Out of Control

by Roberts, Teresa Noelle

  Her senses swirled. She saw colors she couldn’t name. She was swaying gently in the ropes, swaying gently in the place Drake had made for her, and suddenly Drake was with her, not just his voice, but his hands steadying her as she floated. “I’m here,” he whispered.

  “Don’t leave. Be with me.”

  “Always,” he replied, with such conviction that tears filled Jen’s eyes and she didn’t try to hold them back.

  Drake gently parted her legs, stood between them. He placed his hands under her ass, moving her in the floaty, strange space she occupied.

  Moved her onto his cock, letting out a groan as he did that sounded like a homecoming, a benediction.

  Everything became solid again, clear. She knew where she was. Knew the dimensions of the room and where she was within it. Knew how high, approximately, she hung above the floor.

  And none of it mattered at all except that she hung at the right height for Drake to enter her. He moved her against him, the ropes shifting on her skin as he did. She wrapped her legs around him as best she could, somewhat hampered by the way she was suspended. He slammed her against him, pounded into her with all his martial artist’s strength. Floating above the ground while being fucked so fiercely was bizarre and wonderful, another sexy disconnect that snapped Jen’s synapses and heated her blood. She was going to come any second now, was going to come and wasn’t going to find the wits or the words to beg, and she wanted to hold off to please Drake, to obey Drake, but my God, he’d just put his thumb on her clit, circling slowly, and how the hell was a woman supposed to resist that kind of stimulation on top of everything else?

  Jen bit her lip and drove her nails into her palms, trying to distract herself, but it wasn’t working. She was going to disappoint Drake, and that thought turned her off a little but not enough to save her. She opened her mouth, tried to speak, couldn’t manage to make a coherent sound. She mouthed, Please, hoping that Drake was watching her face, that his eyes weren’t screwed shut in pleasure or focused on her breasts or maybe straight ahead as he held off his own climax.

  She never knew if he saw her, but he cried out, “Come, Jen. Come with me now!” and it didn’t matter anymore.

  Everything spun. Everything shattered, but it was shattering like cracking the top on a crème brulée to release the creamy custard below, not breaking glass but destruction that led to something rich and sweet. She found her voice again as she came, but the words that came out seemed to be beyond her control. “Drake… Drake…love you.”

  She wanted to clap her hand over her mouth as soon as she realized what she’d blurted out, but of course she couldn’t. Wanted to curl up in a ball until she knew it was safe to come out, but she couldn’t do that either. She was helpless, at Drake’s mercy. And she’d just said she loved him.

  Drake pulled out of her, not abruptly, as if he was trying to get away, but slowly, reluctantly, as if he didn’t want to move but was finding the position awkward. That relieved her, but she was still holding her breath, waiting for a reaction. Maybe he’d missed it altogether, lost in his own pleasure. Maybe he’d figure it was one of those things that slipped out in the heat of the moment and he wouldn’t worry about it unless it came up again when she was more clear-headed. When they had clothes on, maybe.

  Only she was pretty sure it wasn’t the heat of the moment. She’d fallen for Drake Matthews, and she’d fallen hard. Fallen as she flew.

  No, she’d fallen well before that. She just hadn’t fully owned up to it before.

  “I’ll be back,” Drake said, his voice soft, serious, intense.

  He stepped away, and within a time she couldn’t measure, she found herself back on the floor, back in reality.

  And still in love with Drake.

  Then he was with her, pulling off her blindfold, pulling her into his arms. “Thank you,” he said. It sounded almost like he was holding back a sob, though Jen couldn’t believe it. “Thank you for saying that.”

  “Why?” Her voice sounded very small. She was having a hard time focusing on a thought, but that seemed important to ask.

