by Megan Hart
“Slower,” Caite commanded in that low, silky voice that was like a fingertip trailing all the way down his spine to his balls.
Jamison moved his mouth from hers to nuzzle and nibble at her neck. The ridge of her collarbone, exposed by her neckline. The first hint of her breasts. Then he stopped. Didn’t move. One knee pressed between her legs, nudging upward, then still.
Caite let out a low, frustrated laugh. “Not that slow.”
Then they were laughing again, and it had been so long since he’d laughed in bed with a woman... Hell, had he ever? He nuzzled her again, sliding a hand up to cup her breast. They stayed that way for a few minutes.
She put her lips to his ear. “Get on your back.”
He rolled, taking her with him so she straddled him. She opened his belt and button on the pants, then the zipper, working efficiently but stopping to look into his eyes as her hand slipped inside. His straining cock peeked out from the top of his briefs, already slick at the head. He thought if she touched him, he’d embarrass himself like a virgin in the backseat of his dad’s Mustang on prom night. When she curved her hand around him through the fabric of his briefs, he did indeed buck upward with a groan.
Caite moved back, off him. “Take off your clothes.”
He couldn’t move right away, paralyzed at the loss of her touch, until he forced himself to sit up and shrug out of his shirt. Then, standing, he took off his socks. Pants. At his briefs he paused, thumbs in the waistband, and instead of shucking them off and diving on top of her, he remembered what she’d said. Slower.
He went slower.
Caite’s smile made it worth it. She sat up on the bed, crooking a finger. “Come here.”
He did, crawling up the bed toward her, but she held him back by putting her foot on his chest. Her toes curled lightly. He waited, impatient but forcing himself to do it anyway. She sat up and ran a fingertip down his shoulder, across his chest. Tweaked his nipple gently. Then harder.
“Do you like pain, Jamison?”
His laugh was harsher this time. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to find out?”
His balls tightened at the thought of it. His cock twitched. “Do you?”
“I’ve never hit anyone on purpose,” Caite whispered, voice shaking just enough to make him want to kiss her again and again, to never stop. “I’m not sure how I feel about it, to be honest.”
This surprised him enough to sit back. Jamison swallowed. He didn’t want to dwell on what the hell he was doing here with her, what she’d awakened in him. Couldn’t think too hard about it or how he’d be an idiot about things, he knew it. But he had to ask her.
“You said nobody’d ever responded to you the way I do.”
“No. I mean, yes.” She laughed. “Nobody ever has. It’s intoxicating.”
“But you’ve done...this...before?”
He was grateful he hadn’t had to explain himself in greater detail. She got it right away. Caite shook her head slowly. Solemnly.
“If you mean...take control?” she asked delicately, and he couldn’t be sure if he was grateful for her hesitation in giving this a more descriptive name or if he wanted to hear her say it out loud.
“Dominate,” Jamison coughed on the word, his cock losing some of its thickness with the word.
“Some things,” Caite said quietly, “don’t need to be named to enjoy them.”
They stared at each other. She smiled, urging his own. Whatever it was, she made him want to do it. To please her. To give to her. To give in.
“I’ve never—” he began, and she put a fingertip to his lips.
“Shhh. I know. On your back,” Caite said. “Hands above your head.”
In the past he’d indulged lovers who’d wanted to ride him, but this was different. This was...everything. When she shimmied out of her panties and straddled him, her skirt pushed to her hips, the stockings sleek against him, his fingers gripped the wooden spindles of his headboard hard enough to make it creak.
“Condom?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Bedside table.... How did you know I’d...?”
“I was hoping. You’d have been a very sad man if you didn’t have anything,” she whispered, reaching, the motion putting her delectable breasts within reach of his mouth. She laughed when he made to kiss her there and pulled away with a condom in her hand. “Ah, ah, ah.”
In seconds she’d sheathed him. A moment after that, she’d settled herself on him with a groan he echoed. His prick throbbed inside her, and again Jamison feared he might spill. She gripped him with internal muscles, rocking, and again he made the headboard complain.
“Slow,” she whispered, and reached to unpin her hair. It tumbled around her shoulders in waves of deep honey-blond, and though he longed to sink his fingers into it, Jamison kept his grip tight on the headboard, just as she’d told him to.
She fucked him slowly, every rock and shift of her bringing him to the edge, only to have the pleasure settle back again. Caite closed her eyes, head tipping back. She hadn’t unbuttoned more than a couple buttons on her blouse, just enough to give him a hint of cleavage. She ran her hands over her breasts, then her belly, sliding her fingers between them to stroke her clit as her hips moved faster.
She opened her eyes. “I came so hard when your mouth was on me, do you know that?”
“I’m glad,” he found the strength to say.
Caite moved faster, biting her lower lip in concentration. Her eyes met his, not looking away. He let himself drown in their darkness.
“I want you to feel good, Jamison. The way you made me feel.”
“I...do...”
“Tell me how good.”
