Julie Kenner - Tame Me

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.

I spread my legs wider, giving him access, silently acknowledging that he has taken me in sleep—and that I like it.

He thrusts harder, again and again, until finally he explodes above me, and I watch as the orgasm draws him up, and then crashes him down upon me.

When his breathing returns to normal, he gently brushes his lips over mine. “Good morning.”

I smile in return. “Nice way to wake up.”

“You’re at my mercy, after all,” he says. “And I couldn’t resist you naked and sprawled on your back, your legs parted, just beckoning for me. You were already wet,” he said. “Wet and slick and hot before I even touched you.”

“I was dreaming of you,” I admit. “And then I was dreaming of this.” I lick my lips, then swallow, foolishly embarrassed by what I am about to say. “I like it. I want to be used.”

I see the heat flare in his eyes. “Do you. Why?”

I start to turn my head away, but he stops me with a firm finger on my chin.

“Why,” he repeats.

“You know,” I say. “It’s because I’m yours.” And then, because I have not yet had enough of him, I turn over, tucking my knees under me so that I am giving him my rear.

“I’m yours,” I say, my voice low and meaningful. I look back over my shoulder. “Please. I want you. I want you first.”

“Jamie, kitten.” His voice is raw, and there’s no mistaking the desire. “I don’t want to hurt you. If you’ve never...without lube...”

“My purse,” I say. “A holdover from my days of fucking around,” I add, then smile when he smirks.

It takes him only a moment to find it, and then he is back. “You’re sure?”

I want to tell him that I don’t want to leave him. That I think, just maybe, I have fallen in love with him.