Losing Control (14 page)

“If I believed that for an instant, you wouldn’t be here,” he retorts.

“I think your cock is deluding you. My hard limits aren’t very hard when it comes to money.”

“Fine,” he says impatiently. He flexes his fingers as if imagining how good my neck would feel being squeezed between them. “What else will do you for money? Will you come over here and suck my cock?"

“How much?” I say recklessly. His green eyes are glittering with anger. Or maybe with desire? I don’t really know, and I’m a little afraid to find out.

“How much do you charge?” He flings back.

It’s like we’re playing verbal chicken, neither one of us wanting to swerve off our stupid road regardless of the impending injury.

We stare at each other, the air around us so charged I’m surprised the whole place doesn’t explode. I start to rise from my chair and he shifts backward, his powerful thighs falling open. Are we really doing this? I hold my breath and sink down onto my knees between his legs. Our eyes are locked together and though I can’t read his clearly, he must see the disbelief in mine.

As I place my hands on his knees and then slide them slowly up his jean-clad legs, I admit that while I want him, this act will ruin whatever chance we have for something tender and meaningful. There’s a line here I’m breaching because if he pays me for sex, I’ll never feel like his equal. I’m not sure my actions are even sexual anymore.

This is a battle for control, and I’m not going to call a halt to it. If he lets it continue as if I’m some paid whore, we’ll be done. We might have great sex a couple of times, but it won’t ever be more than that. Certainly not the fulfillment of this great attraction he speaks of. Maybe I’m dumb for even thinking that his lines are anything more than rehearsed come-ons designed to get me to drop my panties and jump into bed with him.

And now that I’m on my knees and my hands are on his thighs creeping ever closer to his zipper, I’m wondering why I’ve even started this challenge. There is no winning here. There is no tenderness. No sweetness, only crass commercialism. But I can’t seem to stop from hurting both of us. Water splashes down my face onto the backs of my hands and slides off onto his jeans.

With a muffled curse, he reaches down and drags me into his lap. Burying his head in the crook of my neck, he tucks me close with one hand affixed to my waist and the other forked into my hair, his entire palm cupping the back of my head.

“No more,” he breathes. “I give.”

I wrap both arms around his shoulders, reveling in the solid muscle mass beneath my hands. I wipe my tears against his shirt as unobtrusively as I can, but we both know why he stopped.

He’s a beast, I guess, but he wants to be my beast. I don’t make the mistake of thinking I’ve tamed him though. We sit there like that—him holding me tight on his lap—for what seems like a long time before he presses his lips briefly onto my neck. Deciding he’s done baiting me for the night, he picks me up and carries me into the bedroom. Maybe he can sense my flagging energy. It’s way past my bedtime.

“I can walk, you know.”

“So can I.” He jiggles me a little in his arms, as if to say I weigh nothing, which isn’t true. “Isn’t it great how physically capable we both are?”

He tosses me on the bed and starts pulling off his shirt.

I’m tired, but I haven’t lost all sense yet. “Wait a second.” I hold up a hand.

He pauses and then gives a little shrug and finishes taking off his shirt. In the lamp light, the planes of his chest look golden, almost amber in color. It’s like looking at an ancient stone statue come to life, and it takes a lot of effort to not reach out and stroke my hands across the light mat of fur on his chest and follow the treasure trail down into the very worn jeans. When his hands move to start unfastening his jeans, I’m awakened from my sensual stupor. “What are you doing?”

“Getting ready for bed,” he says implacably.

“Here?” I say dumbly.

“Yes.” And he proceeds to shuck his jeans. Underneath he’s wearing slate-gray, silky boxer briefs that hug his very manly form. He’s half-aroused and the shape behind the fabric looks enormous. My vagina clenches in either excitement or trepidation. Both probably. “I usually sleep in the buff, but because it’s been a long day for both of us, I’ll keep my shorts on tonight.”

“You can’t sleep with me,” I squeak. “I’m not ready for that.”

“We’re sleeping, bunny. Nothing else,” he says and heads for the bathroom.

“But . . .” I trail off. “Is this because of what happened earlier?”

“No.” He comes out of the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth. Speaking around a mouthful of foam and water, he says, “I was always planning on sleeping with you tonight.” He disappears, and I hear him spit and then the faucet running. “Actually, I planned to pick up where we left off, but it’s too late now. We both have to get up in the morning.”

