Julie Kenner - Tame Me

“It was a bad thing you did, Jamie. We both know it.”

“Maybe,” I say, still wary.

“Strip.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He leans back, his arms stretched along the rear of the couch. He looks relaxed and powerful and most definitely in charge. “I said, strip.”

“Why?”

His mouth curves in a lazy, seductive smile. “Why do you think?”

My mouth has gone dry, and my knees are suddenly weak. Whatever he intends, I know that I want it—and yet still I am nervous. “I think you’re going to fuck me,” I say, and I can’t keep the note of hope out of my voice.

“No,” he says firmly. “I’m going to punish you.”

“Hunter—”

He smiles. “That’s it. I like that. You call me Hunter when you know what’s coming.”

“Ryan,” I say more firmly, making him laugh.

“It’s no use, kitten. Hush now. Hush and take off your clothes. I promise you, Jamie, you don’t want to cross me.”

I am tempted to do just that simply because I want to see how far he will take this. But I also want what I know he will give me. His hands, his cock, his body.

But there will be none of that until I strip. Until he punishes me.

I remember what he’d said that first night in Malibu—how he’d talked about spanking me. I remember, too, how wet the very idea had made me.

It makes me wet now.

“Are you going to spank me?”

“No talking,” he says again, “or I’ll be dining alone tonight. Go on,” he urges. “I want to watch you strip for me.”

I don’t speak, but I move back to stand in front of him. Slowly, I peel off my clothes, one garment at a time, until I am standing naked in front of him. I can see the desire in his eyes and know that he is looking forward to this.

And, yes, so am I.

I smile boldly, then slide my hand down over my sex just because I want to do a little bit of punishing myself. “I’m wet,” I say, then bring my own finger to my mouth.

“Jesus, Jamie,” he says, and while I have him, I decide to take the extra step and see just how crazy I can make him.

I move closer, then bend over his lap, putting my bare ass in front of him. “Spank me,” I say. “You know you want to.”

My pubis is pressed against his lap, and I can feel his erection grow. I close my eyes, relishing the feel of his hand rubbing a smooth circle on my rear. And then his hand is gone, replaced only moments later with a quick, sharp sting.

I cry out in both surprise and pain—and as his palm strokes quickly over the spot, I relax and breathe deep as the fingers of pain spread out, transforming to electric shocks that sizzle through me, focusing most intently on my sex, now even more hot. Even more needy.

“Do you like that?” he says, and I can tell by his growing erection that he does.

“Yes—it’s...” I search for the right word. “Liberating,” I finally say, and it’s true. The sting, the pain, sends me flying, freeing me for an even more intense passion.

“Again,” he says, then lands another smack followed in quick succession by another. He is spanking and stroking, giving pain and then pleasure. Sending me spiraling up and then reeling me back in.

I have never done this before. Never felt this before.

And I like it. Dear god, I like it.

“Hunter,” I whisper as my cunt throbs in a silent demand for his touch. “Can I be bad every day?”

He laughs, then rubs his hands upon my ass, my back, my shoulders. “You are perfection, Jamie. You are delight. And as for your punishment, we’ll have to see just how naughty you are. Right now, I think you’ve been punished enough.”

I sigh, fighting my way back up through the waves of pleasure, the sweet tingle of pain and promise.

“I take it you like that?” His voice pours softly over me, strong and intoxicating, like the smooth burn of whiskey.

“Yes,” I admit as my body clenches with unfulfilled need. “But please, Hunter. Will you fuck me now?”

“No,” he says smoothly. “Now, I’m going to feed you.”

As with the rest of the hotel, Ryan is known in the restaurant. The moment we set foot through the door, a distinguished man with graying temples and perfect posture strides toward us.

The space itself is beautiful, as is every part of this hotel that I have seen. The paneling is a deep mahogany, and the tables are draped with crisp white cloths. Sturdy, comfortable-looking chairs surround the tables, upholstered in warm red leather.

The art is appealing, hyper-realistic paintings of wine bottles and glasses, each larger than life and brimming with color. The lighting is low but not too dark, and the acoustics are good enough to hear your companions but not so good that you can eavesdrop on the next table.

Best of all, it smells incredible.

“Mr. Hunter, so good to see you again. Your usual table?”

“Not tonight, Stephen. The lady and I would like some privacy. Is station twelve available?”

“It is,” Stephen says, and he leads us to a round booth in the back of the restaurant from which we can see the rest of the room, and yet we still feel secluded. It is, I think, the perfect date table.

Ryan orders wine and oysters on the half shell, and Stephen nods in acknowledgement before leaving us alone.

“If this isn’t your table,” I begin as soon as Stephen is out of earshot, “where do you usually sit with your women?” I add a teasing quality to my voice, but the truth is that I want to know. I am not jealous—not really. But my curiosity borders on intense.

“I’ve never brought a woman here,” he says.

“Because you’re always working when you come to Starfire?”

“No,” he says. “I have access to the suite anytime.”

“Oh,” I say, finding that tidbit of information extremely fascinating.

He leans over and brushes a kiss over my lips. “I haven’t brought a woman,” he says, “because there’s never been a woman I wanted to bring.”

I force myself not to grin like a fool. After all, Ryan’s dating history shouldn’t be of any interest to me. Not now. Not with me just days away from returning to Texas.

All true, and yet I can’t deny the fingers of delight that dance along my spine, making my body tingle with the knowledge that, at least as to this one small thing, I am unique and special to him.

