Tame Me

Chapter Ten

As with the rest of the hotel, Ryan is known in the restaurant. The moment we set foot through the door, a distinguished man with graying temples and perfect posture strides toward us.

The space itself is beautiful, as is every part of this hotel that I have seen. The paneling is a deep mahogany, and the tables are draped with crisp white cloths. Sturdy, comfortable-looking chairs surround the tables, upholstered in warm red leather.

The art is appealing, hyper-realistic paintings of wine bottles and glasses, each larger than life and brimming with color. The lighting is low but not too dark, and the acoustics are good enough to hear your companions but not so good that you can eavesdrop on the next table.

Best of all, it smells incredible.

“Mr. Hunter, so good to see you again. Your usual table?”

“Not tonight, Stephen. The lady and I would like some privacy. Is station twelve available?”

“It is,” Stephen says, and he leads us to a round booth in the back of the restaurant from which we can see the rest of the room, and yet we still feel secluded. It is, I think, the perfect date table.

Ryan orders wine and oysters on the half shell, and Stephen nods in acknowledgement before leaving us alone.

“If this isn’t your table,” I begin as soon as Stephen is out of earshot, “where do you usually sit with your women?” I add a teasing quality to my voice, but the truth is that I want to know. I am not jealous—not really. But my curiosity borders on intense.

“I’ve never brought a woman here,” he says.

“Because you’re always working when you come to Starfire?”

“No,” he says. “I have access to the suite anytime.”

“Oh,” I say, finding that tidbit of information extremely fascinating.

He leans over and brushes a kiss over my lips. “I haven’t brought a woman,” he says, “because there’s never been a woman I wanted to bring.”

I force myself not to grin like a fool. After all, Ryan’s dating history shouldn’t be of any interest to me. Not now. Not with me just days away from returning to Texas.

All true, and yet I can’t deny the fingers of delight that dance along my spine, making my body tingle with the knowledge that, at least as to this one small thing, I am unique and special to him.

I clear my throat so as not to show my pleasure. “I didn’t realize you’d been celibate before me,” I tease.

“Are you fishing, Ms. Archer?” he asks. “Should I be flattered?”

I frown. “Flattered?”

He slides his hand along my leg, making the silk of the dress rub provocatively over my skin. “That you’re jealous of the other women I’ve dated.”

I lick my lips, my legs now warm, my sex now tingling. “We’re not dating.”

“You’re right. I’ll rephrase. Are you jealous of the other women I’ve fucked?”

What the hell, I think, and then answer. “Yes,” I say boldly. “I am.”

His smile is triumphant. “Good.” He tightens his fingers on my thigh then leans over and kisses my cheek. “I’ll tell you a secret, kitten. I’ve been with a lot of women. You’re the only one who has truly gotten under my skin.”

I feel a rush of cold at his words, like a victim going into shock. I don’t think this is fear, though. I think it is hope. Sweet, delicious, terrifying hope. “Be careful,” I say quickly before he has the chance to study my silence. “You’re going to break the rules. You’re going to knock me off-kilter.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “But I wonder if I should be the one who’s jealous?”

“Maybe you should,” I say flippantly. “I’ve fucked a lot of men.”

The words come easily. Hell, he’s easy. Maybe it’s because I know that this is a temporary thing that will end when we reach Dallas. Maybe it’s because he’s Ryan.

Maybe it’s because we started as friends even if, in some secret deep part of myself, I want to end up so much more. All I know is that this is comfortable.

He is studying my face, his expression inquisitive. “How many of them meant something to you? These men you fucked?”

“Three,” I say easily. “The first because he was a genuine friend, and we never should have been so stupid. The second I thought was real, but I was mistaken. I thought he broke my heart, but all he really did was wound my pride.”

“Your friend Ollie,” he says. “And the second is the asshole movie star?”

“Yup. Bryan Raine. Creep extraordinaire.”

“And the third?”

I look at him, but I don’t answer. Instead I just smile and sip my wine.