  “I couldn’t myself. And I wanted to.” Stunned, smiling, unsure what to say, Jen opened her eyes. Drake sat on the floor next to her, working on the ropes. His body glistened with sweat. He was all hard muscles and clean lines, masculine beauty in its purest form. But his eyes, often cool and calculating, were soft, like mist on a spring morning, and his usually clever hands didn’t seem to be working quite right. After fumbling with the knots for a few minutes, apparently trying to untie her without actually looking at the knots instead of her face, he grabbed the safety shears. “Fuck it,” he muttered. “Rope’s cheap. Time with you is priceless.”

  The scissors were blunt, designed for cutting clothes off a patient in a medical emergency, and Drake took care that the blades barely touched her. But the slight, cool contact—not even really cold, just cooler than her heated skin—sent Jen into a shuddering mini-orgasm.

  Or maybe it was Drake’s outburst, his emotional impatience when he usually tried so hard to control himself.

  Then she realized what she’d done. She’d broken a rule, and at the worst possible time. Her brain was still muddled enough that for one wild, painful millisecond she imagined he’d take back the words of love. She rejected that fear almost immediately. No one who was looking at her that way, no matter how dominant he was, would turn on her for something that random. But she knew that according to his rules, she’d screwed up, and that mattered now more than it would have a little while ago. “I’m sorry, Drake. I couldn’t stop myself.” She was horrified to realize she was shedding a few quiet tears.

  “I consider it a compliment.” He made a few more strategic cuts. “You’ve gotten good at holding off your orgasms, so when one catches you off-guard, I know I’m doing something right.”

  She sighed with relief.

  “And I’m sorry about crying. It’s just…a lot. Everything’s bright. Incandescent.”

  Drake tossed the shears aside and drew Jen onto his lap. Pieces of rope slithered off as she moved. It tickled, but the world had taken on a pink glow that softened the tickle into a caress. “Incandescent? For once I know what you mean when you say something like that. I feel like I’m glowing. Weird, but I like it.”

  “Does this mean…you own me or something?” she finally thought to ask. “Before…you said you wanted to work toward that.”

  “Hush. Let me think.” He kissed her, and while he did, all she could do was give in to the kiss, open herself to him.

  Maybe it was because she was so open to him, or maybe the colors told her, but she knew what his answer would be before he said it. “If so, it also means I belong to you. You’re my sub, but I’m your dom and your partner. Yours. And that gives you a lot of power.”

  She smiled and snuggled closer. She still wasn’t sure what was going on. The thinking part of her was still lost in brilliant colors somewhere, but the colors, and Drake’s words, reassured her that whatever was going on was going to be wonderful.

  They’d be wonderful together.

  Everything else was details. Luckily, she was an artist and he was a mathematician. They were both, in their own way, good with details.

  “Oh, and that idea?” Jen had to shift through her foggy brain to remember what Drake was talking about. “What popped into my head when you were talking about not having been able to finish your degree is that if we got married, you could take classes at Cornell for free.”

  She smacked him feebly. “You’re insane. I love you, but isn’t it too soon to talk about getting married?”

  “Probably. And you know what? I don’t care.”

  “I’m not marrying you to finish my degree. Or to get health insurance. Or even to stop paying rent.”

  “When the idea first occurred to me, I was thinking of all those practical things. But how about marrying me because I love you and I want us to have a piece of paper that says we belong to each other? The practical stuff
is just a bonus.”

  “Now that’s crazy and impulsive even by my standards. Of course the answer is yes.”

  About the Author

  Teresa Noelle Roberts started writing stories in kindergarten, and she hasn’t stopped yet. A prolific author of short erotica, she’s also a published poet and fantasy writer—but BDSM-spiced contemporaries and hot paranormals are her favorites. She’s busy getting kinky with hot dominant guys and smart women who submit to them—but not anyone else!—for your reading pleasure, as well as creating more Duals and Donovans paranormal adventures.

  Teresa is a bit of a crunchy granola girl who enjoys belly dance, yoga, medieval re-creation, playing in the ocean, cooking, and growing more vegetables than she and her husband can possibly eat. Originally from the Finger Lakes region of New York, where Out of Control takes place, she shares her home in southern Massachusetts with her husband, a Leo who works in law enforcement, and two overstuffed cats. She and her husband often plan vacations around food, history, and/or proximity to water.

