Lifting one sock-covered foot to kick the door shut, he drank in the scent of her, the feel of her, as their mouths hotly collided. Thank God he’d let go of the idea of wanting his next relationship to matter. And it wasn’t that April Pediston didn’t matter—it was simply that he knew himself pretty well and he didn’t find her hard to figure out, either, and it was clear they had nothing in common other than the raging passion between them. But it also wasn’t the sort of chemistry that came ringing his doorbell just every day, and he couldn’t see the value of letting it pass by. In fact, he wanted to explore it, fully. And it looked like he might just finally be getting his chance.
For a few long, luxurious minutes, she kissed him back with all the lush intensity he felt as well. This was suddenly easier than before, the kind of hot kissing you could sink into and get lost in. Her lips were pliable and soft beneath his, and she didn’t shrink back from him as his hands roamed the curve of her waist, her hips. Her arms twined around his neck and her fingers flirted with the hair at the nape of his neck, the feather-light sensation rippling through him and ending up in his rapidly stiffening cock. She was in this all the way, finally, just like him.
When at last the kissing ceased for a few seconds, he leaned his forehead against hers as they both caught their breath. “Um, hi,” he said low and deep.
“Hi,” she murmured, arms still looped around his shoulders.
“You came,” he said.
“I . . . I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have. I—”
He pressed two fingers to her mouth to quiet her. “What does it matter? Don’t think so much.”
At which point he decided it seemed like a good idea to resume kissing her—before she could ruin this somehow. So he wasted no time before lowering his mouth back on to hers, at the same moment anchoring an arm around her waist and pulling her body more firmly against his. And damn, he liked the way that felt. Her full, lush tits, warm against his chest, hardened his dick further, even as it became lodged against her belly, just below her navel. She gasped softly and he knew it was from coming into close contact with his erection. Only he wanted it lower. And it made him kiss her harder.
God, the energy between them crackled like electricity—and he quit thinking now, too. He merely continued to follow his body’s inclinations—to press his tongue more fully between her lips than he had so far, to drop his hand to her ass and cement their torsos even more tightly together. A few seconds later, he followed another urge—to ease his free hand up her side, stopping at the plump outer curve of her breast.
He could hear her breathing, panting now as they kissed, her excitement growing along with his.
He brushed his thumb over the tip of her breast to find her nipple jutting prominently through her bra and top. His cock throbbed in response to the feel of the hard little bead, and a low, soft moan echoed from his throat. Deepening the kiss, he didn’t fight the impulse to slide his palm more fully onto her luscious tit, wanting more, so much more, and ready to take it.
But that was when she balked, her body stiffening in his grasp. And the next thing he knew, she was using one hand to yank his touch from her breast, then shoving both palms against his chest, trying to push him away.
Except . . . he ignored it.
That wasn’t his usual response if a woman tried to separate from him, but . . . hell, he knew her too well on this score already. He knew this was just more of the same—her fighting with herself even as she wanted it; her fighting to make him . . . take it. And he knew it was truly that simple. She wanted him to take it. She wanted him to be the one who made it happen, made her do it.
And he knew damn good and well that if some guy was telling him this story, telling him the woman wanted it even though she was pushing him away, he’d advise the jerk to get his head screwed on straight, and he’d probably even go so far as to remind him that even if he didn’t care on a moral level or a reciprocal-pleasure level, there were laws against that sort of thing. But he and Ginger—they were already way past any confusion this behavior would normally cause. He knew to the marrow of his bones, without one shred of doubt, that this was more of the game that turned her on so much. And which, at the same time, he supposed, made it so she could tell herself afterward that she was innocent and hadn’t really given in to her lust.
And so he kept right on kissing her. And even as she made a weak attempt at backing her head away, he felt the heat of amplified desire—woven through with that little thread of kinkiness—practically dripping from her just before it came over him as well.
Soon her head was against the wall as he moved his mouth over hers. She turned her face away, but when he persisted in resuming the kiss, she couldn’t quite stop herself from responding even while she struggled to break free of the grip he had on both her wrists now.
And in one way he was annoyed as hell that she had to take what had felt good and right and easy and mutual and fuck it up like this—but in another, just like her, he was more excited now. And it blipped through his brain that maybe it should bother him a little to be aroused by having to make her give in—but he let the thought go and just rolled with it. It didn’t turn him on to force her—it turned him on to know that she wanted him to; it turned him on to embark on the hot, kinky, dirty game it created.
The time finally came when Rogan stopped kissing her—they’d kissed each other so vehemently, almost violently, for so long now that he knew their mouths would be sore afterward and they were just getting started. But even as she continued to struggle against his grasp on her, against the way his hips—and intensified erection—now held her against the wall, she never uttered a word, never said no. It only amped up what he already knew. She could fight all she liked, but she wanted him to fuck her so bad she could hardly stand it.
When he let go of her wrists, planted his hands on her ass, and picked her up, the struggle continued—her pushing at his chest again, her legs flailing lightly as he awkwardly hefted her into his arms and turned away from the door. As they neared the couch, she finally spoke, even though it came out weak. “Put me down.”