I think he understands, but his expression is almost sad when he says, “You burn through men like you’re on a quest, kitten. What is it you expect to find?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know,” I say. What I want to say is you.

A waitress arrives with a bottle of wine, and after Ryan samples it, she pours us each a glass. I desperately want a sip, but before I can take one, Ryan twines his fingers with mine. “Maybe you don’t need Texas or your plan. Maybe you just need to find a man who grounds you.”

“Maybe.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I make bad choices.”

“In the past, yes,” he says. “But how long are you going to keep using that excuse as a Band-Aid on your fear?”

My head snaps up. “I’m not afraid.”

“The hell you’re not. You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid of staying.”

I look away because he is right. “That’s different.”

He doesn’t answer, probably because he knows that he’s right, and my excuse is just bullshit.

I tug my hand free and then sip my wine.

“My looks are the thing that scare me the most,” I say. It’s not the kind of thing I usually share, but I want so much to be close to this man. Foolish, since I’m about to leave him, but I can’t argue with what I want.

His smile is sweet and genuine. “There’s nothing scary about your looks, kitten.”

I return the smile because I know he’s just putting me at ease. “I know you think I’m pretty,” I say.

“Beautiful,” he corrects.

“All right. I don’t mind that either because I really do believe you see me. But most people...” I trail off with a shrug. “I used to be afraid that no one saw me at all. They just saw the trappings.” I take another sip of wine. “I got hurt by a lot of guys once I realized they didn’t give a crap about what was in my head. They only wanted my face and my tits and my body on their arm.”

He reaches for my hand, then squeezes.

I shrug. “It’s okay. I figured it out fast enough. And then I turned it around. Turned it into a tool. They never saw the real me anyway, so I finally decided that if I had it, I might as well use it.” My smile is thin. “I believe in being pragmatic.”

“Maybe so, but there is no escaping reality. And the reality is that you are beautiful. It’s not a curse. It’s not a tool. I’ve seen some of the pictures Nikki has taken of you. And captured on camera, you are truly exceptional. But it’s not because you have those incredible cheekbones or the kind of mouth a guy wants to see wrapped around his cock,” Ryan says, making me smirk. “You have a light, Jamie. You shine. You walk into a room and—”

“How do you do that?” I ask.

“What?”

“Make me feel special.”

His smile is so gentle it makes my heart swell. “Maybe you are special.”

He lifts his hand, and Stephen comes over, this time carrying a flat, square box wrapped in silver paper. “I bought you something,” Ryan says to me. He takes the box from Stephen and sets it in front of me. “Open it.”

“Ryan.” I can’t seem to stop grinning, and I reach for the box and pull it close. It is a jewelry store box, so the top is wrapped separately from the bottom. All I have to do is untie the bow and lift the lid. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, is the stunning silver collar. And on the center loop, there now hangs a lovely silver lock.

Ryan brushes his fingertip against the lock. “Because I want to lock you up and keep you. Because I will always keep you locked tight within my heart. Take your pick, Jamie. Both are equally true.”

His words make tears prick at my eyes, so I focus only on the gift. “It’s incredible. Thank you.”

“Will you put it on?”

I remember what we said in the store. That wearing it would mean that I belong to him. “Yes,” I say. “I will.”

He helps me fasten it. It feels odd at first—I own a few chokers, but I don’t wear them often, but I know that I will get used to it. More than that, I kind of like the fact that I feel it there against my skin. It is a reminder of what I am. Of whose I am.

“Do you like it?”

I don’t have a mirror—I left my purse in the room—but I reach up and feel it, and I can imagine how it looks. That isn’t what is important anyway, and when I turn to him, I am smiling. “Of course I do,” I say. “It makes me yours.”

I see the heat banked in his eyes as he brushes his hand over my cheek. “Yes,” he says. “It does.”

I lean over to kiss him, but am interrupted by the arrival of the waitress with our oysters. Ryan looks at me, and the gleam in his eye can only be described as devilish. “I didn’t think to ask,” he says. “Do you like oysters?”

