Last Second Chance

Chapter Twenty

Van stood at the edge of her bed and stared down at her. He had to clench his hands at his side to keep himself steady.

Fuck, she was beautiful. She was more than beautiful. She was a goddess. She was something no one had created a word for yet. Because no other such creature had existed.

“Lose the blanket, Stella Jo.” His gravelly voice filled the small room.

She nodded, licked her lips, and slid the white comforter down. His eyes narrowed when he saw that she’d left her bra and underwear on.

“I said naked, cowgirl. But you know that, don’t you?”

“I was…” She paused to take a deep breath. “I thought I had more time.”

Setting the rope and riding crop on the bedside table, Van crossed his arms. “You have all the time in the world. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

Her emerald eyes widened, meeting his with an ‘are you serious’ stare. He nodded once at her unspoken question.

She stood on shaking legs, and he resisted the urge to let her off the hook. She was nervous. She should be. He was going to do things to her that would wreck her—things she wouldn’t be able to forget so long as she lived. He planned to make damn sure of it.

Bravely, she reached back and unhooked her lacy bra. Unable to keep his eyes on hers, he let them drift as her bra fell. She hadn’t been bare to him the night before, and he’d spent the night regretting that. Which was why he was determined to rectify it.

Full breasts he knew would fit perfectly in his hands and mouth were exposed to him, and a flush crept up her neck to her face.

“You are so fucking beautiful. A lesser man would drop to his knees right now.”

She grinned sheepishly up at him from under her lashes as she slid her panties down her long, slender legs. “But you won’t?”

“No,” he said evenly. “I won’t.” Because he had other plans.

“Lie down,” he commanded tenderly once her delicate feet had stepped out of the sheer lace panties.

She did as she was told, and he took a minute to appreciate the spectacular view. Every inch of her was glorious perfection. A perfection he wouldn’t have believed existed if he hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes. His breath caught as she raised an arm above her hair, dipping her fingers into the hair splayed out around her.

“What are you going to do with me, Mr. Ransom?” Her tone was teasing, but her voice trembled. “Or is it Mr. Walker tonight?”

“It’s, sir, cowgirl. From here on out. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, watching carefully as he lifted the rope from the table.

“I would say this isn’t going to hurt, or that I’ll be gentle…” He shrugged as he took one of her hands in his. “But I’d be lying.”

A whimper escaped her lips, and he smiled. The fear in her eyes was genuine, which caused a slight pinch of guilt in his stomach. But she’d said that he’d made her feel, hunger flaring in her gaze when she’d said it, so make her feel he would.

He tied her wrists together above her head and then knotted them to a wooden slat in her headboard.

Taking his time admiring ever inch of silky bronze skin on her body, he made his way south. There were two visible scars on either side of her right knee. He let his fingers trail lightly over them, tracing the lines and small dots beside them. Panic flared in her eyes.

“Tell me,” he said softly. “What happened?”

“I fell. During a race. It’s why I don’t ride anymore,” was all she gave him. He suspected that explained the limp as well.

He placed soft yet open-mouthed kisses on each of the pink puckered marks before sliding his hands down to her ankles. Her breathing increased noticeably as he tied each ankle to the wooden globes at each end of the footboard.

“Breathe, cowgirl. This won’t be nearly as fun if you pass out.” He winked and she nodded, though she was still making a considerable effort to breathe normally.

Her gaze drifted more than once over to the riding crop on the table beside her.

He chuckled low as he secured her left ankle. “Nervous, cowgirl?”

Her bare breasts lifted, and his dick throbbed at the sight. He’d been hard in the barn just picturing this moment. Actually living it was so intense it was almost unbearable. Almost.

“Hanging in there, baby?” he whispered as he picked up the long fiberglass rod with the braided leather handle.

He’d been careful not to touch her skin much. So far only the rope and his lips had made full contact. This was why he’d brought the implement. Because a woman like her—guarded, independent, stubborn—was going to need a little motivation before she broke.

“Trying,” she breathed out.

“Wrong answer, cowgirl.” Wrapping the loop around his wrist, he touched the tip of the crop to her inner thigh and moved it slowly to the crease where it met her body.

“Yes, sir,” she amended quickly.

“Better,” he said with a wink. He let the tip slide against her open lips. Her body jerked and he grinned. “Be still, beautiful.”

She didn’t say a word, didn’t struggle against the restraints. She just watched him. Trusted him. Which fucked him up so much inside he was struggling to breathe normally himself.

“It occurred to me last night that there are some things I’ve asked you about, things you haven’t answered.”

Her throat tightened as she swallowed. “What things…sir?”

“What did you mean when you said you’d never felt wanted before, Stella Jo? Because I’m having a real fucking hard time believing that.”

She blinked, keeping her eyes closed a few seconds longer than necessary.

