by Mari Carr
“Shhh.” He tightened his grip on her wrists while planting soft, sweet kisses on her face. “Calm down, gorgeous.”
She was panting, frustrated, and she foolishly felt as if she were on the verge of tears.
He leaned back at the sound of her soft cry, the look on his face a perfect mixture of shock, awe and naked, red-hot desire.
He smiled as she struggled to regain composure, her body screaming for relief.
“I can see there will be no such thing as innocent kisses with you,” he said.
She blinked rapidly, determined he shouldn’t see the tears threatening to fall. Christ, she was a fool.
“I-I, shit.” She struggled to free her hands. He released her and she pushed him away. He moved over easily and she realized she wouldn’t have been able to budge him if he hadn’t permitted it. She walked away from the bed, pressing her back against the wall for support.
“This is not, I mean, I don’t—” She was gasping for air and her voice and her body betrayed her, shaking uncontrollably.
He sat up slowly and she knew he was deliberately keeping his movements unhurried lest he frighten her. “Gwen, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
She wanted to laugh at the understatement of his words. He’d pulled her hair, held her down and she’d responded like a bitch in heat. He didn’t think that was wrong, weird?
“I told you before, Ty. I want us to keep our relationship professional. Sex muddies the water. You know that.”
“No, I don’t think I do. Gwen, there’s nothing wrong with admitting that we’re attracted to each other sexually. Shit, I can’t think of anything I want more than to tie your lovely body to that bed and bury myself between those hot thighs of yours.”
“Stop it! Stop saying stuff like that. It isn’t going to happen. Ever.”
He scowled at her words and rose from the bed, crossing to where she stood, trembling. “Well, I think you and I are about to have our first disagreement.”
He leaned toward her as she pressed her body flat against the wall. He caged her in, grasping her hands by the wrists once again and pressing them against the flat surface, just above her head. “You and I are most certainly going to have sex, Gwen. Hard, hot, incredibly intense sex and you’re going to love every minute of it.”
“You smug, conceited—”
“Pull your pants down,” he said as he loosened his grip.
She wanted to deny him, wanted to drive her fists against his chest and tell him to get the hell away from her, but his deep voice, his demanding words spoke to the loneliest part of her soul and she felt as if she’d been sunk neck-deep in quicksand.
“Pull them down now,” he repeated, his voice commanding. Clearly he expected her to comply. This was so wrong. God dammit, it was wrong. And yet her body felt alive for the first time ever.
She reached for the waistband of her pajama bottoms and she slowly shimmied the soft cotton over her hips. The material fell to her ankles and she stepped out of it, never taking her gaze off his determined face.
“Good girl,” he murmured and she raised her hand to slap him for his condescending comment. He caught her wrist and pressed it against the wall. “You don’t want to do that.”
She closed her eyes in surrender and he released her hand.
His dominant actions, his powerful words, were truly soothing her weary soul, despite the fact her head was demanding she run away from him. Ty Ransome was the one man who could be her complete and utter downfall, yet rather than escape, she found herself relishing every touch, every word he offered. How many times had she dreamed of a moment just like this? How many nights had she lain alone in her bed praying for a man to take over for her? Take all her fears and worries and insecurities and simply claim her.
He reached over to the desk by her bed and pulled out the chair, dragging it to where they stood. Then he gripped her thigh firmly, lifting it. “Place your foot on the chair.”
She did as he said, gasping when he gripped her knee and spread her legs farther apart. “Stay there and don’t take your leg down,” he ordered.
She obeyed, slightly embarrassed by the fact she was so wet her juices were practically running down her leg.
“What a pretty pussy you have.” He brushed a finger through the curls surrounding her clit.
“I don’t want you to touch me and I don’t like the way you’re talking to me.” She gasped for the breath to tell her lie.
He laughed at her comment and she saw red.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he taunted. “Or should I say pussy on fire? There’s a pool of juices here that tell me you love the way I’m talking to you.”
She cursed her body’s betrayal and lowered her leg. “I want you to leave. I want you to get out of this guest house.”
He studied her face as she spoke, and she could feel the unbearable heat in her cheeks. No doubt she was blushing as red as a beet. One of the curses of being a natural redhead.
“Put your foot back on the chair,” he demanded, his voice soft, but firm.
“Are you listening to me?” She was aware how shrill and panicked her voice sounded. She was a modern woman. She wasn’t supposed to be turned on by his demands, encouraging his caveman behavior.
“I’m listening to your body, not your words. I’m not going to punish you for disobeying me, Gwen, but if your foot isn’t on that chair in five seconds, I can assure you, you won’t like the result.”
Fear and curiosity warred inside her. Fear of loving what he was about to do. Curiosity over what his punishment would be.
Shit. Her thinking was screwed up. She should be afraid of the damn punishment, not curious.