He obliged, dropping her onto her back on the sofa. “There ya go. You’re down,” he said, but he didn’t give her a chance to respond or react before he firmly straddled her hips, his knees pressing into the couch cushion at either side.
There was something gut-wrenching about being back in the same spot where they’d fucked last time. He hadn’t planned that or thought about it when he’d carried her here, but now that he towered over her, it just increased his hunger that much more. He didn’t hesitate to bend over her, let her feel his weight, the largeness of him compared to her. He didn’t hesitate to close his hands over her breasts through that thin, summery top she wore.
She flinched at the bold touches, then writhed back and forth as if the motions would somehow force his hands away—when in fact he was pretty sure it only made her feel them more. Giving that up after a few seconds, she went still, panting, now closing her fists around his wrists for a change. She attempted to pull them away, but the weak effort almost amused him. Not enough to make him smile at her, though—simply enough to tighten his cock that much more.
Even as she held his wrists, he began to caress and massage her scrumptious tits, two perfect mounds of flesh in his possession. Their eyes met and she tried to look horrified, offended. Her lower lip trembled.
He suffered the urge to lean down and kiss the quiver away, but resisted because he didn’t want to break the gaze. Because in it he began to see . . . exactly what he wanted to. She couldn’t hide it. How good it felt. How overcome with desire she was.
With his wrists still in her grip, he caught both her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers through her clothes. She let out a short, desperate cry, bit her lip. Her eyes fell shut and he could sense the pleasure and need expanding through her, spreading out from her breasts like a puddle that stretched all the way from her head to her toes. He pinched and lightly squeezed the
hardened peaks, watching her reactions, which she tried to hold in, but hot little gasps and moans snuck out as she clearly tried her hardest not to feel it.
“St-stop,” she murmured. Then again, stronger. “Stop.”
At this, Rogan leaned down over her, his face close to hers, his hands still covering her full breasts. His voice came out raspy. “You know you can’t say that if you don’t mean it. Tell me you mean it, April,” he dared her.
Her eyes widened so intensely that he drew back from her, sitting up some.
“You called me April,” she said, feather-soft.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“I . . . wasn’t sure you knew,” she admitted, sounding a little embarrassed.
He bent back down, then whispered in her ear. “I know, honey. I know exactly who you are.”
To his surprise, her grip on his wrists had suddenly loosened, so he took the opportunity to smoothly move his hands to hers, locking fingers and stretching her arms up over her head. For the moment, she’d quit fighting and let him do it. Maybe he should call her April more often—he hadn’t given it any thought and he’d had no idea she’d be so surprised.
“Be a good girl and leave your arms where they are,” he told her as he skimmed his fingertips down them, then lightly over her breasts and to the hem of her top.
Who knew how long she’d be this docile, so it seemed like a good time to take her top off. Same as if she were a child, he gathered the fabric in his hands as he pulled it off over her head and uplifted arms. Underneath she wore a lacy pink bra the color of cotton candy against—as he’d noticed once before—skin too pale for a south Florida girl.
Even so, there was something pure and lovely about it—pale on pale, soft on soft. And in that moment he knew her a little better, understood a little more why giving in to what she wanted was so difficult. She was the softest sort of woman in a way. Hard lawyer shell in those crisp, harsh suits, but underneath . . . pink lace and skin untouched by the sun. Maybe he hadn’t quite grasped that up to now. He’d seen her struggle, but he hadn’t thought much about why. Maybe he hadn’t cared much about why. He’d only wanted what he wanted.
But fortunately, what he wanted was what they both wanted. Even if she needed him to take it by force.
Her tits looked downright creamy, their inner curves swelling from the lace cups. He took the quiet, still moment to run the tips of both his index fingers down the round edges of her breasts, inward, making a V as they met in the middle. She sucked in her breath audibly, which drew his gaze from those two vanilla scoops up to her ocean-blue eyes.
And that was when she apparently remembered she was supposed to be combating this, combating him. Her arms came down from over her head, her hands in fists that began thrashing lightly at him, some blows reaching his chest or arms, some connecting with nothing but air. Dangerous or not, though, this wouldn’t do. Not only because her constantly changing attitude was hard to keep up with, but because . . . damn it, if she wanted to play games like this, well, maybe it was time to really play. So even as she struck out at him over and over, he did his best to ignore it and worked at unknotting the silky bright blue sash she wore as a belt, threaded through the loops and tied at her hips.
Once he’d pulled it free, he stretched a length of it taut between his hands, testing the strength, and that was when she seemed to notice what he was doing—and got a little worried. She went still—no more hitting or flailing. “What are you—?”
He didn’t let her finish—instead he lifted off her just enough to physically flip her over on the couch so that he could secure her arms back behind her and begin tying her wrists with the sash. It was easy for him—a lot like cuffing a belligerent drunk driver on the road.