I clear my throat so as not to show my pleasure. “I didn’t realize you’d been celibate before me,” I tease.

“Are you fishing, Ms. Archer?” he asks. “Should I be flattered?”

I frown. “Flattered?”

He slides his hand along my leg, making the silk of the dress rub provocatively over my skin. “That you’re jealous of the other women I’ve dated.”

I lick my lips, my legs now warm, my sex now tingling. “We’re not dating.”

“You’re right. I’ll rephrase. Are you jealous of the other women I’ve fucked?”

What the hell, I think, and then answer. “Yes,” I say boldly. “I am.”

His smile is triumphant. “Good.” He tightens his fingers on my thigh then leans over and kisses my cheek. “I’ll tell you a secret, kitten. I’ve been with a lot of women. You’re the only one who has truly gotten under my skin.”

I feel a rush of cold at his words, like a victim going into shock. I don’t think this is fear, though. I think it is hope. Sweet, delicious, terrifying hope. “Be careful,” I say quickly before he has the chance to study my silence. “You’re going to break the rules. You’re going to knock me off-kilter.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “But I wonder if I should be the one who’s jealous?”

“Maybe you should,” I say flippantly. “I’ve fucked a lot of men.”

The words come easily. Hell, he’s easy. Maybe it’s because I know that this is a temporary thing that will end when we reach Dallas. Maybe it’s because he’s Ryan.

Maybe it’s because we started as friends even if, in some secret deep part of myself, I want to end up so much more. All I know is that this is comfortable.

He is studying my face, his expression inquisitive. “How many of them meant something to you? These men you fucked?”

“Three,” I say easily. “The first because he was a genuine friend, and we never should have been so stupid. The second I thought was real, but I was mistaken. I thought he broke my heart, but all he really did was wound my pride.”

“Your friend Ollie,” he says. “And the second is the asshole movie star?”

“Yup. Bryan Raine. Creep extraordinaire.”

“And the third?”

I look at him, but I don’t answer. Instead I just smile and sip my wine.

I think he understands, but his expression is almost sad when he says, “You burn through men like you’re on a quest, kitten. What is it you expect to find?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. What I want to say is you.

A waitress arrives with a bottle of wine, and after Ryan samples it, she pours us each a glass. I desperately want a sip, but before I can take one, Ryan twines his fingers with mine. “Maybe you don’t need Texas or your plan. Maybe you just need to find a man who grounds you.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I make bad choices.”

“In the past, yes,” he says. “But how long are you going to keep using that excuse as a Band-Aid on your fear?”

My head snaps up. “I’m not afraid.”

“The hell you’re not. You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid of staying.”

I look away because he is right. “That’s different.”

He doesn’t answer, probably because he knows that he’s right, and my excuse is just bullshit.

I tug my hand free and then sip my wine.

“My looks are the thing that scare me the most,” I say. It’s not the kind of thing I usually share, but I want so much to be close to this man. Foolish, since I’m about to leave him, but I can’t argue with what I want.

His smile is sweet and genuine. “There’s nothing scary about your looks, kitten.”

I return the smile because I know he’s just putting me at ease. “I know you think I’m pretty,” I say.

“Beautiful,” he corrects.

“All right. I don’t mind that either because I really do believe you see me. But most people...” I trail off with a shrug. “I used to be afraid that no one saw me at all. They just saw the trappings.” I take another sip of wine. “I got hurt by a lot of guys once I realized they didn’t give a crap about what was in my head. They only wanted my face and my tits and my body on their arm.”

He reaches for my hand, then squeezes.

I shrug. “It’s okay. I figured it out fast enough. And then I turned it around. Turned it into a tool. They never saw the real me anyway, so I finally decided that if I had it, I might as well use it.” My smile is thin. “I believe in being pragmatic.”

“Maybe so, but there is no escaping reality. And the reality is that you are beautiful. It’s not a curse. It’s not a tool. I’ve seen some of the pictures Nikki has taken of you. And captured on camera, you are truly exceptional. But it’s not because you have those incredible cheekbones or the kind of mouth a guy wants to see wrapped around his cock,” Ryan says, making me smirk. “You have a light, Jamie. You shine. You walk into a room and—”

“How do you do that?” I ask.

“What?”

“Make me feel special.”

His smile is so gentle it makes my heart swell. “Maybe you are special.”

He lifts his hand, and Stephen comes over, this time carrying a flat, square box wrapped in silver paper. “I bought you something,” Ryan says to me. He takes the box from Stephen and sets it in front of me. “Open it.”

“Ryan.” I can’t seem to stop grinning, and I reach for the box and pull it close. It is a jewelry store box, so the top is wrapped separately from the bottom. All I have to do is untie the bow and lift the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is the stunning silver collar. And on the center loop, there now hangs a lovely silver lock.

Ryan brushes his fingertip against the lock. “Because I want to lock you up and keep you. Because I will always keep you locked tight within my heart. Take your pick, Jamie. Both are equally true.”

His words make tears prick at my eyes, so I focus only on the gift. “It’s incredible. Thank you.”

“Will you put it on?”

I remember what we said in the store. That wearing it would mean that I belong to him. “Yes,” I say. “I will.”

He helps me fasten it. It feels odd at first—I own a few chokers, but I don’t wear them often, but I know that I will get used to it. More than that, I kind of like the fact that I feel it there against my skin. It is a reminder of what I am. Of whose I am.