The door closes and I hear the flushing of a toilet and more running water. Then he’s done with his nightly bedtime routine, which I guess consists of brushing his teeth and peeing. Men. Totally unfair.

Pulling back the covers, he pats my ass again. “Don’t look so disappointed, bunny. I plan to fuck you until you pass out tomorrow night.”

I flounce out of bed like an outraged maiden and hide in the bathroom. I can tell there is no moving him, and right now I’m so tired that I give in. On the marble counter are all my bottles of personal care products, from my facial soap to my toner to my moisturizer. My outrage meter is so overworked that I can only sigh at this sight. I run through my nightly routine, which is far more extensive than Ian’s, and strip out of my confining spandex. It’s too late for a shower, so I grab a wash cloth to clean my underarms and between my legs. Realizing I don’t have my pajamas—an old, oversized Giants T-shirt that I filched from Malcolm’s house—I wrap a towel around my body and confront Ian. “Where are my clothes?”

“There’s a walk-in attached to the bathroom. Should be in there.” He leans up on one arm, the blankets falling aside to reveal his perfect chest. “Or you can wear this.”

He tosses me the blue T-shirt he had on earlier. Reflexively I catch it and hold it to my nose, breathing deeply of Ian Kerr. God, he smells so good. Over his shirt, our eyes meet. His have taken on a feral glow. “Wear the shirt, Tiny,” he commands. And this time my reaction is a purely sexual one.

I imagine him ordering me to do all sorts of things in this bedroom and me liking it very much. I back away into the bathroom and lean against the door, breathing heavily. It’s like he can touch me with his words. Against my better judgment, I slip the T-shirt over my head.

He says nothing when I climb into bed next to him. I notice he sleeps on the right side of the bed, closest to the door. When my back hits the mattress, I release a moan of pleasure.

“How long has it been?”

“Months.”

He grunts. “Who was he?”

“Who was who?”

“The guy you were sleeping with months ago.” He sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. When I look at him, it’s too dark to tell if his eyes are even open.

“What are you talking about?”

“What’s this ‘months’ you are referring to?”

“That’s how long it’s been since I’ve slept on anything but the pullout.” I shake my head. “How long has it been for you?”

“I sleep in a real bed every night, bunny,” he says with obvious amusement.

“Ha. Ha. Fine.” I turn over on my side and thump my pillow. “It’s probably yesterday. FYI, I’m an only child. I don’t like to share.”

“Back at you,” he says. “I’m not fond of the idea of you sleeping with anyone else ever again.”

I don’t fall asleep immediately because having a man in bed with me is just strange. I hardly ever slept with Colin, my one serious boyfriend, and the few random hookups since him didn’t warrant a sleepover. Sleeping with someone can be more intimate than fucking him.

“Ever again?”

“Ever again.” He confirms in a husky voice, knowing immediately what I’m talking about.

“Ever seems like a long time, or is that a rich person’s term for like six months?”

He chuckles. “You define the length of time that makes you feel comfortable, bunny.”

“I can’t decide if ‘bunny’ is a term of endearment or an insult.”

“Endearment.”

“Seems kind of insulting sometimes. I need to pick out a nickname for you.”

“I thought I was Bruce Wayne.”

Ian rolls me to my side and begins to rub my back, his hand underneath my shirt, lightly stroking my shoulder blades, tracing my spine, and then sweeping back up again. It feels good and would be non-sexual if not for the hard-on the size of the Empire State Building pressed against my ass.

“That’s not insulting in any way.”

“You’re right. I like being compared to a superhero.”

“But you call me ‘bunny.’ That’s not kick-ass or super in any way.”

“You looked like a scared bunny the day I saw you outside the wig shop. You wanted to come with me but were afraid, and you hopped on your bike and rode away.” He sounds so smug, but I’m tired. The feel of his hand as it rubs away the pains of my long bike ride is too good to mount a protest against. “I appreciate the Bruce Wayne imagery, and I have to tell you I’ve always wanted the Batmobile.”

“You can’t buy that with all your money?”

“Unfortunately no. Technology hasn’t advanced that far yet.”