Her thoughts were in such a jumble she didn’t realize he was lifting her leg for her until her foot hit the seat of the chair. Then he bent down and retrieved her pajama pants. Grasping her hands, he pulled them behind her back, quickly and efficiently using her pants to tie her hands. Her heart raced with excitement and desire when she realized she was bound tightly enough that escape was impossible. “We’re definitely going to have to work on your inability to follow simple commands.”
Her pussy clenched at his words and she leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes tightly, praying it would help her shut out the overwhelming needs coursing through her. Why did she like—no, love the way he was talking to her?
“Open your eyes, Gwen. Look at me.”
She slowly dragged her eyes open and he smiled at her so sweetly, so kindly, she felt her heart begin to ache at the beauty of it.
His fingers lightly grazed her clit and she sucked in a breath, while keeping her gaze locked firmly on his.
“So responsive, so beautiful.” His fingers delved through her mons before swirling around playfully in her juices. “God, you have no idea how hot you feel. Your cunt is burning my hand.”
She trembled at the dirty compliment, moving her hips toward his questing fingers, trying to bring him inside.
“Hold still,” he barked and she felt a fresh gush of moisture escape at the rough sound of his voice.
“Jesus,” he muttered as if awestruck. “You’re too perfect for words.”
He pushed one finger inside of her and she fought to remain motionless, fought against every fiber of her body that was demanding she thrust toward him. “Please,” she whimpered when it appeared he was satisfied with tormenting her with one finger.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
“Please, Ty.” The words fell from her lips without thought. “I want your fingers inside me. More than one.”
He pulled out at her request and thrust in with two. “Like that?” he asked. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific if you hope to get what you want, what you need.”
“Another finger,” she whispered. “Please.”
He complied with her pleading, but it still wasn’t enough.
“Harder,” she added, realizing he was serious about making her ask
for what she wanted. “Push inside me harder, faster.”
At her words, he gave in to the strength he’d obviously been holding back as her legs threatened to give way under the glorious assault of his hand. His fingers fucked her roughly, pounding inside her in the way she often did for herself. No one had ever dared to take her so strongly. She felt the scream building in her throat just before it reached her lips.
“Come for me.” The speed and power of his thrusts increased even more, and she succumbed to his words, his fingers. Her vision went black and she felt as if she were on the verge of fainting.
Ty must have thought the same thing as he reached out with his free hand to steady her against the wall. She shuddered uncontrollably for several moments, the aftershocks of her orgasm shaking her body. His lips lightly caressed her cheek and she felt his tongue dab at the stream of tears he found there. Was she crying? She hadn’t realized.
“Shhh.” He removed his hand from her quivering body despite her anguished cry. He reached around her to untie her arms, then bent down and picked her up, turning and placing her gently on the bed. He crawled in beside her and enveloped her in his large embrace. She felt more tears gathering in her eyes, but she was too weak to attempt to stem the flow. She felt overwhelmed, confused.
“Why are you crying?”
She shrugged. How could she tell him? How could she explain? He’d just brought her deepest, darkest desires to light and she struggled with the unexpected exposure. “I just let you tie me up and take me against the wall. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He leaned up on his elbow and looked down at her. “Shouldn’t have done what? You enjoy a rough touch, Gwen. So what?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” she said quickly, desperate to shut down the topic of her need for pain in sex.
Ty narrowed his eyes and she knew he was displeased with her comment. “Fine,” he said at last and she breathed a sigh of relief. “But this isn’t over, Gwen.”
She knew the second he spoke the words, he was right. She didn’t have a doubt, she would let him do much, much more to her. No matter how forbidden, how wrong.
He kissed her gently as she fought against the fresh onslaught of tears building in her chest. “It’s okay, Gwen. Your secret is safe with me.”
She wondered about his words and then she considered her response to them. God help her if she was right about his intentions, because she had no doubt he wouldn’t rest until he’d uncovered and physically exploited every damn imperfection in her character. Until he’d dragged every cursed, unspeakable desire to the forefront.
And then what? He was an actor. Hell, he was fucking Ty Ransome, the movie star every man wanted to be like and every woman wanted to sleep with. How would he feel when he learned just how dark and deep her needs ran? How would he react when he discovered pain wasn’t just her fantasy, but a need? What would he say when he realized bondage wasn’t a sex game for her, but a necessity?
For years, she’d managed to suppress the dark and dirty secret because she knew society wouldn’t approve, wouldn’t understand. The whole reason she’d created Michael Haynes was so she could write the story of her heart, so she could put her surreptitious longings on the pages of “The Darkest Night”. Just as he’d discovered her pen name, Ty had pulled off the veil she’d been hiding beneath. She shivered at the thought and felt his arms tighten around her. He would open up the vault she’d kept securely locked inside her soul. She’d protected her secrets for a lifetime, but Ty had the power to uncover and exploit all of it. God help her, she’d be a willing victim, if the past few minutes were any indication of his power over her.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
Trust. If only she could.
