique so much broader and ripped since he’d entered Texas Tech.

  “Fun,” said Josh, his auburn hair dipping over his forehead and framing his smouldering ice-blue eyes. Josh had strolled up to her, put his lush mouth to her earlobe and bitten it. “You’re so much woman. All these curves. Your beautiful ass.”

  “Your long legs to hold us both.” Giff had winked at her.

  “Both?” She had gulped that her night-time fantasy of making love to them could become a reality.

  “Sure. We know you’ve always loved us. And we promised ourselves, didn’t we, Josh, that you’d be ours as soon as you were no longer jailbait. You know we’ve always loved you.”

  “Oh, come on. I can’t believe this. You like my game of Texas hold ‘em!” She’d gasped in delight as Josh sank his fingers inside the waistband of her jeans and down over her tummy to part her soaking wet labia. She hadn’t stopped him. Couldn’t. She had wanted this for years and years. Only from them. Both of them.