Tame Me

by Julie Kenner

  Honestly, it was quite a coup for the station and for me. Undoubtedly, the piece would go national, and I’d get some serious exposure, all of which would help in my quest to get back to LA someday.

  That, of course, only made the “don’t screw up” part of the equation all the more important.

  An efficient young woman in a pencil-style skirt and tailored blouse meets us as we step into the stunning lobby decorated in what I think is an Art Deco style. “Mr. Hunter, Ms. Archer. We have you all set. Would you like to follow me?”

  “That’s okay,” Ryan says. “We need to go to the casino first. The room is ready?”

  The girl nods. “Absolutely. Enjoy your stay, and don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.”

  I glance at Ryan, slightly confused. “Efficient staff.”

  “Very,” he says as she moves across the tiled floor to the registration desk.

  “Time for roulette?” I ask, the word alone sending a few tingles running through me.

  He trails his fingers down my arm. “Roulette,” he confirms.

  The casino opens off the lobby, and we can hear the noise and bluster as we head down the set of staircases to the wide, slot-machine lined entrance. It’s like entering a different world. Noise and lights. The chatter of patrons, the calls of the staff. And beneath it all, the clink and clank of coins.

  “This way,” he says, leading me down a tiled path that is cut through the carpeted areas that hold the banks of slot machines, tables for blackjack and other card games, craps, and the like. We find the roulette tables on the far side, and by the time we arrive, I feel as though I have walked a thousand miles.

  “Pick your table,” he says, and since they all seem the same to me, I choose the closest one. He pulls a fifty dollar casino chip out of his jacket pocket, which strikes me as a bit odd since I never saw him exchange any money for chips. I don’t have time to think about it, though, because he places the chip in my hand and tells me to bet.

  Immediately, I put the chip on red.

  Ryan laughs, then lifts my hand and kisses my fingertips, the touch as gentle as a butterfly’s wing and at least as sensual.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “You’re giving away your secrets, kitten,” he says, nodding to the table where I’d placed my bet. “You know what red means.”

  “I do,” I say, and then, because I’m feeling bold and I really do want it, I move to his side and lift myself up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. “It means that I’m at your mercy,” I say, and then slowly—very slowly—I run my tongue over the curve of his ear.

  I’m holding on to him as I do it, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back. I feel the way his body tightens beneath my touch. I hear the low groan that he tries to stifle, and, yes, I smile.

  “Naughty,” he whispers as I lower myself. But I just gaze innocently at the table and the wheel that has started to spin.

  I hold my breath as the ball bounces, around and around, and then—yes—it lands on red. I glance sideways and see that Ryan is watching me. I smile triumphantly. “I had to want red,” I tease. “There was no way I could come up with enough cash to pay you.”

  He laughs. “Fair enough, kitten. I promise, though, that I’ll make sure that landing on red was very much worth it. For both of us.” He nods at the table as the croupier pays out our winnings. “Care to stay in the casino and gamble a bit longer? I’m feeling lucky.”

  “I’m feeling lucky, too,” I say. “And I absolutely do not want to stay.”

  He makes a noise I interpret as satisfaction, then pockets our winnings. He takes my arm and leads me out of the casino. I’m completely turned around, but I’m pretty sure we’ve been moving away from the lobby. My instinct is confirmed when I realize that we are in a wide-open, bright shopping area. The ceiling is a mural of the sky, arching across the space above our heads from sunrise on one side to sunset on the other, with day and night between.

  In the area in which we are standing, the night sky is spread above us, and thousands of small electric lights wink down at us. It’s cheesy, but it’s also romantic, and when Ryan takes my hand to lead me through the mall, I cannot stifle my little sigh of contentment.

  For right now, anyway, all is well in my world.

  Like most of the shops on the pricier section of the Strip, the ones that fill this mall are high-end, full of designer goods and hefty price tags. Those extravagant items are balanced with markdowns so that the overall result is a store full of products for both the lucky and not-so-lucky gambler.

  We pass by a window display overflowing with diamonds and emeralds, along with price tags that make clear that this is not the store for part-time gamblers and two-bit winners. This is where the high rollers come to shop.

  Ryan takes my hand and leads me inside.

  “That would look lovely on your wrist,” he says, pointing to a diamond and platinum bracelet that costs more than my condo.

  “You’re insane,” I say.

  He grins at me. “Not your style?”

  “No,” I admit because my taste tends toward funkier.

  He eyes me critically, his gaze skimming up and down. “No,” he murmurs, “you’re right. You need something more...” His voice drifts off as he walks the length of the glass counter. A clerk comes by, apparently sniffing a sale, but Ryan waves him away with a flick of his hand. “Like this,” he says, pointing to a circle of lovely pounded silver. It is a choker-style necklace made so that it catches the light at a variety of angles. There is a hinge on the back with a pin that fits through a corresponding cylinder to keep the thing in place. At the center there is a single loop upon which one could hang a charm.

  “It’s lovely,” I say.

  “It’s practical,” he says.

  I raise a brow in question.

  “The loop,” he says. “So simple to attach a leash.”