Chapter Three
Getting into character
“I don’t understand why you’re wasting your time on this film, Ty,” Bernie Rather said on the other end of the line. The man was one of the top agents in Hollywood, but that was only because he played by Tinsel Town rules. It was his consistency that kept him afloat, not his creativity. Ty was amazed the man had managed to walk down the aisle four times, as marriage certainly held a level of risk he’d never seen Bernie take on a professional level. Of course—considering the fact he’d ended up in divorce court four times—perhaps it was best Bernie stuck to the tried and true on the business front.
“We’ve been through this a thousand times, Bernie. I want to do something different, something of substance. I’m getting too damn old for the action hero shit.”
“The only problem with you is pride. Break down and start using the stunt double and you could keep doing action movies until you’re eighty. Look at Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis.”
Depression overwhelmed Ty at the thought of chasing bad character actors through various cities while the special effects people blew up everything in sight. There was no way he could continue to play those roles until he retired.
“No thanks. I’m ready to try a more serious role and Evening Songs is the perfect story. Oscar material for sure.” He didn’t dare admit to Bernie that his desire to make the film was two-fold. While he hoped it would break him out of his stereotypical roles, he also wanted to see the stories told and shared with a broader audience because they spoke to his heart.
“You realize it will be both of our asses if this thing flops. Your star power will only take you so far, Ty. Add in your rather volatile public persona and you’re a ticking time bomb facing complete annihilation.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. He’d heard that line a thousand times from Bernie and he knew exactly how much was riding on this project and his plans for the future and his career.
“I know that. It won’t fail.” He delivered the line with as much conviction as he could muster, praying his agent couldn’t hear the underlying anxiety in his voice. Gwen had signed the contracts. She was now legally bound to work on the screenplay with him, but he’d failed to tell her exactly how much was riding on this movie. He needed her talent, her writing skills, far more than he’d let on. He was betting the entire future of his career on her ability to tell a great story.
“Talk to you later,” he heard Bernie say as he closed the cell and put the phone in his pocket.
He paced the floor, glancing out the window every few moments, waiting for Bob to return from the airport with Gwen. He’d wanted to pick her up personally, but his morning meeting had run long, lasting well into the afternoon. He’d only arrived home half an hour earlier.
He stifled a yawn and grimaced. He was exhausted from tossing and turning all night. Hell, every night since she’d left. The past two weeks had moved in slow motion, and every time he replayed her reaction to his kisses, his touches, he felt like the memories had been burned onto his brain and soul.
She was perfect for him and that concept obliterated all of his common sense. He’d never met a woman like her. He’d never let himself imagine a woman like her existed. It was as if he’d written his ideal character, described her, shaped and molded her and Gwen had fallen into the part—his ultimate leading lady.
He was a dominant in every aspect of his life, but in the bedroom, those tendencies seemed to be amplified to outlandish proportions. His entire life was spent in the limelight, so he’d learned how to temper his needs, his desires. He could just imagine the field day the tabloids would have printing the news of his sexual escapades. In his world, long-term committed relationships didn’t happen, and there was no way he would open himself up for the ugly gossip that would surround him if he dared to venture into the type of sexual relationship he truly wanted.
“Fuck.” He couldn’t even think the words in his own mind. BDSM. He wanted a slave in the bedroom, a woman he could command and control. He wanted to place a collar around Gwen’s neck and chain her to his bed forever. He wanted to take care of her, give her anything and everything she’d ever dreamed of.
No doubt he could keep an entire army of psychiatrists busy with his psych
e if he was so inclined, but he’d come to realize that his need for dominance was simply an innate part of his personality. He was who he was and since meeting Gwen he knew the years of hiding, of restraining that need for ultimate control, were over.
Until now, preserving his career, his reputation, had always come before those desires. One week in Gwen’s presence had changed that. Never once in all of his forty years had he met a woman he wanted to utterly possess. Whether the idea of controlling her in the bedroom was right or wrong, it continued to gnaw at his conscience while eating away at his willpower. He knew he should resist her—for the success of the screenplay, if nothing else—but he also knew he never would, never could.
He now understood the reason he’d been drawn to her story, “The Darkest Night”. Clearly she had similar desires. Every move she had made the morning she left proved it. She was a born submissive. She would obey his commands. She would place herself completely in his hands and she would be marvelous.
Problem was, she didn’t seem to realize or understand her needs. At all. In fact, he sensed that, like him, she’d spent a lifetime denying that part of herself. He’d spent the past two weeks considering whether or not he should explore the relationship with her, take tentative steps in the direction he believed they’d both like to go.
If only he wasn’t feeling so much damn stress about the screenplay. What if he pushed her too far? The ways he wanted to take her were too extreme and he’d never forgive himself if he hurt her by pushing her into something she wasn’t ready for. Worse yet, what if he’d read her wrong? What if he revealed his true nature and it scared her, drove her away? He knew she craved his rough touch, but what would she think when she realized that the charming, playboy Ty Ransome had a really dark side?