Julie Kenner - Tame Me

With Ryan, though … well, with Ryan, I like the idea of him taking charge. I like it a lot.

I lick my lips, and hope I don’t look too eager. “So,” I say.

His smile is slow and lazy and wonderfully sexy. “So,” he repeats.

“Are you going to tie me to the bed now?”

“Not exactly,” he says with a kind of sensual mischief that creates a tug deep down in my belly. He nods to the bed. “Kneel for me.”

I glance at the rope, then at the bed. Then I do as he asks. “Is this—I mean, are you—”

“Am I into BDSM? Am I a master? Do I want you to be my sub?”

I blink. Well. Now that he put it that way… “Um, yeah. I mean, are you? Do you?”

His smile is a little bit amused, a little bit smug. “I like being in control, kitten. I like giving pleasure, and I like receiving it. I like taking a woman as far as she can go. As far as I’m concerned, anything goes between two consenting adults. I don’t give a fuck about labels. But yes, Jamie, I want to tie you up. I want to see you bound. I want to make you mine. So tell me now—do you want that, too?”

My mouth is dry, but somehow I manage to give the only possible answer. “Yes.”

I think I see the flicker of relief in his eyes, and for some reason that small reaction calms my nerves. He wants me—wants this—as much as I do, and I realize with sudden understanding that whatever I give up is like a reciprocal gift to him.

He steps toward me, the cord in his hands. “Do you know what makes bondage so pleasurable?”

“The submission,” I say, now putting my thoughts into words. “Losing yourself to the will of another. Giving in to his touch completely. Trusting him completely.” I tilt my head to face him more directly. “And for you, it’s knowing that a woman is at your mercy. That you’re responsible for pleasure. For pain. That you can tease her and torment her.” I draw in a shaky breath. “Don’t torment me, Hunter. I want you too badly.”

“And I, you,” he says, then presses his lips to mine and kisses me tenderly.

He moves behind me and binds my ankles together as I kneel, then tells me to twine my hands together behind my back, but also under my rear, so it is almost as if I am sitting on my hands. He binds my wrists, and then uses a length of cord to connect my bound ankles to my bound wrists.

Not that I can see any of that, but I can feel most of what he is doing, and he tells me the rest. What I don’t know is what he has in store for me now that I am trussed up like this. But when he moves back in front of me I tell him what I want. “You,” I say. “I want you in my mouth.”

In this position, I am mostly bent over, and he is kneeling in front of me. He is erect and huge, and I think greedily that I can take all of him. That I need all of him.

“Is that what you want?” he asks. “Why?”

“Maybe I want to take you to the edge,” I say as desire presses down upon me.

“You want me at your mercy?” I can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

“Who am I to argue with a determined woman?”

He is already kneeling in front of me, and now he takes me by the hair. My position is unsteady, but I ease forward, teasing the tip of his cock with my tongue, then growing bolder when he groans, calling my name.

I draw him in, sucking and licking, tasting and teasing, and I know by the way he holds my head, by the way his hips thrust as he fucks my mouth, that this was the right thing. He has taken me to the edge over and over, but now I am taking him.

I suck and tease and use my tongue to play with the tip of him. He thrusts deep, but I’ve never had a problem giving head, and I take him in, all of him, wishing I could use my hands, too. I want to touch him, want to see him. I want to know that I am giving back to him some of the pleasure that he has given me.

And then, with a deep groan and a low cry of, “no, not yet,” he pulls out. I hear his shallow breathing, and when I tilt my head up to see his face, it is passion I see in his eyes.

I lick my lips, savoring the taste of him as he repeats, “Not yet,” more calmly this time. “I’m going to come inside you,” he says, and my body clenches tight with his words. “I’m going to make you explode.” He strokes my hair as he says, “I’m clean, but I’ll wear a condom if you want.”

I shake my head. “No. Please. I want to feel you.”

He smiles in answer before he moves behind me, his hands stroking my rear as he trails kisses down my back. “Put your head down,” he says. “I want to see your ass in the air.”

I comply, and he strokes me, his hands sliding over the globes of my ass. “Do you have toys?” he asks.

“Not a lot,” I say. “Some oil that I bought when we got Nikki her goody bag.”

“Where?”

I point him to the bedside table, and he gets the stuff. The oil is some sort of minty arousal oil, and he strokes it onto my clit, then laughs softly when I first complain that I feel nothing—but then soon buck from the tingly, intense sensations. I’m desperately wet, and with his finger teasing my clit, I’m going a little crazy.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, then thrusts inside me. He’s deep, and I moan in pleasure as he fills me. I rock back, wanting to take more of him, and as I do he pulls me to him, his free hand gripping my waist. Then he slides that hand down, teasing me where our bodies are joined, making his fingers slick before he slides them up to my ass. “I want you here, too,” he says. “Have you ever?”

I shake my head. “Just toys,” I say, as the sensation of the oil on my clit and his hand on my ass drives me very close to the edge. I feel a blush coming on. “I liked it.”

“I’ll remember that,” he says. “Right now—right now I think I’m too far gone. Jesus, Jamie, what you do to me.”

He thrusts again, deeper and faster, even as he teases and torments my clit, the effect of the oil shooting me up into the stratosphere. I hold my breath, willing the climax to wash over me, craving the explosion, desperate for the man to fill me.

