Tamed (16 page)

Rosaline chuckles. “My dear, that’s just background music. No one actually dances at these things.”

Delores shrugs. “Life is short—I never pass up the chance to dance to a good song. Matthew, what do you say?”

I take Dee’s hand and kiss it softly, so proud of her right now. “I say, I’d dance with you anywhere.”

Then I lead her to the middle of the room. As we pass Rosaline, Dee whispers, “Lovely to meet you,
dahling. Ta-ta.
”

I take her in my arms and begin a smooth, easy fox-trot. Dee follows my lead effortlessly. “Wow, look at you, Fred Astaire. I didn’t know you could dance like this.”

“I’m very talented.”

She grins. “Believe me, I know.” Her eyes slide in Rosaline’s direction. “Sooo . . . is every woman you introduce me to going to be a bitch?”

I think it’s over. “No—she was the last of them.”

“Is she an ex-girlfriend or something?”

No man wants to tell the story of how he was played—made a chump. It’s embarrassing, uncomfortable—we generally choose to block it out and replace it with stories of our winning touchdowns and all-night fuck fests.

“Or something. Why do you ask?”

“It feels like she’s trying to slit my throat with her eyes.”

Skillfully, I turn us, so my body obscures her view.

But Dee still says, “She’s very beautiful—like a Victoria’s Secret model.”

“Baby, she doesn’t hold a candle to you.”

She stops dancing. Fully. Immediately. And her face—her gorgeous face is a mixture of hurt and doubt . . . and a trace of resentment.

“Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t feed me a line like I’m a girl you just met in a bar. Tell me you hate her, or tell me you want to fuck her brains out, and either way, I’ll deal. Whatever you say, just . . . mean it. Be here with me . . . be real.”

She’s right. Right on the money. Reflexes are a body’s reaction
without input from the brain. They happen independently—without thought or consideration. Insecurity is not something I’m used to hearing from Dee. And I sure as shit don’t want to keep talking about Rosaline, so I said the first thing that came to my lips. Without thinking.

Without meaning it.

And she deserves better than that.

“I . . . I’m sorry.” I pull her back to me, and we’re dancing again, slower than before.

Dee rests her cheek against mine, and I kiss the shell of her ear before whispering, “What I meant to say was, she’s beautiful—but only on the outside. You, on the other hand . . . you’re like a diamond. Clear . . . and flawless . . . through and through.”

She tilts her head up to look at me. And she’s smiling again. And I feel like a master of the universe.

“I like that much better.”

I brush my hand up her arm, over her shoulder, under her hair to the back of her neck. Then I kiss her softly. Tenderly. I worship her lips, venerate her tongue. It’s wet and wonderful—the kind of kiss that makes you forget you’re in a public place—or if you do remember, that makes you not give a flying fuck.

When the music and the kiss end, Delores licks her lips. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Great idea.”

When we get back to my apartment, Delores takes off her heels, dropping each one with a thud as she walks straight to the stereo system.

“Do you want some wine?” I ask.

Her eyes rake over me appreciatively. “I’m not thirsty for wine.”

As she plays with the buttons, I press up behind her, skimming my lips across her neck and my fingers up her sides. The speakers come alive with “Demons” by Imagine Dragons. Dee presses the
REPEAT
button and swivels her ass against me.

“I like this song,” she says.

“I like this dress.”

She turns to face me. And her breath tickles my ear as she whispers, “You’re going to like what’s underneath it a lot more.”

She drags my jacket off my arms and drops it on the floor. I take her mouth, and she makes quick work of my shirt. Her hands glide over my chest as she backs me up, wordlessly guiding me to the couch. I sit back, expecting her to follow me down.

But she doesn’t. Instead she stands up.

And the heat in her eyes—the hunger—makes my heart pound. She retrieves my camera from the coffee table, then she kneels between my spread knees, presenting it to me, like an offering.

“Take my picture, Matthew.”

I breathe heavy—almost a grunt. And my cock aches with anticipation. Of watching her, touching her, and yes, photographing her.

On some level, every guy wants to be a porn star. I mean, really, can you conceive of a more awesome way to make a living? Disneyland may be the happiest place on earth, but Silicone Valley is the place men’s wishes come true. Homemade sex tapes and photographs allow men—and women—to taste that fantasy. To reminisce and relive the most erotic experiences of their lives.

If that’s too wild for your tastes, you may want to skip this next part.

Dee smiles when I take the camera from her hands. I double-check the film and the battery while she stands up and sways her hips in time with the music. Her eyes close, her head rocks side to side, her shiny, strawberry-blond locks fan out around her as she spins.

And she looks so . . . free. So beautifully unrestrained.

It takes my breath away.

I capture the moment with eager hands.
Click, click, click
goes the shutter.

She reaches behind her, pressing her tits forward, releasing the zipper on her dress. Unhurriedly, she peels it off her body. Revealing a sheer, black, strapless bra trimmed in bright blue with a matching thong. Her breasts are firm and high and completely visible through the shadowy fabric—including my favorite plaything, Dee’s sparkling diamond nipple piercing.

Her dress lays forgotten on the floor as she gyrates and turns. I lick my suddenly dry lips, refocus the lens of the camera, and shoot.

Click, click.

Delores’s hands slide down her thighs then skim up her stomach, cupping her breasts the way I want to. My fingers twitch and I grip the camera tighter.

Click, click.

My voice is rough as I say, “Come here, Dee.”

And miraculously, she actually does. The moment she steps close enough, I pull her down on top of me, one hand fisting in her hair, the other kneading her smooth, tight ass.

She moans against my lips. Then her hands fumble with my belt, pushing my pants and boxers down in one fell swoop. Taking
her—and the camera—with me, I slide from the couch to my knees, then down onto the floor. The fabric of Dee’s lingerie feels whisper soft against my straining cock—but not as soft as her skin.