  Thirty feet of hemp rope hangs in her office, but she can’t imagine how it got there. Maybe because the hooks in the bedroom were full.

  Find out more about Teresa at www.teresanoelleroberts.com. Or if you’d rather chat a bit, follow her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/TeresNoeRoberts or become a fan at www.facebook.com/AuthorTeresaNoelleRoberts.

  Look for these titles by Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Now Available:

  Knowing the Ropes

  Duals and Donovans: The Different

  Lions’ Pride

  Foxes’ Den

  Fox’s Folly

  They’ve got the sex factor in spades. But can love survive the “ex” factor?

  Knowing the Ropes

  © 2013 Teresa Noelle Roberts

  Selene has harbored kinky, submissive fantasies most of her life, but her experience as a domestic abuse counselor leaves her leery of giving up that much control. Case in point: the ex-fiancé she didn’t love quite enough to test the limits of trust.

  At a BDSM meet-and-greet, she sets out to learn how far is too far. Nick seems like the ideal dom to show her the ins and outs of ropes, floggers, and paddles—with no commitment clause.

  After losing a sub he loved too much, Selene’s country girl common sense and smoking sensuality is like a dream that Nick never dared to have—a perfect blend of kink and long-term domestic bliss.

  Yet it’s tough to figure out just how far they can push their limits when they’ve both agreed to a no-strings affair. Especially when an ex needs Nick’s muscle and Selene’s counseling skills to get out of a dangerous situation. By then it may be too late for love to survive all the things they’re afraid to say.

  Warning: Sexy, kinky, geeky dominant guy. Smart submissive woman. Crazy ex. A little experimentation between girlfriends. And lots and lots of kinky sex.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Knowing the Ropes:

  Selene found herself with Nick, drifting toward an early dinner somewhere. He had a place in mind but hadn’t actually told her where, and she found she liked the feeling that she’d put herself into his hands in this small way.

  The more she talked with Nick, the more his cool blue gaze and warm smile distracted her, and the more she felt his body language sync up with hers. No, not exactly in sync but one step ahead, anticipating her next movement and influencing it, as if starting to mold her already. She watched his big hands, imagining them alternately caressing and slapping her breasts, her thighs, her ass.

  She looked down at his feet when she imagined her fevered thoughts were too obvious in her eyes, then imagined herself kneeling there, naked, trembling, wet.

  Actually, she didn’t need to imagine the wet and trembling part. Her panties already felt suspiciously damp and her knees were shaky.

  They walked more or less in silence. Between traffic noise, noise from the perennial construction along Atlantic Avenue and the melting heat, talking seemed far too much like work. Even the breeze off Boston Harbor was sticky.

  By the time they crossed a bridge over Fort Point Channel, she was wishing she’d worn flats, even if they wouldn’t have looked right with the outfit. She prayed that the restaurant would be an informal place where she could slip her shoes off under the table.

  Once she saw the restaurant, her feet breathed a sigh of relief.

  The Barking Crab was a tribute to the beachside clam shack. Rough picnic tables covered with butcher paper—they even provided crayons for doodling. A mix of fried and steamed seafood, with a few more sophisticated but still basic selections. And outdoor seating on the harbor, so she could kick off the damn heels and relax. “It’s a tourist trap,” Nick said, “but it’s fun.”

  Soon they were drinking cold beers—he’d recommended the fascinatingly named Smuttynose, from a brewery in New Hampshire—and awaiting plates of fried scallops, fried calamari and steamed mussels. Selene hadn’t eaten a great deal that day and the frosty, hoppy beer was making her feel pleasantly euphoric.

  Or maybe that was Nick.

  She stretched out her bare foot, brushed it against his calf. Hard muscle under soft denim. Nice.

