by Ann Jacobs
“Oooh.”
“Like this, do you?”
“Feels good. Don’t stop.”
Trace returned to his task, gratified but wanting, needing more of a response from her. A scream of pleasure, maybe, or even a whispered omigod. But Elle was always a lady. Quiet, dignified. Screams apparently weren’t her thing. It didn’t matter. He loved being with her, adored everything about her. He wanted her to be his wife, for always. For all those things, he could do without the loud, frantic sexual responses he’d been used to getting from other lovers over the years.
Her hands felt good in his hair, stroking his scalp while he tongue-fucked her. She seemed to like it from the way her juices were flowing now, slick and salty. The earthy smell of sex had his heart racing.
Why wouldn’t he get on with it, take control and push her over the edge? Elle pulled his face away from her pussy, tugged him up her body. “Trace,” she whispered before he took her mouth. He smelled of sex—hers as well as the unmistakable scent of aroused male. His muscular chest had her pinned to the bed, and his cock throbbed against her cunt. The way he touched her, so gently, made her feel loved. It also frustrated her so much she wanted to scream. He was hot. Obviously ready, at least physically.
Why wouldn’t he stuff that monster cock down her throat, make her go down on him the way he’d just done on her? So many times she’d wanted to go on her knees, take him in her mouth and feel him come deep in her throat, but he’d never asked. Never shown her he might want oral sex from her.
Of course she could have opened up her mouth and asked, or just gone to her knees and done it on her own. But every time she started to do it, Elle heard her mother’s voice in her head, as if she were there and looking in. “A good girl would never force the issue, reveal those unnatural urges.”
So she could turn into a complete wanton under the hands of a strange Dom at the club, but she wouldn’t dare ask the man she loved if she could. God, was she fucked up in the head!
She locked her arms around Trace’s narrow waist, urged him closer. She was no weak kitten who needed kid-gloves treatment. She didn’t need for him to treat her like a terrified virgin, as if he thought she’d bolt at the first sign he intended to take her—by force if necessary. “Make love to me now,” she whispered, when what she really meant was “Please, Master, fuck me hard. Tie me up. You can’t hurt me, not enough that it’s going to interfere with the pleasure.” Not for the first time, she felt the grip of despair that told her she should end this relationship before they both ended up getting hurt.
But she had a feeling that breaking up with Trace even now would break her heart.
He felt so good, all hard muscle built by hard work, not hours in a gym. And he made her happy in so many ways. Damn it, she’d gone and fallen in love with a vanilla man, but she so badly wanted him to be a Dom. This was never going to work.
His cock felt velvety soft when he sank slowly and gently into her sopping cunt. The stretching sensation, the heat and throbbing of him as he moved in her. She tried to concentrate on the delicious friction and heat, banish the need for him to rob her of her choices and push her over the edge. It worked, but only to the point that when he finally dropped his head to her shoulder and shuddered with the force of his climax, she felt a tiny twinge, enough that she tightened her legs around his waist, tried to maintain the little kernel of hope that this time he’d make her come. Really come. She turned her head, found his mouth, claimed his ragged breath as her own.
Fool. She should have known she couldn’t come without kink. No matter how much she loved Trace—and she did, too much to let him think he wasn’t satisfying her. It was her problem, her lack. Not his. When he stopped shuddering and gathered her in his arms, she pretended. But she suspected that if he didn’t know now, he’d soon realize her coming was only an act.
Can you stay the night?” As he often did after they made love, he wondered if her climax had been faked. But he was certain her affection wasn’t. She cuddled up to him like a friendly pup, her cheek on his chest, her arm draped over his back, fingers lightly kneading his butt.
She lifted her head, met his gaze. “I’m afraid not. I’ve got an early case in the morning.”
Trace tried to hide his disappointment, but he wasn’t sure…hell, he wasn’t sure of anything with Elle, except that he’d fallen in love for the first time in his thirty-five years of living and that he wanted to stake his claim. “We’ll skip the champagne until next time, then. Stay here for a little while. I have something for you.”