Van ran the crop over her stomach to her hip, flicking his wrist lightly. She flinched and her eyes opened wide.

“What the fu—”

“Answer the question, cowgirl.”

She glared at him. A wicked desire unfurled in his stomach. He’d wanted to draw this out. But that fiery glare made him want to fuck her until that wooden headboard slammed straight through the damn wall.

“I meant exactly what I said,” she bit out through gritted teeth.

“Never? You’ve never felt like anyone wanted you? Not your rich daddy or that pretty boy who came to visit?”

Her brow creased. “My parents were too busy with their own lives. And Nash, the pretty boy as you called him, was my first real boyfriend and he could hardly wait for things to end between us so that he could hook up with my roommate.”

What a fucking moron. Van didn’t need to know what her roommate looked like to know dude had made a massive mistake.

“I wish I would’ve known. I would’ve thanked him. Hell, I would’ve bought his lunch.”

“For not wanting me?”

“For being a blind idiot.” Van was silent for a moment as he tried to contemplate how anyone could walk away from such a flawless creature. He sure as hell couldn’t.

A smile lifted her sensuous mouth, and he ached to taste her happiness. Every smile he’d triggered was carefully catalogued in his head. His ability to make her smile was the only thing that made him feel worthy of even being in her presence.

“Next question,” he said, gently dragging the crop lower. “Did pretty boy ever taste you? The way I did last night?”

“I am not answering that.” Her chin jutted upward in defiance. His cock practically danced a jig. He’d hoped she’d say that. Another flick of his wrist and the crop snapped against her inner thigh. The redness was instant, and he wanted to kiss it better. He would. Soon.

“No, okay? No one had ever…done that to me before, okay? Happy now?”

Van grinned. Fuck yeah he was happy. He was goddamn thrilled.

“I didn’t think so.”

Her eyes narrowed, but he saw more than anger and defiance. Vulnerability she was trying to keep hidden leaked out.

“Why not? Did I do something wrong?”

She’d moaned and cried out and screamed his name. Hell no she hadn’t done anything wrong.

“No, cowgirl. You did everything perfect.”

“Then how did you know he hadn’t…” She trailed off, eyeing the crop closely as he slid it up and down her right leg.

“Because I knew if he’d ever gotten a taste, a taste of what I got last night, there was no way in fucking hell he could’ve walked away.”

“Van,” she whispered, his name a plea. Closer. They were getting closer to the begging he wanted.

“Ask me—no. Beg me for what you need, Stella Jo. Tell me how it felt last night, how you want it to feel right now.”

Her body finally writhed hard against the restraints. “Please,” she whimpered.

“Please what, Stella Jo?”

“Please, sir. I want… It felt…” She gazed up at him, lost as he ran the crop across her breasts. Her taut peaks begged to be placed in his mouth, and he was going to snap if he didn’t get a taste of her soon.

“Fucking say it.”

“I want you to lick me. I want you to fuck me with your tongue again. I want to come in your mouth, on your fingers, hard like you did it last night. Maybe harder.”

Her words came out in a rush, his Heaven and his torturous Hell all at once. Behind his eyes, he saw her—startled when he’d run into her the first time, crying when he’d seen her the second time. Empty. Lost. Needy.

He swore to himself he’d give her what she needed, lick her sweet tears if she ever cried in front of him again. And lick every other part of her until she was practically skipping around every day with a smile permanently on her face.

“Close your eyes,” he demanded. “Don’t look at me. Don’t look at the fucking crop. Don’t look at the ceiling. Close your eyes.”

She did as she was told, and he let the end of the crop skitter softly across the top of her swollen, damp folds before setting it down on the bed.

“Just feel, Stella Jo. Don’t think. Don’t do anything except feel.”

Her legs twitched as he began placing lingering, wet kisses from her ankles to her thighs.

“Just feel, baby,” he murmured against her skin. “Feel me.”

She moaned when he let his teeth graze her flesh. She arched as hard as his constraints would allow when he sucked her clit into his mouth.

“Oh God, Van.”

“Oh no, baby. Now I have to start over.”

“Sir. I meant sir,” she corrected quickly. “Fuck.” She bit out the curse, causing him to have to stifle a laugh. Despite that addicting sugared-honey taste of her arousal, he started over, placing gentle kisses on her left ankle.

Torturously slow for both of them, he made his way back to her center. Licking relentlessly, he began to stroke her opening with the tip of his middle finger. Teasing her was hell on his dick, but watching her come to life at his touch was worth it.

“Please, oh god, please, please, sir,” she pleaded in an endless breathy stream.

“Please what, baby?”

He expected “Please put your fingers inside me,” or “Please make me come.” What he got threw every ounce of self-control that he had right out the window.

“Please fuck me, Van. Please. Pretty please, sir.”