  Oh. I swallow. “It’s like a slave collar,” I say, then lick my lips. “Is that why you think it suits me?” I say in a voice full of challenge. “Because right now, I belong to you?”

  He looks straight at me. “Yes.” The word is simple and direct and so full of meaning it makes me tremble. I think of the way he bound me back in Malibu. The pleasure of surrendering to his mercy.

  I remember, and it makes me wet.

  I turn, then leave the store, going back out into the mall, my breath now shallow.

  He follows me, and when I look up to meet his eyes, I find I cannot read his expression.

  “Did you leave because the idea makes you uncomfortable?”

  I consider lying. It would be so easy to just say the words and walk away.

  But I don’t want to. I want the truth between us. I want to see where we go. “No,” I say. “I left because I like it.”

  His expression doesn’t change. Only the slight increase in the tension of his jaw lets me know that my answer has gotten to him. “All right,” he says, and then continues to walk down the wide, store-lined corridor.

  I follow, a little on edge. I’m not sure he understands my confession. Or, if he does, what that means for me.

  As far as I can tell, though, the subject is dropped.

  “So what are we shopping for?” I ask after five minutes have passed in silence.

  “You, of course.” He gestures to the jeans and T-shirt I’ve been wearing for two days now. “You can’t live in those clothes.”

  The man has a point.

  “At the very least, you’ll need something for dinner tonight,” he says. “And something for tomorrow’s interview. Here,” he says, pausing in front of a store wherein every item probably costs more than my entire credit card limit.

  “I can’t afford this,” I whisper as we step through the door.

  He shoots me an amused expression. “I can.”

  The store is apparently arranged by layer, and the first thing I see when we enter is a bin with lingerie. He reaches in and pulls out a pair of thong-sty
le panties. He looks at them, then looks at me. I try to keep a straight face, but the whole idea of him picking out my panties is amusing me. “Why bother?” I finally say. “I’m just going to take them off.”

  “I certainly hope so,” he replies with at least as much humor. “But that’s part of the fun.”

  I swallow because he’s definitely called that right.

  He lifts a finger to signal a salesgirl, and she comes running. He hands her the panties, along with a few other pairs in assorted colors, then tells her we need a business outfit and an evening gown. She practically genuflects toward the both of us as she leads us further back to the uncluttered displays of designer clothing.

  We handle the interview suit first, and as Ryan waits on a low, black leather couch, I go into the dressing room to change. I try on three options and end up going with a classic black suit and a white silk shell. It’s more conservative than my usual style, but when we match it with three-inch black pumps, I can’t deny that I look sexy as hell.

  “You’re going to knock ‘em dead.”

  “Hopefully not Ellison Ward,” I say. “It would be one hell of a story, but I’d rather have the interview in my portfolio.”

  He laughs and kisses me, then signals again for the salesgirl and tells her we’re ready to see evening wear.

  Though all the dresses she suggests are stunning, there is only one that I truly fall in love with. It is modeled after Marilyn Monroe’s dress from The Seven Year Itch, the one with the full skirt that blows up when she stands over the subway grate. I love the way it drapes and the way the halter is both revealing and subtle. Most of all, I love the flirty, flippy skirt.

  I hope it looks as good on me as it does on the hanger.

  “Try it on,” Ryan says, but this time he follows me to the dressing room. I see the clerk’s eyes widen, but Ryan simply smiles. “I’ll be joining the lady.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  She backs away but not before giving Ryan a quick once-over. Then she glances at me. I have the distinct impression that right then, she would very much like to trade places with me.

  I resist the urge to gloat and move into the dressing room, my skin tingly and my pulse pounding.

  “What exactly are you doing?” I ask when he latches the door behind him.

  “Watching you.” He takes a seat on the upholstered ottoman that takes up one corner of the dressing room.

  Since this is a high-end store, the dressing room is reasonably sized and the doors go all the way to the floor, providing genuine privacy. I face the three-way mirror and peel off my T-shirt and jeans, all the while watching Ryan’s face in the reflection. He is making no effort to hide the heat, the desire, and I run my teeth over my lower lip, wishing that he would touch me.

  He doesn’t, though, and so I continue gamely on. Since the dress is backless, I unfasten my bra, then let it fall to the floor. I meet Ryan’s eyes in the mirror, then draw my hands down over my breasts, my nipples as hard as beads, and then down to my tiny panties. I leave those on—though I’m tempted to strip fully.

  But this isn’t my show. The game is that I am at Ryan’s mercy, not the other way around, and though I am frustrated that he has yet to touch me, I can’t deny that I enjoy the tease—as well as this rising anticipation, so keen that it prickles my skin, making me aware of even the simple brush of air against me.

  I take the dress off the hanger, then slip it on. It fits like a dream and feels like one against my skin. I stroke my hands over the soft material of the skirt, then give a little gasp of delight when I discover the hidden pocket.

  I do a twirl for Ryan to show it off, then turn the pocket out. “I love this,” I say. “The dress and the pocket. It’s very retro. So a girl doesn’t have to take her purse for an evening out. This is all you need for a credit card, a key, maybe even a small lipstick.”

  “I’ll carry whatever you need tonight,” he says. “And I’m less interested in pockets than in the way you look. And Jamie, you look amazing.”