He fucked upward, unable to help it. “Feels so damned good, Caite. I want to come.”
“I want you to come,” she said. “But not just yet. Let me....”
“Oh, yeah.”
She cried out, low and raspy. Her pussy bore down on him, milking him, and he fought to keep himself from finishing, even though the world was tipping from the effort. He wanted to come, but his desire to feel her come around his cock was greater than his need to climax. He watched her ride him, her head tipped back, eyes closed in abandon. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in that moment, when at last she shook with pleasure and cried out his name. The sound of it triggered him at last, and he finished with a hoarse shout.
She covered him with her body for a few seconds, her hair sweeping over him, before she rolled to the side with a contented sigh. “Damn.”
Jamison let go of the headboard finally and rolled onto his side to face her. Tucking her hand under her cheek, Caite smiled at him. With her other hand, she pushed away some hair from his forehead and let her fingertip run down his nose to tap lightly on his lips before she got up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
She was...leaving?”
“Wait a minute,” Jamison said.
She glanced at him over her shoulder, already pinning up her hair again. “Hmm?”
“You can stay.”
Caite laughed. “I know I can. But I’m not going to.”
He sat up, confused and hating it. “Why not?”
“Because,” she said as she leaned to kiss him softly, “you will be a grouch in the morning and we’ll have to have some sort of weird discussion about what this is or what we are, and you’ll be awkward about us working together. And I just can’t deal with it, Jamison. I’ve just had the best sex of my life, ever, and I’d love to bask in the afterglow, but I know you. You’re going to...”
She paused with a low hitch in her breath, the confident woman he’d come to crave fading for a moment before she visibly shook herself into self-assurance again. She looked him in the eyes, cupping his face before letting him go. Stepping out
of reach.
“I don’t want regret,” Caite said. “I couldn’t stand it, to be honest. It would kill me.”
“I don’t regret it.” The moment he said it, he knew it was true. “Don’t go. Stay here with me.”
She eyed him, and he could see that as reluctant as she was to agree, she wanted to. “Jamison...”
He didn’t try to reach for her, but he got off the bed and moved close enough that she could touch him if she wanted to. “I’m not a man who takes no for an answer.”
Caite lifted an eyebrow but didn’t disagree.
“I know what I want and how to get it. It’s kind of a thing of mine—”
“I’ve noticed,” she said drily. “You kind of have a reputation.”
He smiled. “I want you to stay with me tonight. And in the morning, I’ll make you breakfast. Anything you like.”
“French toast? With powdered sugar?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Caite crossed her arms, looking stern. “Do you have powdered sugar?”
“No. Or eggs. Or milk. Or bread. But I’ll get up early enough in the morning to get to the store before you wake up so I can buy everything I need to make you what you want.”
“Is that what a submissive man does?” Caite asked, almost as though she was musing.
“I don’t know,” Jamison said, and finally took her in his arms to tug her closer for a long, lingering kiss. “But I know it’s what I do.”
* * *
When Jamison Wolfe committed to something, he did it at full speed. It shouldn’t have surprised Caite, not after watching him work. But discovering that he was very much the same way at play was still a delight and a wonder and something she was going to need more than a few weeks to get used to, no matter how exciting those weeks had been. She’d had devoted boyfriends who’d bowed to her every whim and aggressive lovers who had fought her on everything. She’d never been with a man who could spend the afternoon completely catering to her every need without ever asking her what she wanted as flawlessly and confidently as if he’d downloaded her personal instruction manual, and then spend the night on his knees in front of her while she ordered him to edge himself to orgasm over and over until only the barest breath of her on his cock sent him over the edge.
The combination was heady and electric, and she couldn’t get enough, but...
“Enough,” Caite breathed as his fingers slowed inside her. Her orgasm had flooded her entire body that time. Boneless and sated, she sank into the couch cushions and tried to catch her breath.
Jamison kissed her mouth, then got up to pour them both glasses of orange juice from the carafe on the tray he’d set on the coffee table. He’d made her breakfast, hand-fed her bits of French toast and sausage, then made love to her until they both fell asleep on the thick rug in front of the fireplace. Then he’d woken her with his hands and mouth and brought her to another rousing orgasm, and now he was hydrating her.
She could love this man, Caite thought blearily. The idea of it was enough to make her sit up straight. She took the juice. “Thanks, baby.”
Jamison brushed her sweat-damp hair off her forehead and kissed her again. “Have to keep my princess happy.”
Caite eyed him. “Princess, huh?”
His answer was a cheeky grin. He’d never called her mistress. She hadn’t asked him to. She’d thought about asking him to call her domina but hadn’t done that, either. Yet.
“Sure. You don’t like it?”
“It’s better than pooky sweetums or something like that,” she agreed.
Naked, Jamison got up to adjust the gas-fireplace flames. The view was stunning. Long, lean legs, smooth skin, firm ass. The dimples at the base of his spine sent her heart into palpitations.
“You should always be naked in my presence,” Caite said.