“A present? I love presents.”
“Good, sweetheart.” Getting up, he didn’t bother with clothes but strode to the table by the fireplace and took the ring box. When he came back to the bed he went to his knees. “Marry me. Be my love and my partner. I don’t mind sharing you with your patients—not much at least—but I want you to belong to me not just now but for the rest of our lives.”
He opened the box, hoping she’d be pleased with the good-size diamond solitaire on a slender, etched, platinum band. When she didn’t move to take it right away, his confidence took a hard swat. “Don’t you like it?” Damn it, he should have dragged Lynn along to pick out the ring.
Elle reached over and caressed his cheek. “It’s beautiful. There’s nothing I’d love more than being your wife…”
He heard the but in her voice, saw it in the confused expression on her face. “Need some time to think about it? If you do, that’s okay.” It wasn’t, but Trace could practically feel her slipping away emotionally. Maybe he’d gone too fast, assumed too much. “Just so long as you keep on thinking positive.”
“I will. Can I let you know in a week or so, after I’ve had time to think it over? It’s not that I don’t love you, because I do, more than I’ve ever loved a man.”
Trace wondered if she was thinking about Lynn and Mark, Shelly and Kurt Silverman, their new partner Eli Calhoun and his bride. He hoped so. If any couples could encourage her to take the plunge, they could. Even after years of marriage and a handful of kids, the older couples acted like newlyweds, and Maggie seemed over the moon with Eli and their baby boy.
“Take all the time you want, love. It’s a pretty big decision, turning your back on being single. But we can make it together, I’m sure.” He wasn’t at all certain despite his brave words, but he’d give Elle the gift of space she seemed to need so badly. “Just remember I love you, too. There’s nothing on Earth I wouldn’t do for you…or with you.”
Chapter Two
Damn it, Elle. What the hell is wrong with you? Any other woman would kill to have Trace propose to her.
A big part of her longed to say yes. Trace Williams was everything a woman could ask for in a man. Intelligent, fun to be with and drop-dead gorgeous. They both loved funny movies and taking long rides along the creek at his ranch. He even shared her love for line dancing and a few icy Shiner Bock drafts. And it wasn’t as if the guy were an itinerant cowboy. He had an MBA from Harvard and was as rich as Croesus. Elle loved being around him, appreciated the way he fit in with her coworkers at the hospital, dreamed about having a little boy with his mischievous smile. So why was it she’d just balked at accepting his ring?
Idiot. It’s because what you want is a collar.
Elle stood outside the door at Club Rio Brava, drawn by the promise of a hot encounter with one or more of the nameless, masked club Doms charged with satisfying the needs of closet subs like her. But she hesitated. There was something sleazy about satisfying her sexual needs here at the club when she’d just told Trace she’d give some serious thought to his proposal.
It wasn’t that she worried he’d get wind of her visiting the BDSM club where she’d been a member for several years. The club’s motto rang in her ears. What goes on here stays here. She had no doubt this was true, because the affluent club members took that vow very seriously indeed. Still…
Along with drilling the idea that sex was bad and no decent woman enjoyed it, Mom had
always taught her that her word was sacred, that going back on it was one of the worst sins she could commit.
Elle pondered the question of whether getting off with a stranger would constitute a breach of that semi-promise she’d made Trace before getting up out of his bed and coming here.
Her conscience hissed out “yes” so loudly the word rang in her ears. It wasn’t Trace’s fault he didn’t satisfy her in bed. She hadn’t ever let him know she was a sexual submissive, able to come only if her partner or partners applied a certain amount of force and kink.
But her body yelled “no”. Her pussy ached for the sort of satisfaction she hadn’t gotten tonight. She ached for the hot, wild release she knew would await her if she stepped into the inner chambers of Club Rio Brava. She wanted a Dom to force away her inhibitions, take away her choices so she wouldn’t need to feel guilty for all her wicked needs.
