BindingCherryBlossoms Read online

  Binding Cherry Blossoms

  Gia Dawn

  Book 3 in the Red Masks series

  Sakura wants to learn the ancient Japanese Tea Ceremony to please her parents. It’s the least she can do since she intends to refuse the marriage they have arranged for her to a man she has never met. Unfortunately, the only person in Charleston, South Carolina, who knows the ceremony is a masked bondage Master at a local BDSM club. He’s willing to teach her in exchange for her complete sexual submission.

  When she meets Ian, her chosen fiancé, she has no idea he is her masked Master. By night, Sakura’s submissive side blossoms as she explores the dark realms of sexual release with her Master. By day, she is increasingly drawn to the other man, whose easygoing disposition is starting to win her over to the idea of marriage.

  Will Ian be able to bind her broken heart after she learns that he has deceived her?

  Reader Advisory: This story has graphic sexual language and scenes—no closed bedroom doors (or other rooms) here!

  A Romantica® BDSM erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Binding Cherry Blossoms

  Gia Dawn

  Chapter One

  Ian Hideo Shoji worked with a concentration that blocked out all other sensory input, focused entirely on tying the last of the intricate knots along the woman’s arms in a perfect example of the Japanese bondage technique, kinbaku. When he was finished, he pushed her head down in submission. His fingers threaded through her thick black hair as he positioned her to his satisfaction. Still, he felt no sexual desire for any of the models who had served him this night, even this last one whose hair fell over her shoulders like a cloud of ebony silk.

  With a frown that no one could see behind his mask, he stepped aside and presented the woman to the audience, bowing in respect to the hundred or so people who had paid five thousand dollars a person to watch him work his magic on the erotic models now displayed in the center of the room.

  Each one of them was bound differently. One, a buxom redhead, had her hands tied behind her head and her breasts wrapped in thick green ribbon. The piercings in her nipples made an excellent anchor for the secondary ropes he’d slid between her legs and crisscrossed up her back to connect with those that held her wrists.

  A second model, with dark skin and even darker hair, had ropes wrapped around both legs from her knees to her thighs, spreading them so far apart the dusky flesh of her cunt was visible on either side of the thick knot he had woven to torture her clitoris. She sighed with pleasure whenever she shifted position, forcing him into disciplinary action and a sharp smack on her ass when she grew too fond of turning her bondage into a sexual party of one.

  A third model hung suspended from a metal frame facedown, a strong main rope encircling her torso and hips. This kept her securely in position so she would not be injured when he bound her hands and ankles together above her back. She nodded when he grabbed her leg and sent her spinning as he passed, the crowd gasping in delight. He had been fortunate to find the nimble circus performer and she’d jumped at the chance to be involved in the fund-raising event—to show off her supple body for anyone interested in a different kind of exhibition.

  All in all, Ian was pleased. Tonight he had helped Madame Brisson and the Red Mask Society raise nearly five hundred thousand dollars for the Saladar Center’s special program for sex trafficking and abuse victims.

  Manette greeted him with a hug as he removed his mask and slid out of the black kimono he had worn for the demonstration. “Merci, Shoji-san,” she said, her smile radiant. “Zayne Saladar is beyond pleased with your performance and your generous donation to the center.”

  Ian bowed, noting as always the woman’s sleek beauty. He’d had the honor of binding her at an exhibition in Paris the year before. She’d been beyond exquisite. Her picture hung in his apartment at home and he never tired of gazing upon the image.

  But they’d never been lovers. Manette seemed as jaded by her lifestyle as Ian was by his, and they’d mutually agreed to a platonic relationship. Still, when he’d been called to Charleston, South Carolina, on business, he’d contacted her immediately and been thrilled when she’d asked him to do a demonstration at her private Red Mask club.

  He gave her a satisfied smile in return. “I would do anything you asked of me, Madame.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes took on a calculating gaze. “Then I have a most unusual proposition for you…unless of course you planned on taking more than a professional interest in one of your models tonight?” Her smile grew even more excited when he shook his head. “Excellent. Then I have someone I would like you to meet. She has a very special request.”

  Ian’s smile faltered. He’d had his share of feminine requests and they were always tediously similar. “Does she beg to be my slave? Want me to bind her in my dungeon and punish her for eternity?”

  Manette actually giggled, a sound like wind chimes tinkling in the breeze. “So sure of your sex appeal, Bakushi?”

  “I just understand the inevitable.” He followed her to the bar where he ordered a beer, his mask dangling negligently in one hand. Now the show was over and he was in modern street attire. No one knew his true identity except for a very few people Manette had introduced him to before the performance. And while many women glanced at him with more than a passing interest, none of them watched him with the overly hungry eyes of those who worshipped him as Bakushi—the bondage master.

  Manette nodded to a far corner of the room. “This lady wishes to learn the proper way to host a formal Japanese Tea Ceremony.”

  Now that piqued his interest. “Tea Ceremony?” He grinned despite himself. “That’s a request I have never once heard before. Why did she come to ask me?”

  “Her father spent years refusing to interact with the local Asian population in his quest to Americanize the family. Since you’ve just arrived from Japan, she hopes you might have some authentic contacts.”

