Julie Kenner - Tame Me

“In other words,” he continues, “I want you at my mercy, kitten. And I intend to make you purr.”

“Kitten?” I repeat. “Are you trying to tame me?”

“On the contrary. I like you wild. But I won’t have you walk,” he says firmly. “I won’t be one of the men you toss aside.”

He looks at me, and his expression is hard. This is the man who runs security for a multi-billion dollar corporation; this is a man who gets what he wants.

“So you tell me, Jamie,” he says. “Do you want me to fuck you? Or should I walk away right now?”

Every ounce of self-preservation tells me to play it coy. To insist that I don’t do ultimatums. To tell him that I know damn well he wants me as much as I want him.

In other words, to take back the power.

I don’t.

I can’t take the risk that he will call my bluff. That he’ll walk away.

Because, damn me, I want the man.

I know all the reasons that I should tell him no—but I also know that I won’t.

Because right here, right now, I want this man inside me more than I have ever wanted any man. Hell, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

“Jamie,” he says. “What do you want?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes, what?”

Slowly, I stand. Then I tilt my head so that I can look at him more directly. “Yes, everything,” I say. “You want me at your mercy? I’m already there.”

Pure desire cuts across his face, and I press my hand against his chest, then slide it down over his slick, hard chest. “Fuck me, Ryan Hunter. I want you to fuck me right now.”

“Well,” he says as he reaches behind me to unhook the back of my bikini top, “I do like the sound of that.”

The top hangs loose, and as he steps closer—as he reaches behind me to slowly lift my shoulder-length hair and then tug the bow at my neck free—I try to breathe, but seem to have forgotten how.

The top falls off my body, and I tilt my gaze down to see it land at my feet. I look back up to meet Ryan’s eyes. They are blue flames and seem ready to burn.

“The bottoms,” he says in a voice so tight with want that it does not sound like him. “Take them off.”

I swallow, then slowly ease my hands down my hips, hooking my fingers under the material, then shimmying out of the tiny bottoms. I let them fall to my ankles, then step out. I’m breathing hard, hyperaware of every tiny hair on my body. Of every small bead of sweat at the back of my neck. My nipples are hard and my areolae puckered. I am wet, and because I am waxed, I know that he can see how hot and swollen and ready I am.

He lowers his eyes to my feet, then traces his gaze slowly up my body. I try to stand still, but it is as if his inspection is a caress, and when he lingers at my sex—when he releases a low groan full of pleasure and need—it is all I can do not to slide my hand between my legs and try to release some of this building pressure.

His gaze continues up, lingering over my breasts before settling on my face. “You are stunning,” he says. “I like seeing you aroused. It makes the fire in you burn hotter.”

“You do that,” I say.

“I like that, too,” he retorts.

I lick my lips, waiting for him to tell me what to do, but he says nothing. I try to withstand the silence, but it is impossible. “Please,” I say.

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

He cocks his head as if considering the idea, then nods once. “Lay down on the chaise,” he says, and when I go there, he shakes his head. “No. Face down. And keep your legs apart,” he orders. “I want to see how wet you are. How much you want me.”

“Very much,” I admit as I move to comply.

I have laid out naked many times before, even here at this house when it was only me and Nikki looking to work on our tans. But I never thought of it as sexual. It was just me. Just skin.

Now, even the sensation of the sun on my lower back is erotic, and when Ryan steps to my side and then traces a finger lightly from my heel, up my calf and thigh, then over the curve of my ass and all the way to my shoulder, I fear that I just may die from the pleasure. “Wait here. Don’t move.”

I do as he says, though I cheat a little by spreading my legs more. I want him to see me—I want him to want me. And more than that, I want the sensation of the sun between my legs. Heat upon heat, fire added to fire.

He comes back quickly and without explanation, but when he sits beside me, I see that he has brought suntan oil. He squirts some onto my back, making me twitch from the sudden, ticklish sensation. But that is quickly quelled when his hands begin to stroke me, long, slow movements that heat my skin and fill the air with the scent of coconut and vanilla.

He pampers every inch of me, working on my hands—stroking and pulling each finger in a manner so erotic that every caress is reflected in my sex, which throbs and wants more and more as each moment passes.