But she wouldn’t indulge herself. Not tonight, when the memory of Trace’s sweet lovemaking was fresh on her mind. Not when she was supposed to be considering his proposal.
Somehow Elle dredged up the strength to take her hand off the highly polished brass doorknob and walk back to her car. Her heart longed for a friend and lover, a partner to share life’s joys and sorrows. Trace fit the bill in almost every way. She couldn’t picture any of the masked Doms inside the club being able to satisfy any need except her obsession with being dominated during sex, even if he were willing to try.
Elle wanted a Dom, but not for the impersonal BDSM play participated in at the club by everybody except members in full-time relationships, like Eli and Maggie. Like Tom Latimore and his Selina. How the hell could she tell Trace that if he wanted to satisfy her sexually, he’d have to dominate her, push her past the inhibitions built up since she’d been a little girl at her prissy mother’s knee.
She’d never forgotten the arguments, her precious daddy bellowing at Mom, saying awful things to her about wanting good sex, and blaming his failures with investments and his love for single malt Scotch whisky on Mom not giving him any loving at home. Sometimes at night when Elle slept, her mom’s usual reply, “Get it from your sluts. Only they could enjoy your pawing” rang out in her ears as clearly as it had when she’d been six years old, trembling on the stairway and witnessing the hate that frequently erupted between the two most important people in her life.
Daddy had been the most important man on Earth. Her hero. Elle’s fantasy as she was growing into a woman had her seeing him kissing away Mom’s anger and making her submit to his wishes. If he’d done that, maybe he’d still be alive and all their lives would have turned out differently. Maybe that was what drove her to want a dominant man in her own life.
* * * * *
Trace was reasonably sure Elle loved him. It seemed she just didn’t much like making love with him, though, and that stung. He searched his memory, analyzing his technique for any flaws that might have turned Elle off. Too much love talk? Not enough? Maybe he hadn’t discovered the types of foreplay that turned her every way but loose. Or…no, he wasn’t too rough. He’d taken pains to be gentle, to take sex slow and treat her like the precious lover she was.
He’d known from the first that she’d grown up without a father. She’d mentioned a couple of times when they first started dating that before he’d died he and her mother had argued all the time and occasionally come to blows. Whether she’d meant to or not, Elle had given him the impression that the thought of having a sexual relationship made her uneasy because of those childhood memories. But she’d never shown any fear when they made love. And her skill in bed made him believe she’d enjoyed some decent sexual experiences in the past.
Not that her experience bothered him. On the contrary, he liked the way she didn’t flinch when he ate her pussy. And the ease with which she explored his body, although that could have come from her being a doctor. He hadn’t expected that at thirty-two, she’d be a simpering virgin. Not with her dynamite looks and…
Well, she was highly intelligent, well-spoken and just plain fun to be with, but it was her looks that must have attracted males like flies from the minute she hit puberty.
Perplexed, Trace lay in bed, staring up at the stars through the skylight that gave the room a feel of wide-open spaces. The lingering scent of Elle’s female musk and her sexy-as-hell French perfume swirled around him. If he had a grain of sense he’d dump her and find a woman who welcomed his cock as much as his company.
But the pretty lady doctor had burrowed under his skin, ruined him for other women. Imagining how much better life would be if Elle were with him, he got up, padded to the window and stared out toward the horse barns. He could practically feel the heat of her curvaceous little body flush against him, her hand on his hip. They’d have watched the silvery moon glowing through the skylight above his bed, and he’d have enjoyed watching her soft sable curls shine in the reflected light. He’d been looking forward to enjoying the afterglow of their lovemaking, that special closeness lovers often share.
But Elle obviously hadn’t had snuggling on her mind. “I’ve got to get on home,” she’d told him practically the minute he’d proposed. She’d even rolled onto her back, resisting his effort to keep her close. Then she’d put on her clothes, dropped a casual kiss on his lips, and told him once more that she’d think over his proposal. The way she had practically run out as if the hounds of hell were chasing her would have been funny if it hadn’t been so embarrassing.