  Ian felt his curiosity dim. He’d had his own share of being ostracized and didn’t relish the idea of becoming entangled in another cultural feud. But he was curious. That she would come to see his demonstration said something interesting about her personality. And he might be persuaded to indulge in some personal pleasure while he was in town on difficult family business…if the right partner happened to appear. “Who is she?”

  Manette pursed her lips. “The lady wishes to remain anonymous.”

  “But you know who she is?”

  “Absolument.”

  “And are you going to let me in on the secret?”

  “Non.”

  “Even if I promise to throw in another twenty thousand dollars for the donation?”

  That got her attention. He watched with a pretense of indifference as a parade of conflicting emotions crossed her lovely face. “I have never once betrayed a woman’s trust, Ian, shame on you for even making the offer.”

  He sighed. “You are right. I had no business asking.”

  “Bon.” She stood on tiptoe and looked over his shoulder to where another man made his way toward them, limping heavily on a cane. Manette’s face lit up with an expression that was almost childlike in its joy. “This is my brother, Thibaut.” She grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him close to her side. “He has just returned from Afghanistan where he served with the French Foreign Legion.”

  Thibaut held out his hand. “I am a great admirer of your work, Bakushi. Manni sent me pictures from the exhibition in Paris. Exquisite.”

  His voice held the same trace of an accent as his sister’s, and Ian could not help but notice the family resemblance. Both of them had the same raven-black hair and piercing blue eyes, although Thibaut’s held an exhaustion that only a soldier truly felt. Ian had seen that look befo
re. It haunted the faces of many men he instructed in kinbaku and the martial arts, both practices helping men regain control of their lives after their tours of duty were ended. It was a job that gave him more satisfaction than he’d ever anticipated.

  He bowed in respect. “I would be honored to teach you while I am in town.”

  Thibaut grimaced as he made a fist of his right hand and pressed it into his left palm, bringing both hands to chest level as he bowed in return. “And I would be honored to take you to task on the mat. If you think you could survive the session.”

  Ian glanced at the cane and noted the unnatural stiffness in the other man’s hands. “You have finished your physical therapy, Thibaut?”

  “Oui. But for God’s sake call me Ty. Thibaut got me beat upon a regular basis before our parents took pity on me and shipped me off to France.” He nodded. “Finished a few weeks ago. Now all I’ve got to do is get my strength back.”

  Ian turned his attention back to the women. “Are you in the mood for any one of them tonight?”

  “No. I am unable to—” Ty clamped his jaw shut, cutting off the rest of the sentence.

  But Ian understood. “Then may I suggest the one whose legs and clit are bound.” He nodded to where the dark-skinned beauty continued to manipulate the rope between her legs. “She is begging to be punished, nothing more. I had to discipline her once already tonight myself.”

  The other man’s expression calmed as he grasped Ian’s meaning. “I seethat sheis most unappreciative of your work. I will take care of her immediately. Merci.” With that he began to roll up his sleeves as he turned and made his way toward the misbehaving model.

  Manette frowned. “Thibaut has yet to readjust to civilian life. He has nightmares, although he adamantly refuses to discuss them. And as far as I know he has not made love to a woman since his injuries.”

  “He will enjoy himself tonight,” Ian assured her, “even if he doesn’t move past the flogging session. Don’t press him. You don’t know what he might have seen in combat.”

  “That is what worries me, mon cher.” Manette ran her hands down the length of her skirt and smoothed her hair behind one ear. “But we were discussing more pleasant matters.”

  “Like the mysterious woman of the Tea Ceremony? Would fifty thousand dollars change your mind?”

  “You are an absolute beast. Not only will I not tell you her name, you will place a check for ten thousand dollars into Monsieur Saladar’s hands by morning for making me angry.”

  He’d always admired Manette’s strict adherence to the rules she set down for her patrons’ protection—even if it annoyed the hell out of him now. But it had been worth a try to get the information, and ten thousand dollars was a small price to pay in honor of the woman’s ethics.

  “You are difficult.” He leaned close to brush a kiss on her cheek. “But you always have my utmost respect.”

  Manette pursed her lips. “I am unmoved by flattery.” But he could see the twinkle in her eye as she turned toward a dark corner of the room. “So this woman is interested in learning the ceremony to impress a notable Japanese family when they come to Charleston in a few weeks.”

  Ian snapped into full attention. His family was coming to the city next month to finalize a business deal with Katashi Nakao…and try to arrange a marriage with the man’s daughter, Sakura.

  There were no such things as coincidence.

  “I will give the girl exactly what she wants.” Already he was re-donning his mask. “And add some instruction for my own amusement.”

  “Take care, Bakushi, that you do not go too far,” Manette warned as he finished his beer and slammed the empty bottle on the bar. “She may not care for your particular brand of pleasure.”

  But he didn’t have time for an answer as he crossed the room to where the woman waited.

  Ian knew who she was the instant she came into his view. Petite. Sophisticated. The quintessential picture of a perfect oriental submissive, from the swath of inky hair that fell straight down her back to the almond-shaped eyes that tilted up at the corners. They beckoned to him beneath their lush black lashes, startlingly bright even behind the concealing mask.