“That would make it awkward for our clients,” Jamison began as he turned to look at her, and just like that, whatever this had become flared again between them.
Thick and heavy with promise, electric. Volcanic. In three heartbeats he was at her feet, kneeling with that perfect ass resting on his heels, his blue eyes gone dark with desire. His pulse throbbing, matched by hers. He leaned to her as she reached for him, and when he put his cheek against her thigh, her fingers buried deep in the thickness of his hair, Caite had never felt so complete.
He stayed like that for a few seconds only. Then his shoulders heaved with a giant breath. He looked at her, mouth thin.
“What, baby?” she asked. “What is it?”
“This....” He ran his hands up her legs to tuck his fingers beneath her thighs. He shook his head.
There was no question it turned her on to have him on his knees for her, but it unnerved her to see him struggle with it. They’d played a bit over the past three weeks with commands and scenes, things they’d seen in porn. But the pomp and ceremony of what Caite refused to call by a four-letter acronym didn’t appeal to either one of them. It had become something both simpler and vastly more complicated than that: Caite asked; Jamison complied.
“I like to make you happy,” Jamison said. “I don’t know why. I just do.”
“You do make me happy.”
He shook his head a little, cutting his gaze. “It’s more than that, Caite. In the past few weeks, I’ve felt...free.”
Her heart lodged in her throat. She sat up to take his face in her hands and turn it toward hers. She kissed him softly. Then again, a little harder. “Me too.”
But he still looked troubled, and she didn’t know what to say or do to make that change. They sat that way for a moment longer. Then she traced his eyebrows with her fingertip. The curve of his mouth, which finally turned to a smile.
“Why put a name on this?” she murmured. “What other people do is their own business. What we do is ours. So long as we’re both making each other happy, do we have to think too hard about it?”
“I haven’t had much experience making people happy,” Jamison answered, sort of sourly.
His frown charmed her so much she had to kiss him again. “You’re good at it. Trust me.”
They were quiet together for a while after that, the sort of easy silence that falls between lovers who don’t need words to say how they feel. Her hand smoothed over his hair. His breath blew warm on her skin as he rested his head in her lap. They had to get up, she thought lazily. They had to move, to shower, get dressed. But for now it was enough to stay right where they were.
Chapter Eight
The daily lists were long and detailed and precise, written in Caite’s looping hand with the fountain pen she’d snagged from his desk and taken as her own. Random things. Ridiculous things, sort of, which made them all the more important to him for some reason.
Think of her at a certain time on the clock. Wear a specific tie. Order something particular for lunch delivery. Spend an hour exercising, then treat himself to his favorite beer. Text her a picture of his socks. She was big on pictures of what he was wearing, which was really silly since she could see his clothes at any time. It wasn’t the photos themselves, Caite had told him, whispering in the darkness with her hand idly stroking his cock and stopping just before he came, so that he’d been floating in a haze of arousal he thought might kill him—and that he’d gladly die from. It wasn’t the photos but the fact he was doing it for her because she’d asked it of him. No matter what it was. She liked making the lists because she said it meant he’d be thinking about how to please her all day long. Like foreplay for hours.
As if he wouldn’t be thinking about her all day anyway, Jamison thought. Caite had captivated him. Intoxicated him. He was...addicted.
He thought he might even be in love.
They hadn’t talked about that. Not about love or even what this was between them. With Elise out
of the office and Bobby settled in his desk down the hall, it would’ve been so easy for Jamison and Caite to sneak their private life into the workplace. He’d thought about it, of course. That first day in her office when she’d ordered him to go down on her haunted him, sending him a few times to the men’s room to force his dick into submission with a cold-water face dunk. Their days at work, however, by unspoken mutual agreement, might simmer with sexual tension because of the lists and the simple fact that with every look they set each other on fire, but they kept themselves as professional as possible.
At least, as much as he hated to admit it, with the Treasure House clients bringing Wolfe and Baron more attention and new clients every day, it was easier to keep themselves busy and focused on the job and not each other than it might’ve been even a few months ago. And it wasn’t as if they didn’t have any time together away from the job. Three or four nights a week, she came to his place, and their nights were taken up with getting to know each other in every way it was possible for two people to do it. He’d have been glad for more, but Caite had been firm about keeping things professional in the office. She said they needed their time and space away from each other, especially since they worked together. And she was right. She was right about most things he needed or wanted, even if he didn’t know it himself.
Or wouldn’t admit it. She was good at that, too. Finding all his secrets, even ones he himself hadn’t known he had. In only a few short weeks, Caite Fox had turned him inside out.
Jamison scanned the new list she’d left for him that morning before she’d left to do a few site visits. Today’s was shorter than usual. One task only.
“Surprise me with something that shows you know me.”
For a moment, stumped, Jamison stared at the words on the paper. Caite had proven herself to know him, time and time again, in ways he’d never failed to find amazing. It didn’t shock him that she might want him to know her a little, too. The question was going to be, could he do it?
* * *