Julie Kenner - Tame Me

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.