Julie Kenner - Tame Me

“Do you like it?”

I don’t have a mirror—I left my purse in the room—but I reach up and feel it, and I can imagine how it looks. That isn’t what is important anyway, and when I turn to him, I am smiling. “Of course I do,” I say. “It makes me yours.”

I see the heat banked in his eyes as he brushes his hand over my cheek. “Yes,” he says. “It does.”

I lean over to kiss him, but am interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with our oysters. Ryan looks at me, and the gleam in his eye can only be described as devilish. “I didn’t think to ask,” he says. “Do you like oysters?”

“I’ve never actually had any,” I admit. “Not on the half shell, anyway.”

“Really?”

“Sad, isn’t it?” I say with a woe-is-me tone to my voice. “I’ve lived such a sheltered and unadventurous life.”

“Very pure,” he says. “Very sheltered.”

I grin.

“At any rate, it’s time to add some adventure, and I do think you’ll like them. Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.” And now my tone is all serious.

He meets my eyes, and what I see in that brilliant blue warms me. “I’m very glad to hear it,” he says.

The dozen oysters are arranged artfully on a plate surrounding a half shell full of red sauce. “Open your mouth,” he says as he dips a small spoon into the sauce, then dabs it onto an oyster. “There are stories that Casanova ate fifty of these for breakfast every day,” he adds, his voice low and steady.

I do as he says, opening my mouth, though I truly don’t know what to expect. I trust him though. More than that, I want this moment.

His eyes never leave mine as he raises the shell to my parted lips. “That’s it. Now suck, and just let it slide down your throat. Oh, Jesus, Jamie, you’re killing me,” he adds when I do as he demands, then use the tip of my tongue to catch the last bit of sauce.

“Delicious,” I whisper, but even I’m not sure if I mean the oyster or the moment.

“You do know what they say about oysters?” Ryan asks as he lifts another one to his own mouth. “Why a man like Casanova would want so many of them?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” I say, though I knew perfectly well.

“They say oysters are an aphrodisiac,” he says as he takes one of his own.

“Do they?” I pluck another shell up, then dab sauce on it. I draw it to my mouth, then slowly suck it in as he watches, the desire on his face so sharp it’s a wonder it doesn’t cut me to pieces.

I swallow, then smile sweetly as I indicate the oysters. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered you want to seduce me or insulted that you need so much help in order to try.”

“Trust me,” Ryan says. “There’s nothing an aphrodisiac could do for me at this point that having you next to me isn’t doing better.”

I hear the hint of something wicked in his voice, and it sends a shiver up my spine. “I’m very glad to hear it,” I say.

He takes a sip of wine. “I want you to do something for me now.”

I narrow my eyes, wary. “What?”

“Take off your panties.”

I lift my brows. “Um, no.”

He tilts his head, his expression stern. “I seem to recall coming to an agreement as to the rules.”

“My answer,” I say, “is still no. Not because I’m feeling rebellious, but because I’m not wearing any.”

I see the flare in his eyes that tells me I’ve surprised him. “Oh, really. Well, in that case...”

The hand that has been on my thigh moves up, and his fingers slip into that secret pocket. I gasp, though, when I feel the warm touch of his fingertips against my bare thigh.

I turn, shocked. “What—how—?”

“I really didn’t see the point of a pocket when it was so much more convenient without that seam.” He grins wickedly. “Full access.”

“But—”

With his other hand, he silences me with a finger to my lips. “Spread your legs,” he says.

“We’re in a restaurant.”

“Then I hope that when I make you come, you can refrain from screaming.”

“Ryan,” I say, but though my tone is a protest, my actions are not. I spread my legs, and when his hand slips down and finds me already wet, already excited, Ryan lets out a low whistle.

“You like this as much as I do,” he says, “getting off in public. Knowing that you’re mine. That I can touch you anywhere, make you come for me anywhere.”

His fingers slide over me, and I am wet—so wet that there is no denying the truth of his words.

A waitress comes to check on our wine and asks if we’d like to order the meal. I manage a polite smile, and all the while Ryan’s fingers are stroking me, dipping into me, taking me higher and higher.

As if to torment me, he asks her to recite the specials, and as she does, I reach under the table and clutch my own knee, trying to stifle the urge to squirm, to get his hand to move faster, tighter. To take me that much further.

As soon as she’s gone, I round on him. “Bastard!” I snap, but he only catches my mouth in a kiss and then whispers, “Come for me. Come for me now, kitten,” as he thrusts deep inside me.

I grab the edge of the table and stare blankly into space, willing my body not to move as the orgasm ripples through me. It is as if all that energy, all that explosion, remains centered in my cunt, and my body clenches and clenches around the fingers he has thrust inside me, all secret, all hidden inside my skirt and beneath the tablecloth of this fancy, five-star restaurant.

“I hate you,” I say when I come down from the high.

“No,” he says. “You don’t.” He pauses for a moment, then slides his hand out of my dress. “I have another present for you,” he says.

I decide it is safer not to ask, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a coil of ribbon with a hook on the end.

“What is that?”

“A leash,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “It will latch onto that loop even with the lock charm on the necklace.”

I smile, feeling bold. “All right,” I say. “Attach it. Then lead me back to the room and fuck me properly. But Ryan, you work here. I wonder what people will think.”

“Probably that I’m the luckiest man in Vegas. But you do raise a good point.” He reaches over and hooks the clip to the necklace. Then he lets the ribbon trail down, tucking the long end down my cleavage so that the remainder is hidden beneath my skirt.