“So if I ever come into a lot of money, the perfect gift for the man who has everything is a Batmobile?”

“Don’t forget the butler. I want Alfred, too. Steve is no Alfred.”

“I’m telling Steve that the next time I see him.” I can barely force the words out as I get drowsier with each pass of his hand.

“You do that. And tell him I want him to start dressing like a butler and referring to me as ‘sir.’”

“Do you think he’ll change his behavior?”

“Yeah, I think he’ll become more of a prick.”

“If you don’t like him, why do you employ him?”

“Who says I don’t like him?” Ian pulls me snug against his body. I feel his hard chest around my back and the massive boner wedged even tighter against my ass. He throws one arm around my waist. A heavy calf slides over my legs, and I’m pinned down like a butterfly on a mat. And it feels great. “I fucking love Steve, but he’s got two emotional settings: stoic and a little less stoic.” His quiet laugh ruffles my hair.

As I’m falling asleep against the cave of his body, I whisper, “I don’t get you.”

“I’m going to tell you a little bedtime story, bunny. Once upon a time I was in Japan and I discovered this plastics company. I knew after the first tour of that company that I had to have it. They were manufacturing plastics using clean energy and in a safer way than I’d ever come across. I begged, cajoled, and finally bought my way in. It’s one of the best decisions I’ve ever made and one that I arrived at in a day.” He pulls me even tighter to him, if that’s possible. “This is how I’m wired. By the way, I haven't been with another woman since I saw you on the street.”

And then I’m dead to the world. His words run around my head as I sleep, but I can’t process their meaning even though I know he’s telling me something really important.

W
HEN
I
WAKE
UP
, I
AM
hot and aroused. There are two fingers between my legs rubbing the lace of my panties in circles, and at my back there is a furnace of male flesh.

“I thought we weren’t having sex until tonight,” I say, sounding a bit like Marilyn Monroe—all breathy sexuality. His chest rumbles behind me as he chuckles.

“We’re not.” But his fingers are playing out a different story. As they circle and press, I push back against the thick length snugged against my butt.

“It feels like sex.” It feels hard and long, actually, and despite the fight we had the night before and my lack of surety about what Ian really wants from me, it’s difficult to concentrate on anything other than the languorous feelings he’s generating with such simple movements.

“No, this feels like sex.” On the last word, he presses the tips of his fingers inside me, the fabric of the panties restricting him to shallow thrusts. Whimpering, I open my legs hoping for deeper penetration. I mean, he’s here. Why not use him?

Pulling my left leg back over his hip, he shoves the fabric aside and slowly pushes his middle two fingers all the way inside me until I can feel the palm of his hand rest against my clit. His palm stays there almost motionless, the heel against my sensitive extrusion, while his fingers scissor and stroke inside me until he finds that soft little sponge of flesh that makes me gasp out loud.

“Right there, hmm?” It’s not a question that requires an answer—at least not a verbal one. My body is telling him he’s stroking me in exactly the right way. My hips thrust toward his hand, and when he dips his head to nip at my ear, my arm reaches up hook his head closer to mine. His comfort doesn’t enter my mind. Am I pulling too hard on his hair? Are the nails of my right hand that’s moved down to press on the back of his hand digging too tightly into his skin? I don’t care.

I’m swimming in a tide pool of sensation that I want to wallow in forever.

“Not yet,” he whispers as he rolls me over onto my stomach. His fingers pull out of me, and I let out a sound of protest that is muffled by the pillows. Even if I were louder, I don’t think he would cease. He pulls down my sodden panties and shoves a pillow under my hips. Then his mouth is where his fingers used to be. His broad shoulders have spread my thighs apart and his tongue is spearing inside of me. I’m grateful for the pillow at my mouth because I can hear myself moaning.

“Right there. Oh God. Faster, please.” But my pleas are ignored. He has his own rhythm. His tongue is savaging my clit while two of his fingers are thrusting into me, curling and seeking until they hit that same spot he’d discovered earlier. Once found, he relentlessly fucks me with his fingers, all the while sucking and tonguing and licking me. Tension coils within me, curling my toes and causing my fingers to dig into the mattress.

From between my legs I can hear his groans of satisfaction—as if he’s getting as much out of eating me out as I am feeling from being the recipient of his gifted tongue and fingers.