“I’ve never actually had any,” I admit. “Not on the half shell, anyway.”

“Really?”

“Sad, isn’t it?” I say with a woe-is-me tone to my voice. “I’ve lived such a sheltered and unadventurous life.”

“Very pure,” he says. “Very sheltered.”

I grin.

“At any rate, it’s time to add some adventure, and I do think you’ll like them. Do you trust me?”

“You know I do.” And now my tone is all serious.

He meets my eyes, and what I see in that brilliant blue warms me. “I’m very glad to hear it,” he says.

The dozen oysters are arranged artfully on a plate surrounding a half shell full of red sauce. “Open your mouth,” he says as he dips a small spoon into the sauce, then dabs it onto an oyster. “There are stories that Casanova ate fifty of these for breakfast every day,” he adds, his voice low and steady.

I do as he says, opening my mouth, though I truly don’t know what to expect. I trust him though. More than that, I want this moment.

His eyes never leave mine as he raises the shell to my parted lips. “That’s it. Now suck, and just let it slide down your throat. Oh, Jesus, Jamie, you’re killing me,” he adds when I do as he demands, then use the tip of my tongue to catch the last bit of sauce.

“Delicious,” I whisper, but even I’m not sure if I mean the oyster or the moment.

“You do know what they say about oysters?” Ryan asks as he lifts another one to his own mouth. “Why a man like Casanova would want so many of them?”

“Why don’t you tell me,” I say, though I knew perfectly well.

“They say oysters are an aphrodisiac,” he says as he takes one of his own.

“Do they?” I pluck another shell up, then dab sauce on it. I draw it to my mouth, then slowly suck it in as he watches, the desire on his face so sharp it’s a wonder it doesn’t cut me to pieces.

I swallow, then smile sweetly as I indicate the oysters. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered you want to seduce me or insulted that you need so much help in order to try.”

“Trust me,” Ryan says. “There’s nothing an aphrodisiac could do for me at this point that having you next to me isn’t doing better.”

I hear the hint of something wicked in his voice, and it sends a shiver up my spine. “I’m very glad to hear it,” I say.

He takes a sip of wine. “I want you to do something for me now.”

I narrow my eyes, wary. “What?”

“Take off your panties.”

I lift my brows. “Um, no.”

He tilts his head, his expression stern. “I seem to recall coming to an agreement as to the rules.”

“My answer,” I say, “is still no. Not because I’m feeling rebellious, but because I’m not wearing any.”

I see the flare in his eyes that tells me I’ve surprised him. “Oh, really. Well, in that case...”

The hand that has been on my thigh moves up, and his fingers slip into that secret pocket. I gasp, though, when I feel the warm touch of his fingertips against my bare thigh.

I turn, shocked. “What—how—?”

“I really didn’t see the point of a pocket when it was so much more convenient without that seam.” He grins wickedly. “Full access.”

“But—”

With his other hand, he silences me with a finger to my lips. “Spread your legs,” he says.

“We’re in a restaurant.”

“Then I hope that when I make you come, you can refrain from screaming.”

“Ryan,” I say, but though my tone is a protest, my actions are not. I spread my legs, and when his hand slips down and finds me already wet, already excited, Ryan lets out a low whistle.

“You like this as much as I do,” he says, “getting off in public. Knowing that you’re mine. That I can touch you anywhere, make you come for me anywhere.”

His fingers slide over me, and I am wet—so wet that there is no denying the truth of his words.

A waitress comes to check on our wine and asks if we’d like to order the meal. I manage a polite smile, and all the while Ryan’s fingers are stroking me, dipping into me, taking me higher and higher.

As if to torment me, he asks her to recite the specials, and as she does, I reach under the table and clutch my own knee, trying to stifle the urge to squirm, to get his hand to move faster, tighter. To take me that much further.

As soon as she’s gone, I round on him. “Bastard!” I snap, but he only catches my mouth in a kiss and then whispers, “Come for me. Come for me now, kitten,” as he thrusts deep inside me.