And then, with one final thrust, he cries my name and empties himself into me. His hand presses against my clit, and the renewed pressure sends me tumbling over after him, faster and faster until there is nowhere to go, and he topples us both over onto the bed.

I am still bound, a tight ball, and he is curved around me. I am breathing deep, my mind little more than mush and my body like liquid. “Christ, Hunter. You destroyed me.”

“No,” he says. “It’s you who’ve broken me. There’s a fire in you, kitten. And I want to burn with you.”

“Kitten,” I repeat, my voice dreamy. “Why kitten?”

He chuckles. “I think it suits you.” He kisses my shoulder. “You’re soft and warm and definitely playful. But I’ll need to watch the claws.”

I have to bite back a laugh. “Yes,” I say. “You will.”

We lay that way for a moment, then he unties my bindings. I stretch, relishing the motion, as he reaches for the remote on the bedside table and presses the button to close the electronic blinds.

Then he pulls the quilt up over both of us and holds me close.

I spoon against him, his chest warm against my back, and his cock still semi-hard against my rear. He drapes his arm around me and holds me close.

I could get used to this, I think.

Hell, I could get used to him.

Except for the short nap by the pool, I haven’t slept in almost two days and exhaustion presses down on me. I close my eyes, feeling warm and satisfied and sweetly used, and, finally, let sleep sweep me away.

When my eyes flutter open, I do not know how much time has passed. Very little, I think, as we are still in the same position. But the gentle softness that drew me into sleep is gone, replaced by something cold and panicky.

I do not remember my dreams, but I am damn certain that my subconscious has been poking her manicured fingernail hard into my ass.

I don’t want to wake him, and so I gently lift his arm, then slide out from under it. He doesn’t move, and I take a moment to sit on the edge of the bed and look at him. Even in sleep there’s a strength to him, and he really is so damn good-looking that I could just sit here all day drinking him in.

He makes me feel amazing—sensual, sexual, special. But it’s not just sex. There’s something about Ryan Hunter—about the way we connect—that makes me smile. We click. We always have, even without the touching, the fucking.

I like him, I think.

More than that, I could love him.

The thought churns up that undercurrent of panic, making it rise to the top. Turning my skin cold and prickly.

The last time I fell for a guy, I got my heart ripped out and stomped upon. Bryan Raine, a narcissistic asshole who was a major catalyst for The Plan. A man who pulled me in and twisted me up.

Granted, Bryan Raine isn’t even worthy to lick Ryan’s boots, but when you get down to it, my panic isn’t about Ryan. It’s about me.

And I fucked up.

No matter how amazing these last few hours were—no matter how wonderful he made me feel—I blew it big-time. Like I had with Raine. Like I had with so many guys.

I mean, for fuck’s sake, all I asked of myself was that I go home and get my shit together. And then one hot guy tells me he wants me in his bed, and I start panting like a bitch in heat.

Pathetic.

Frustrated and angry with myself, I stand up. My phone is on the bedside table, and I can see on the lock screen that I’ve missed a call. I take it with me to the bathroom, and as I’m in there I listen to the voice message. It’s from Georgia Myers, the head of programming for the network television affiliate I’d auditioned for in Dallas.

I listen, my heart pounding faster and faster, as she offers me the job.

“I understand you’re currently out of town, but I’m still hoping that you can start right away. This is a little unorthodox, but our public relations director used to work in Los Angeles, and she has some contacts in the film industry. You may be aware that the new Derrick Johnson movie is filming in Las Vegas,” she adds, referring to the hottest new director in town. “We’ve actually been granted access to some of the cast. It’s a pretty big coup for a local affiliate station, and we’re very excited by the opportunity.”

She continues, asking me to call and let her know if I can take the job and, if so, if I can get to Vegas quickly. She’ll find out who among the cast is available for an interview and e-mail me the research material.

That pounding in my chest increases as my panic takes on a new quality. A this-is-a-fucking-awesome-opportunity I-don’t-want-to-screw-it-up quality.

I won’t, I think. I can’t.

I can do this job. I look good on camera. I’m comfortable talking with people. This is the kind of job I want. The kind of job I need.

It’s the kind of job in which I can prove myself—and the kind of job that can lead me right back to Los Angeles when I’m clear.

In other words, it’s step one of The Plan already checked off the list.

I start to race out of the bathroom, eager to tell Ryan—and then I pull myself up short in the doorway. What the hell am I doing?

I could get used to this, I’d thought as I slid out of bed earlier.

And damn me all to hell, it was true. I could get used to it. Already he’s filled my head and knocked me off center. Already, he is the first person I wanted to share good news with.

Oh, god. Oh, god. I really have fucked up and good. I should have walked away. Should have told him no.

But I’m a goddamn wimp who can’t even stick to her own decisions. Who gets so twisted up by a man she can’t even manage to follow her own path.

Worse than that, I let him take control. I let him get close. I dropped my shields and surrendered totally.

I’ve given him the power to hurt me—and I know goddamn well that eventually he will do just that.

They always do.

How had I screwed it up so badly? I’d gone from being determined to stand strong and get my shit together to drowning in the residue of all my bad choices.

I look at the man sleeping soundly in the bed. I know what will happen when he wakes. He will soothe my tears, tell me it will be okay. He’ll heal my wounds with kisses, and before I know it, I’ll be on my back with his cock inside me, my job and my plan all but forgotten.

I tell myself I am strong enough to resist. That I will tell him and then simply walk away.