I lay her down flat, then I rear back. Keeping eye contact, I slide her almost nonexistent panties off first. When I tug at the peek-a-boo bustier, it rips up both sides, but I don’t let that stop me.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” I promise gruffly.

Dee gives the slightest nod.

When she’s beautifully bare, ready and writhing, I pick the camera back up.

Click, click, click, click.

I set the camera down, close by, and cover Dee’s body with my own—giving all my attention to her amazing breasts. I squeeze with one hand while I worship the other with my mouth. I lick around her nipple, then I encase it with my lips—scraping with my teeth, flicking with my tongue, suckling hard until Dee cries out in that stunning symphony of elation and pain.

Then I start all over again with its exquisite twin.

“Do you like my tits, Matthew?” Dee moans.

I rub the pink peak with my firm tongue, then answer, “I love them. They’re perfect. I could do this all fucking night.”

“You like licking them?” She whimpers.

“Yes.”

“Pinching them?” She sighs.

“Yes.”

“Sucking on them?”

“Shit, yes.”

“Do you want to fuck them, Matthew?”

White-hot need goes straight to my cock—making me moan. Because giving her breasts a thorough fucking is a fantasy I’ve courted since the second I laid eyes on them.

“Yes,” I practically beg. “God, yes, I fucking want that.”

She smiles, tantalizingly. A perfect seductress—the face and body of an angel with a devil’s desire. All willing and wanting.

“Me too.”

Delores glides down beneath me, trailing kisses as she goes, pausing when her face is directly under my raging erection. As I hover over her, she takes me into the superb wetness of her mouth, all the way—until I feel the tightness of her throat. She eases back, leaving a heavy coating of moisture behind when she removes her mouth.

I rise up onto my knees. Dee lies between them, her breasts overflowing in her own hands, perfectly aligned with my cock above them. Gently, I sit back, bracing most of my weight on my calves. She presses her breasts together, encasing my rigid dick between their perfect, slick softness.

I savor the sensation. My eyes squeeze shut.

“Fuck me.”

There’s a smile in her voice as she tells me, “That’s my line.”

I want to move—I want to pound against her in a frenzied rush until I find that paradise that I know is just waiting to be reached.

But I hold back—and force myself to go easy. To let her take the lead. I open my eyes and meet Dee’s fiery gaze. She pushes her tits up and down—jerking me off with them—again and again.

The feeling—
Jesus Christ
—it’s more incredible than I ever conceived.

Dee’s hands still, just maintaining the snug fit, while I drive my hips forward and back—slowly—drawing out the indulgence. Then I hunch over and speed up—my breaths come faster, my heart tries to break out of my chest.

Dee pants beneath me. “Use the camera, Matthew. I want to see the pictures. After.”

I hiss and I groan. Then I do what she demands. I grab the camera from the floor. And take the pictures.

Click, click.

But it’s not the view of my cock sliding between her luscious tits that I capture—that image is already seared into my brain until the end of time.

Click, click.

It’s her lips—open in pleasure.
Click.

Her wet, seeking tongue.
Click.

Her amber eyes blazing with intensity . . . and trust.
Click, click, click.

Those are the images I immortalize. The ones I need to hold on to.

Because outside of this moment—beyond our searing attraction and erotic endeavors—Delores doesn’t trust me. Not fully. Not yet.

She wants to. She hopes I’m worthy. But doubt still lingers, protecting her heart—preventing her from putting her faith in me completely.

And it’s okay. I don’t know what scars she carries. I don’t know the experiences that taught her to be so guarded. I’ll wait until she’s ready to show me. I’ll work at convincing her, that I’m one of the chosen few she can give her trust to.

Because Delores is worth waiting and working for.

But here—now—Dee’s body already believes what her mind is still wary of. That I’ll never hurt her. That I want her—desire her—more than any other woman before her.

That I’ll cherish every part of her—her body, her mind . . . her heart—for as long as she’ll let me.

The song’s drumbeat pounds. And the singer’s words resonate.

This is my kingdom come.

This is my kingdom come.

My cock slides smoothly between her breasts in a sensational, steady rhythm. Then Dee lifts her head. She leans forward and wraps her lips around me, pulling as much of me into her mouth as she can reach—sucking hard.

And it feels so fantastic, I swear I could frigging cry.

Pure undiluted ecstasy rips through me. I moan her name as I come hard and deep—from the marrow of my fucking bones.

After Dee swallows every drop, she releases me from her mouth. Then she smiles mischievously. “That’s what I was thirsty for.”

I keel over to the side, my legs no longer able to hold me up. And I try like hell to catch my breath.

After a minute of silence, Dee asks, “Did I kill you?”

I chuckle. “Pretty damn close. That was certainly better than I ever imagined heaven being.”

I drag her to me, holding her against my chest. Our skin is slick and all kinds of sticky wonderful. “That was amazing.”

“Yeah, I know.” She giggles.

“But it’s about to get even better.”

She looks up into my eyes. “Is it really?”

I smile and nod. “It really is. Because . . .” I lift her up and slide under one of her legs so she’s straddling my chest. And her sweet pussy is mere inches from my mouth.

Then I hand her the camera. “. . . now it’s your turn.”

D
ee stays at my place that weekend.

On Saturday, I bring her to the gym with me, looking very come-worthy in my rolled-up boxing trunks, a sports bra, and gloves. She made a few jabs at the speed bag and was convinced hers was broken, but I showed her it’s just a lot harder than it looks.

Delores was proud of herself by the time we left—almost as proud as I was of her. She hadn’t mastered the bag, but she was a hell of a lot better than most beginners.