  Yeah, Nick might just have something to do with the euphoria.

  He took the hand that wasn’t holding her beer.

  No, he didn’t exactly take her hand. He covered her hand with his and closed his fingers around her wrist. Then he looked into her eyes.

  A slow, sensual smile opened on his face as he said, “That’s better. Isn’t it?”

  It wasn’t really a question, but he was giving her an out if she wanted it.

  She didn’t. That firm grip on her wrist hinted at so many things she’d dreamed of. “Oh yes,” she breathed. “Better.” She dropped her voice a notch. “And wetter.”

  It may have been purely coincidence that the woman sitting behind her giggled at that second, but Selene was sure she’d overhead.

  Heat flared in Selene’s cheeks and, to her surprise, between her legs. She squirmed in her seat, less from actual embarrassment than to enjoy the pressure the movement put on her swollen lips.

  Under the cover of the first round of food arriving, Nick leaned forward. “So, you enjoy a little bit of public embarrassment? I’ll file that away for later.”

  “You’re so confident that there’ll be a later?”

  “What do you think?” He ran one fingernail down the tender inside of her forearm.

  His nails weren’t sharp, but she still shivered.

  “What about the common-sense test?” she asked. Her voice sounded a little desperate to her own ears, grasping at verbal straws. “Don’t I fail it retroactively if I go home with you tonight?”

  “If you come home with me and let me lock you in a cage, then yes. But to do that, I’d need a cage, and where will I find one in downtown Boston on a Saturday night?” He laughed. “I’m regretting that test. It’s making us both think we have to be sensible, and right now I’d rather be impulsive.”

  “Would it help if I said I wasn’t thinking of much of anything except you?” Had that really come out of her mouth? “Okay, you and food. I’m starving.” She grabbed a ring of fried calamari and popped it into her mouth, hoping the squid would keep her from saying anything too stupid. Calamari had the texture of bubble gum, in her experience, and it was rude to talk with your mouth full.

  Damn it if this place didn’t manage to make calamari tender. Delicious too, with a nice, crunchy coating and a bit of spice.

  Much tastier than what she’d been expecting but not nearly as effective for keeping her safely quiet.

  “Try it with a bit of the banana pepper,” Nick suggested, picking up a calamari ring and a piece of yellow-green pepper. She thought for a second he was demonstrating the proper technique.

  He wasn’t.

  He reached across the table and held the food before her lips. “Try it,” he urged.

  Her mouth opened of its own accord.

  He brushed his finge
r across the pout of her lower lip, making her shiver.

  She opened her mouth slowly, took a tentative nibble to test the pepper’s heat, then parted her lips wider and engulfed the food and Nick’s fingers.

  Unfortunately, there was only so much room around the morsel for tongue and fingers to work their wiles upon each other. She did her best, though, sucking and nibbling on his fingers while he moved them against her tongue, tantalizing something besides her taste buds, which were already busily dealing with piquant pepper and warm, spiced calamari. She found she was leaning forward to take him, wanting to feel more, liking the sensation that he was filling her mouth.

  She wanted him filling her mouth with his cock, wanted him to move in her mouth as he was now—no, harder, more forcefully, claiming that piece of her as his.

  She arched her throat, tried to convey the fantasy through what she did to his fingers, and discovered that the calamari and pepper were interfering.

  She coughed.

  It didn’t stop the lovely, depraved images running through her head. Frankly, it fit with them, because the blowjob she was imagining was the kind where you might find yourself almost choking on cock but not wanting to stop. The kind where you’d actually revel in the bit of discomfort because your lover was getting off so much on thrusting hard into your throat.

  On the other hand, cock couldn’t actually end up in your windpipe, but a stray piece of food could, and nothing spoiled a flirtation like a Heimlich maneuver and a visit to the ER.

  Regretfully, she pulled away and actually applied herself to chewing and swallowing.

  The pepper-and-squid combination was delicious, all right, but not as delicious as his fingers.