I raise a brow. “People will still know.”

“Let them.”

I lick my lips, still aroused and more than willing to take this further. “Ryan,” I say. “How would you feel about skipping dinner?”

He laughs. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

He waits until we are out of the elevator and walking down the hall to the penthouse to pull out the leash. When he does, though, I like it. There’s pleasure in belonging to him, comfort in knowing that he is there. That I can rely on him. Go to him.

Talk to him.

A twinge of regret pokes at me as I remember that this is only temporary. But I push it soundly away. Right now, I am living only in the moment. Only in our arrangement.

I pause in the doorway despite the tug on the leash. He turns to look at me, mock disapproval on his face, and I smile. “Please, sir,” I say, and watch his mouth quirk with amusement. “Will you take me to the window?”

He does, and we stand together, looking out onto the brightly lit Las Vegas skyline.

“All the women in the world,” I begin. “You could have any of them, you know.”

“Not any,” he says. “Probably just ninety percent. Ninety-five tops.”

I smile, then sober. “You chose me.”

He moves behind me, then presses his hands to my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “No kitten,” he says. “We chose each other.”

I turn and look out the window again. “Yeah,” I say to our reflection. “We did.”

I tilt my head and smile at him, then trail my fingers from the choker, down the leash, to his hand. “So now that you’ve led me here, what do you intend to do with me?”

“Oh, I think we can think of something,” he says, and then unfastens my halter and unzips the back of the dress. It falls off me like so much gossamer, leaving me naked except for the silver collar, the lock, the red ribbon leash, and my three-inch heeled sandals.

“That,” he says, “is a very pretty picture.”

He gives the leash a tug, pulling me to him. I stumble into his arms, laughing, then kick off the heels.

“Maybe I’ll just have you serve me wine and cheese like that.”

“I would. But I think you can do better.”

“Oh, I think I can, too,” he says, then unclips the leash. He takes the ribbon and coils it in his hands. “Turn around, Jamie,” he says, and I comply willingly.

“Now close your eyes.”

I do, and then feel the gentle brush of the ribbon as he wraps it around my eyes—once, twice, three times, until it is at least as effective as a traditional blindfold. Then he pulls me down, laying me out on a soft, fur rug.

I wait for his touch, but it doesn’t come. At least not at first. Then I hear the subtle shift in the air and hear the clink of ice in a glass.

“Do you like bourbon, kitten?” he asks, and when I nod, I find his finger on my lip. I draw it in, suckling, and listen as the pattern of his breathing changes with his growing excitement.

Gently, he pulls his finger away, then trails it down my belly. When he gets to my navel, I arch up, surprised by the quick, cold shock of an ice cube.

“You’re delicious,” he says, and I tremble in awareness as he licks and kisses his way down the trail, then sucks at my bellybutton, the sensation making me a little crazy.

“I want to make love to you,” he says, and there is so much gentleness in his voice it seems to get into my heart and squeeze.

I reach for him, but he simply says, “no,” and I put my arms back. “Not yet. Not until I’m sure you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” I say. “I’m always ready for you.”

His answer is a murmur, and then he is upon me. Gently, sweetly. Hands, mouth. He strokes me, plays me, touches and teases me. If his goal is to turn me into nothing more than pure awareness, pure need, then he has accomplished it fully.

I am melting, wanting. And what I want is more.

“Please,” I beg. “If I can’t see you, at least let me touch you.”

Gently, he lifts my hand and presses it to his chest. It is bare, and I stroke lightly over the smattering of chest hair. I find his back with my other hand and stroke down, delighting at the firmness of his tight, bare ass beneath my fingers.

“I can’t wait,” he says. “I want you, kitten, and I’m taking you now.”

“Yes,” I whisper, lifting my hips and spreading my legs. I want him in me, on top of me. I want to lose myself under the weight of him, to feel consumed by him.

He strokes me first, his fingers readying me, and I moan in pleasure and anticipation. Then I feel the head of his cock at my sex, the pressure of entry, and then the sweet thrill when he drives himself home.

We move together, anticipating touches, sharing kisses. It is sensual, romantic, soft and easy. He is right—we are making love, and that sweet reality makes me want to weep with joy even as much as it scares me.

He strokes me, bringing me higher and higher until I tremble in his arms, the orgasm rippling over me this time like waves upon a sunlit pond.

His coming is much more violent, and he cries my name as he finds his release, and I cling to him, urging him deeper and deeper, wanting every last bit of him.

We lay together, and he takes off my blindfold then smiles down at me. Then he pulls me close and holds me.

I sigh with delight and contentment. And as I curl up against him, I try not to think of how much I want to stay with him, and that all of this is leading to the one inevitable conclusion—me in Texas, and Ryan in California.

I’m floating on an undulating sea, rising and falling, each wave battering my body and taking me closer, closer, closer to shore.

The water is warm and wet, slick and sensual. It moves over my naked skin. Teasing, seducing. Claiming.

It will suck me under, I know that, and yet I don’t care. I want to drown it it, I want to go down, down, down...

“Hunter,” I whisper as I slide out of sleep. My eyes flutter open, and I look up into the dark heat of his eyes.

His hands are pressed into the mattress on either side of my head, supporting his body as he moves slowly, languidly inside me. My body is alive—awake. Certainly more awake than the rest of me, though I’m getting there fast.