Could it have been that Elle just plain didn’t have much of a sex drive? That didn’t seem likely since she’d never refused him when he initiated lovemaking, even out at their favorite spot along the stream or in the barn. He just plain didn’t understand.
Where the fuck had he gone wrong? Trace stood there staring out the window, thinking back on the times he and Elle had made love over the past nine or ten months, trying to remember if he knew for sure she’d ever come. Yes. That one time in the barn when he’d gone at her like a bull on a cow in heat. He’d felt terrible afterward for having let go his control, but he was pretty sure she’d come.
As bad as he hated to, he was going to ask Lynn and Mark for some advice.
* * * * *
“You want to marry a woman who doesn’t like having sex with you?” Mark shot him a look that said “What kind of fucking moron are you, anyhow?” as if he’d said the words out loud.
“Now, Mark, there’s this thing called love.” Lynn had always been a sucker for the happily-ever-after full of hearts and flowers, like most women Trace knew. She also was the one who’d prodded Mark to set up that first blind date where Trace met Elle. She’d sung Elle’s praises, telling him about the beautiful pediatric surgeon who often referred bone trauma patients to Mark or Kurt. At the time his sister had made no bones about the fact she thought he and Elle would make a perfect match. Lynn’s expression morphed from teasing to serious when she turned back to Trace. “What makes you think Elle doesn’t like sex? Do you think she’s frigid?”
Trace didn’t, but the question made him want to squirm. He hated dissecting his sex life with his sister—even more, he felt uncomfortable spouting off his concerns in front of Mark. Lynn and Mark had always struck him as being ideal for each other, even more so in the last couple of years since their youngest was born. Since then it seemed they must have done something that had put a newlywed sort of excitement back into their fifteen-year-old marriage.
Still, Trace adored Elle. If only he could get into her pretty, steel-trap mind and find out what it was he needed to do to set off fireworks in their bed. “She doesn’t…well, put it this way. Last night I thought the lovemaking was damn good. Hell, I’ve never gotten any complaints on my technique. Not even from Elle. But she jumped out of bed as if she’d been bee-stung and took off. I can’t imagine it was because she had an early day in surgery.”
Mark laughed. “You’re right on that. Elle didn’t have surgery today, early or otherwise. She does her cases on Thursday, other than the occasional
emergency like the one yesterday morning. And she has afternoon office hours if I’m not mistaken.”
“Oh.” So it was just as Trace had suspected. Elle hadn’t wanted to stay. But her last words had been that she’d think over his proposal. That gave him a smidgeon of hope. “What the hell?”
Lynn laid a hand on his forearm, her touch much like the ones he’d seen her bestow on her kids when they skinned their knees or had a bad day at school. “Maybe you’re just too nice. Some women like…”
“…a lover who pushes the envelope. Right, honey?” The look Mark shot at Lynn made her squirm so obviously not even a brother could fail to notice.
“Maybe. You know, Maggie mentioned that she thought she recognized Elle in the dressing room one time at…at a club she and Eli belong to.” Lynn looked at Mark, her expression hesitant.
Mark grinned. “I bet you’re right. Trace, has it ever occurred to you that Elle…that she might need a little push?”
“What?”
“It might take some role-playing to get her hot. Some imaginative foreplay.” He hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure Trace understood what he meant. “You know, handcuffs. Blindfolds. Maybe even a spanking or the bite of one of your riding crops.” Mark shot Lynn a look that clearly was asking for help.
“For instance, tie her down and tease her until she’s so hot she begs you to make love to her,” Lynn suggested with a cheeky grin.
Trace’s cock twitched when he imagined dominating Elle that way, but he cringed at the thought of what she’d do to him when he let her loose. “You want me to die young, sis?”
“I want you to live happy.” When Lynn paused, Trace wondered if this conversation was embarrassing her half as much as it was humiliating him. “You’re a sweetie, maybe too much so. A lot of women like a man who’s forceful in bed. Trust me.” She winked at Mark, who pretended not to notice.