Read The Bound Heart for Free Online

them to walk or”—her voice dropped further—”crawl.”
    The interest flared in his face.
    “Far wall, back right. Call, if you can’t choose.”
    As he strode away, Evie turned around, a grin all over her impossible-to-resist face. “Now you, miss, should not stay here. And leave upstairs well alone. He’s not your type; trust me, I would know.” Evie turned back to the counter and began to order photos in a box.
    What was her type? If she didn’t know, how could Evie think she knew? The truth was that Mr. Edwards was very much her type. Something about his reserve, the formal way he had, made her quake and warm up at the same time.
    Evie glanced back over her shoulder and huffed at her, “Thought so. You don’t believe me. All stars pouring out of your eyes like he’s some lost prince who’s just needing the right woman’s touch to be happy.” Evie turned back to the box. “Let me show you what makes that boy happy.”
    Evie’s fingers rapidly flipped through the box as flashes of flesh in all manner of situations flicked by. This was not a box of naked backs and bottoms. She pulled one, two, three, four items from the box and pushed it to the side. “Pay attention, Olive.”
    Her heart started to beat faster and a sensation running under her skin was like fast rivulets of rain running down glass panes.
    Evie laid the first photo on the counter.
    Olive leaned in closer; heat flashed hot and sharp in her belly.
    It was a woman over a man’s knee.
    Close up, just as if the picture was taken from the man’s view looking down. The sepia tones of his dark suit and the light cream of the woman’s round bottom, full thighs, and narrow waist. All naked. In the far right was his raised hand. The photo had a soft pink painted in a translucent watercolor over the woman’s bottom. The hot marks from the slaps. They glowed out of the photo in a way that made it hard to breathe.
    “See that hand?” Evie’s voice was firm. “That is Mr. Edwards’ hand, Olive. Mr. Edwards sells these photos to the shop.”
    Her heart beat hard in her chest. Mr. Edwards?
    Olive went to speak, Evie interrupted her. “There’s more.”
    Olive twisted the fabric of her coat between her fingers.
    The next image was of a woman, naked of course, bound in rope. However, not like you would expect. It wasn’t harsh. It wasn’t ugly. It was incredibly beautiful.
    The rope was wrapped around her chest like a corset. Each layer of rope was even and smooth, coiling up from her pelvic bone, tight around her tiny waist, and flaring up under her breasts, lifting them into pert, soft fullness as the focus of the shot.
    The rope was knotted in a pattern, as if you would expect embroidered flowers or polka dots. Each coiled layer had them spaced counter to the next and preceding row. Knot in one row where there was the space between two knots above and below. The precision, the skill, the attention to detail spoke of hours of work. Hours of his hands brushing, positioning, tugging on the woman and the rope.
    It was him.
    Evie didn’t need to say it.
    She knew.
    A man who could knot these bindings had to love rope, yarn, and twine. Mr. Edwards did.
    The man who made that corset would have to have a lot of patience, a frustrating amount of patience, and control .
    “Erotic art, he calls it. He’s in with a powerful crowd, Olive. Aristocrats with lots of money and into all kinds of art and stuff you don’t want to be close to. He’s moving on, going deep into that world. He’s not a man for you, luv.”
    The fabric in her hands twisted so tightly the wool started to hurt her.
    Olive forced her hand to relax and let go. Slowly, she lifted the photo-plate and ran her finger over the image. It was art. It was beautiful, and yet it made her think of all kinds of other things.
    The woman’s hands were bound in front of her and she was kneeling on a footstool facing the camera blindfolded with what looked like a large velvet sash.
    Olive’s