  I turn back around to face my reflection, and I have to agree. My summer tan makes the white dress look even more vibrant, and there’s something about the shape of it that flatters me, showing off all my curves to just the right effect.

  Right now, my hair is in a very messy ponytail, but I can imagine it piled upon my head. I’ll wear minimal makeup, just a light gloss of mascara and blood-red lipstick.

  Yeah, I think, I want this dress. I want to be on Ryan’s arm in this dress.

  “I love it,” I tell him.

  He stands and moves behind me. I expect him to touch me, but he doesn’t. But he is standing so close that I can feel his heat, his presence, and I pull it close around me, drawing in the thought of him. Feeling safe. And, yes, feeling loved.

  When I meet his eyes in the mirror, my smile is tentative, even a little shy. And even so, the moment is perfect. “Thank you,” I say.

  “For the dress?”

  “For everything.”

  Chapter Nine

  Ryan carries the garment bag as we move across the Starfire lobby to the guest elevators.

  “Remind me to get a picture of me in the dress,” I say. “I want to e-mail it to my mom. She’d absolutely love it. Although Daddy would love it more. On her,” I add, glancing sideways at him. “He loves to dress my mom up and take her out.”

  “How long have they been married?”

  “Almost thirty years. I’m an only, which isn’t surprising.” I say the last without thinking and immediately regret it.

  “Why’s that?”

  I shrug. I don’t really want to get into it, and yet at the same time, I like talking to Ryan. He understands so much even without me speaking. And while I adore my parents, I also know that they’re constantly under the surface in everything I do.

  Nikki gets it, but compared to her life, mine is roses and candy.

  I draw in a breath as we wait for the elevator, then lift a shoulder. “It sounds goofy, but they’re so much in love that it scares me sometimes.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I told you it sounded silly.” I try to explain what it was like growing up with them. “I was like the third person on a hot date,” I say. “They loved me, don’t get me wrong, but we never felt like a family unit. There was always them. Or maybe them plus me. There was never us.” I shrug again. “Like I said, it sounds stupid and petty.”

  “No,” he says gently. “It doesn’t. Your parents are your first conception of love, the first object of your love. You love them wholly and unconditionally, and expect that back. When you don’t get that in return, it colors everything.”

  I gape at him, amazed that he understands so completely what it has taken me a lifetime to wrap my head around. And since he understands, I tell him the rest. “The thing is, my mom used to want to go to law school. And my dad loved to paint. But neither one does that anymore. My dad didn’t want my mom to be away so much, so she never pursued her degree. And Mom doesn’t give a crap about painting, so he stopped doing it. They’re still deliriously happy together, but they’ve lost something. Part of themselves, I guess.”

  I don’t say the next. I don’t tell him that it terrifies me. That I’m afraid that’s what happens when you find the one person that you love in all the world—they draw you into a bubble. A happy bubble, but one that is less vibrant and less colorful than the world you wanted to live in.

  Intellectually, I know that isn’t true. I mean, hell, look at Nikki and Damien—she’s pursuing her dream even more now because Damien has encouraged her—but one example from one friend can’t overshadow my fears.

  I say none of that, but as the elevator arrives and we step on, Ryan looks at me with such tenderness that I can’t help but feel he understands.

  “No matter how much we love them, we all grow up surrounded by our parents’ shit. You’ll either be buried in it and suffocate, or use it for fertilizer and thrive.”

  I stare at him for a mome
nt, then laugh. “You’re right,” I say. “That’s probably the most profound—and disgusting—thing that I’ve heard in a long time.” I laugh again, then lean against him when he pulls me close. “Thank you,” I whisper, then sigh when he dips his head and presses a soft kiss to my hair.

  The elevator lets us off on the forty-seventh floor, just three floors shy of the top level. As far as I can tell, there are only three doors on this floor, and I frown a bit as he stops in front of one with a gold plaque on the door that reads, ES-2.

  He pulls a keycard from his wallet, then opens the door and stands aside as I enter what can only be described as paradise.

  The room has a huge living area, complete with a wet bar and a grand piano. But the furnishings are nothing compared to the view—an entire wall of windows that look out on all of Las Vegas, and if I turn my head to take it all in, I can see from the Stratosphere to the Luxor and beyond.

  The sun has begun to dip low in the horizon, and the light has an orange quality now, as if it is painting the town. The view is stunning, vibrant, and I turn to Ryan in wonder.

  “This isn’t the room that the station booked for me, is it?”

  “No.”

  “This is a Stark International hotel.”

  It’s not a question, but he answers anyway. “Yes.”

  I think back since our arrival. The way the woman welcomed him. The casino chip he had in his pocket. The fact that we didn’t have to check in to get a key. Honestly, I should have realized.

  “Do you live here?”

  He laughs. “No, I live in LA, not far from Damien, only in a much smaller house. But I spend about four weeks out of every year here going over procedure with the staff and auditing all of our security systems and operations. This is one of the executive suites. We all have use of it.”

  “You always carry casino chips in your pocket?”

  “No, but I do tend to keep some in the car. Once we arrived, I grabbed a few.”