Only once he started, he found himself rather taking his time, even as she tried to pull free. He watched his hands work—he watched the way the silky blue fabric circled her wrists. He took care to make it tight but not too tight—just snug enough to hold her. Snug enough for her to feel the friction when she pulled at it in hopes of getting free. He already understood instinctively that friction was part of it, part of what made the struggle hot—it provided yet more sensation for her to soak up.
And the act of tying her . . . maybe he’d known it would excite him, maybe that was why he’d chosen this particular way of subduing her—but still it surprised him how much dark pleasure he took in binding her wrists that way. And he couldn’t help thinking of Mira—of that weekend he’d spent with her and Ethan in an upper Michigan cabin. He’d rediscovered her there, and he’d lost her again just as fast—but what he was remembering just now was how he’d dominated the sex more and more as the weekend had passed, and how he hadn’t really planned it that way, but the more he’d done it, the more power and control he’d taken, the more aroused he’d become.
And this was kind of like that. Except heavier. More in your face. He was actually tying a woman up and letting it excite him. At this point, his cock felt like it could burst through his zipper any second, like it had taken on a life of its own.
He shifted his gaze to her face, her body now turned sideways, away from him, on the sofa. The truth was that she looked afraid. But he knew better—or he at least knew that any fear she experienced was secondary to the heat coursing through her veins—and it struck him then how very much fear and passion could look alike and how strange that was.
April could scarcely believe any of this. That she’d come here. That she’d responded to him with such wild abandon before it hit her how erratically she was behaving. Or that now he’d actually tied her hands behind her back. Her mind was in a whirl of confusion—she’d been all over the place mentally ever since she’d left her condo, but certainly even more so since arriving here. Yes. No. Up. Down. In. Out. She couldn’t blame the man for being frustrated with her since what she wanted seemed to change every minute—radically.
Only . . . is it really changing? Deep down inside you? Or is it all just different shades of gray, different shades of what your body wants?
You have to admit that even the fighting feels strangely and bizarrely good.
Those few moments she’d relaxed here on the couch had been oddly good as well. With him hovering over her, holding her arms above her head. Fighting it felt like . . . the thing she was supposed to do, even if in a way it was almost like fighting with herself as much as fighting with him. And the moments of surrender were like . . . peace, rest. It felt good to give it all up, let him take over, give him all the control.
But then she crushed her eyes shut. Have you lost your mind? Behind her, he still twisted and tied the strip of fabric she’d never dreamed would be used this way when she’d put it through her belt loops this morning. You aren’t a woman who gives up her control. In fact, you’re the opposite. You’re take-charge and powerful. You run the ship. You watch over your clients. You keep things and people in line at the office. You take care of Gram. You take care of Amber and Allison, too. She didn’t, in reality, know the first thing about letting go of control, handing over the reins of anything to someone else, let alone sex.
Then why does it feel so good in the moments you let it happen?
Why are you lying here now, docile as a child, letting a man take away your power? Why, even as it frightens you a little to give that up to him, to be so vulnerable, does the vulnerability in some other way feel like . . . relief? A relief that’s exciting and wild. A relief you secretly want to explore. When you’re not busy fighting it.
And that’s when she remembered. To fight it. That’s when she remembered that to lie here content to let a man she barely knew do something like this to her was . . . unthinkable. And humiliating. And even if she knew it would do no good, she had to at least express that by struggling against him. More than she had been these last few minutes.
And as she began to tug and pull and jostle about beneath him, that felt good, too. Just because it was how she was supposed to feel, what you were suppose
d to do if someone held you down and tied you up. Maybe she wanted to get free, maybe she didn’t—she honestly didn’t know in that moment; she only knew that a self-respecting woman with as much responsibility as she harbored in life could not just lie here on this couch and let this happen.
God, I shouldn’t have come here. What was I thinking? Why am I drawn to this he-man brute? He is the big bad wolf incarnate. And if nothing else, fighting just made her feel better inside right now—because she was enraged, at herself, at him, at this whole situation, and struggling against the bonds that now held her at least allowed her to release some frustration.
“Whoa—whoa there, Ginger. Calm down,” he said—and she realized maybe she was struggling more than she had in a while.
And that—oh Lord—even as she did it, her breasts rubbed and bulged against the lace of her bra in a way she felt between her legs. And maybe she should just accept it, face it—they were going to have sex again, it was beyond stopping now—yet it remained difficult.
“You are a Neanderthal,” she spat without planning, still facing inward on the couch and feeling trussed like a pig about to be roasted.
And it probably shouldn’t have surprised her when he responded by laughing—but it did. “Yeah, well, if that’s so, you’re right there in the cave with me, honey,” he said, and the words stung.
Because it was getting harder and harder to deny. Harder and harder to convince herself she didn’t want this, hadn’t actually created it. A horrific thought, but there it was.
And now she struggled not because she was in denial, but because she was just so angry at herself, so aghast. This doesn’t make any sense. Pictures she’d seen of sexually submissive women bound and gagged flashed in her head. This isn’t who you are.
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