  “Good evening.” He bowed, watching as she hurriedly stood and dipped her head in return.

  “Madame Manette has explained my dilemma?” Her voice was as delicate as her features, barely a whisper above the background noise of the room.

  “She did. May I sit?” He pointed to the seat beside her, settling down when she nodded her assent. “You understand it takes years to become a true master of the Tea Ceremony.”

  “I was afraid you would say that.” Her voice grew even softer in her disappointment. “But I was hoping I could learn at least enough not to embarrass my family completely. My father especially,” she added with a frown. “He made the request of me several weeks ago.”

  “And do you always do as your father requests?” When she laughed, the sound was richer and more abandoned than he’d been expecting. Maybe she wasn’t the perfect submissive after all. His blood pounded in renewed interest. So she had Western sensibilities. What would she be willing to do to have him become her teacher? Could he teach her the art of obedience? The questions intrigued him and so did she.

  “I have refused my father’s requests on more occasions than I care to remember,” she admitted, “and I will continue to defy him long into the future. But this was one thing I thought I could do to prove I am not a completely ungrateful daughter. I was hoping you might have some connection overseas or know someone here in the States I could contact. Money is not a problem. I can pay very well for a teacher’s time and effort.”

  “Most masters do not teach for compensation.” He stared at her until she lowered her eyes and fumbled with her glass. Good. So she could learn to submit and did have some idea of how to show her master the proper respect. “Stand.”

  “What?” She blinked at him from behind her mask, obviously confused by his abrupt request.

  “Stand. Then kneel and sit seiza before me.” He leaned back in his chair, tense, waiting to see if she obeyed. To his satisfaction, she removed her shoes and stood before dropping gracefully to her knees and sitting back on her heels. A trained geisha could not have accomplished the move with much more finesse.

  He reached out and bowed her head, running his hand along her hair as he had done with the model before, but this time to his complete surprise, he felt his slumbering cock raise its head in interest. For long seconds he allowed himself to indulge in the arousal as he continued to thread his fingers through her hair. “Like the finest silk,” he muttered, holding her head in place when he felt her try to lift her chin in disobedience. He pulled his hand away with regret. “Now stand.”

  Again, she rose to her feet in a movement so fluid she looked to have floated from the ground, her eyes betraying a range of emotions he could not even hope to follow.

  “Well done, keisei.” He reached out to take her elbow when she wobbled as she tried to step back into her four-inch stiletto heels.

  “Keisei?”

  “Beautiful one,” he translated. “You do not speak Japanese?”

  “Not much.” She shook her head, giving him a first glimpse of the deep purple strands that surrounded her face. Despite his strict adherence to tradition—and his disapproval of a woman altering her natural looks in any way—he found he actually liked the unexpected hint of color…so long as she did not intend to dye it further. And it gave him an edge. If she was Sakura Nakao, he would know it the instant he laid eyes again on those unusual streaks of plum.

  “Let us test your knowledge. What does hai mean?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Iie?”

  “No.”

  “Sakura?”

  She froze, her eyes locking with his. She opened her mouth. Swallowed. Opened it again. Ian was pleased. He’d hit a major nerve.

  “Sakura?” he demanded a second time.

  “Cherry blossoms,�
�� she whispered at last. “Why did you ask me that?” Her lips were pale beneath her mask.

  Ian lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “They are my favorite flower. In Japan, the gift of cherry blossoms in the spring covers the island from mountain to meadow.” He sniffed up the length of her hair. “Mmmm. You smell as sweet as the first of their blooms. I will teach you the ceremony,” he decided in anticipation, remembering the feel of her hair beneath his fingers.

  * * * * *

  Sakura straightened her shoulders and looked the man straight in the eye, having had her fill of playing the demure and submissive female. She was American born and raised, and while she had a healthy respect for the traditions of her ancestors she had no desire to put on a kimono, paint her face white and play geisha for any man’s silly fantasy.

  “You? I want to learn the Tea Ceremony, not be tied up like a sex toy.”

  “You think I cannot be master of both?” His tone held an edge of danger.

  “But you don’t even sound Japanese. How can I be certain you know what you’re doing?”

  “You don’t sound Japanese either,” he shot back, his voice growing bleaker by the minute. “As for being qualified to teach you, I moved to Japan when I was a teenager and have lived there ever since. And you should know better than to ask such a prejudicial question.”

  She trembled when she saw the way his lips turned down. She’d made him angry. Despite the rapid beating of her pulse Sakura forced herself to remain completely placid, a trick she’d learned through her years of dealing with her father’s unpredictable temper, as the Bakushi’s hands fisted over the arms of the chair so tightly she thought he might actually crush the metal. His eyes bored into hers until she felt compelled to bow her head to keep from begging for his forgiveness.

  “It was not my intent to show disrespect,” she whispered humbly. It never hurt to err on the side of politeness, especially when dealing with a man who obviously thought he was still living in Japan’s feudal past. And she had made a mistake. “But I don’t see how being master of one art compares to being master of the other. I mean…how do bondage and tea go together?”