He strokes my shoulders in deep, soothing motions, then moves down to knead my waist, my hips, and even my ass. He doesn’t slip further down, though—doesn’t touch me where I am so desperate to be touched. Instead he moves lower still, making my thighs slick, then focusing on my calves, my heels, the arch of my foot.

My breathing is fast, shallow. I squirm, silently begging him to slide his slick, oiled hand between my legs. But he is deliberate in his torment and does not take the hint. Instead, he bends low, brushing his lips against my ear and softly telling me to turn over.

I do, then force myself not to arch up in pleasure and longing as he gently but firmly rubs the oil over my breasts, then down my abdomen to stroke lazily over my pubis.

“I like that you’re waxed,” he says. “I like seeing your skin. Seeing you flush. Seeing how aroused and swollen you are. I bet you feel slick on my tongue. And now,” he adds as he slides his oil-slick hand between my legs, “I bet you taste like coconut.”

“Why don’t you find out?” I ask, my words little more than breaths.

“Maybe I will,” he says, then moves to the end of the chaise, roughly thrusts my legs apart, and buries his mouth between my legs, his tongue thrusting deep inside me.

The shift from slow and lazy to hard and wild is so unexpected that I arch up in surprise, lost in the swell of pleasure that is growing deeper and wilder within me.

“Yes,” I murmur, squirming against him, wanting him deeper in me, sucking me off, taking me all the way. “Yes, Hunter, oh, damn, yes.”

But then, just as I am about to explode, he draws away, leaving a soft trail of kisses descending down my inner thigh.

“No,” I protest. “Please don’t stop.”

“I’m not going to stop, kitten. I intend to have you every way I can, and then some. Sit up now,” he orders, and when I comply, he peels off his clothes.

I watch, mesmerized as he steps out of the briefs that are straining to hold in his erection. He is long and thick and perfect, and I lick my lips out of reflex. He notices and raises a brow. “Interesting,” he says. “Do you want to suck my cock.”

My own sex clenches with desire at those bold, simple words. “Yes,” I say, imagining the feel of him, the taste of him. Imagining even more the way his body would tighten and tremble, done in by my power to take him to the edge.

“Good,” he says. “But I have other plans at the moment.” He sits on the edge of the chaise. “Come here. Now turn around,” he says when I arrive facing him. I turn, and in my peripheral vision, I see him reach down and grab a condom packet. He rolls it on, then takes my hips and eases me backward.

“Knees on the chaise,” he says. “Kneel over me.”

I glance backward, then do as he says. It’s awkward getting on the chaise, then straddling him. But his hands are firm at my hips, and once I’m over him, I feel the head of his cock thrusting against me, and I wriggle, wanting him inside me.

“Go ahead,” Ryan says. “Take me. Take all of me.”

I reach between us and guide his cock into me, then I lower myself. He feels incredible, and I rise and fall, levering with my knees, up and down on his shaft. He is thick inside me, and the pleasure of this position is only enhanced when he lets go of one hip and slides his hand around to play with my clit.

Tremors run though my body, and I rock faster and faster. My hands go to my breasts, and then, when he takes his hand away from my clit, I cry out in protest, because I so desperately want to come with him.

“It’s okay. Touch yourself,” he says, and as he speaks, I feel his finger stroke me from behind, teasing my ass even as my finger plays with my clit and his cock fills me.

I am overwhelmed. I am nothing but pleasure and sensation and raw, wild need.

“Hunter,” I cry, as I piston faster against him, as the pressure builds inside me, as I feel him tremble deep, deep within. “Hunter.” I scream his name, and as I do, the world explodes around us and he empties himself inside me.

I collapse back against him, and he pulls me tight, his hands cupping my breasts, stroking and soothing. “That’s it, kitten. God, yes, that was perfect.”

We sit that way for a moment, and then he slowly lowers us both, our bodies still connected, to the chaise. I am breathing hard, feeling decadent and satisfied and wanton. He is gently kissing my back, my shoulders, and I think that for this moment, I have found heaven.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, just as I am about to drift off to sleep. Instantly, I am awake again.

“No?”

“Oh, no,” he says. “I have plans for you. For that cunt. For that mouth.” He pulls out, semi-soft now, and rolls over to face me. “But only if you want more. I could have you all day and all night, so if you want to stop, you need to be the one to tell me.”