I grab the edge of the table and stare blankly into space, willing my body not to move as the orgasm ripples through me. It is as if all that energy, all that explosion, remains centered in my cunt, and my body clenches and clenches around the fingers he has thrust inside me, all secret, all hidden inside my skirt and beneath the tablecloth of this fancy, five-star restaurant.

“I hate you,” I say when I come down from the high.

“No,” he says. “You don’t.” He pauses for a moment, then slides his hand out of my dress. “I have another present for you,” he says.

I decide it is safer not to ask, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a coil of ribbon with a hook on the end.

“What is that?”

“A leash,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “It will latch onto that loop even with the lock charm on the necklace.”

I smile, feeling bold. “All right,” I say. “Attach it. Then lead me back to the room and fuck me properly. But Ryan, you work here. I wonder what people will think.”

“Probably that I’m the luckiest man in Vegas. But you do raise a good point.” He reaches over and hooks the clip to the necklace. Then he lets the ribbon trail down, tucking the long end down my cleavage so that the remainder is hidden beneath my skirt.

I raise a brow. “People will still know.”

“Let them.”

I lick my lips, still aroused and more than willing to take this further. “Ryan,” I say. “How would you feel about skipping dinner?”

He laughs. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t mind at all.”

He waits until we are out of the elevator and walking down the hall to the penthouse to pull out the leash. When he does, though, I like it. There’s pleasure in belonging to him, comfort in knowing that he is there. That I can rely on him. Go to him.

Talk to him.

A twinge of regret pokes at me as I remember that this is only temporary. But I push it soundly away. Right now, I am living only in the moment. Only in our arrangement.

I pause in the doorway despite the tug on the leash. He turns to look at me, mock disapproval on his face, and I smile. “Please, sir,” I say, and watch his mouth quirk with amusement. “Will you take me to the window?”

He does, and we stand together, looking out onto the brightly lit Las Vegas skyline.

“All the women in the world,” I begin. “You could have any of them, you know.”

“Not any,” he says. “Probably just ninety percent. Ninety-five tops.”

I smile, then sober. “You chose me.”

He moves behind me, then presses his hands to my shoulders and kisses the top of my head. “No kitten,” he says. “We chose each other.”

I turn and look out the window again. “Yeah,” I say to our reflection. “We did.”

I tilt my head and smile at him, then trail my fingers from the choker, down the leash, to his hand. “So now that you’ve led me here, what do you intend to do with me?”

“Oh, I think we can think of something,” he says, and then unfastens my halter and unzips the back of the dress. It falls off me like so much gossamer, leaving me naked except for the silver collar, the lock, the red ribbon leash, and my three-inch heeled sandals.

“That,” he says, “is a very pretty picture.”

He gives the leash a tug, pulling me to him. I stumble into his arms, laughing, then kick off the heels.

“Maybe I’ll just have you serve me wine and cheese like that.”

“I would. But I think you can do better.”

“Oh, I think I can, too,” he says, then unclips the leash. He takes the ribbon and coils it in his hands. “Turn around, Jamie,” he says, and I comply willingly.

“Now close your eyes.”

I do, and then feel the gentle brush of the ribbon as he wraps it around my eyes—once, twice, three times, until it is at least as effective as a traditional blindfold. Then he pulls me down, laying me out on a soft, fur rug.

I wait for his touch, but it doesn’t come. At least not at first. Then I hear the subtle shift in the air and hear the clink of ice in a glass.

“Do you like bourbon, kitten?” he asks, and when I nod, I find his finger on my lip. I draw it in, suckling, and listen as the pattern of his breathing changes with his growing excitement.

Gently, he pulls his finger away, then trails it down my belly. When he gets to my navel, I arch up, surprised by the quick, cold shock of an ice cube.

“You’re delicious,” he says, and I tremble in awareness as he licks and kisses his way down the trail, then sucks at my bellybutton, the sensation making me a little crazy.

“I want to make love to you,” he says, and there is so much gentleness in his voice it seems to get into my heart and squeeze.

I reach for him, but he simply says, “no,” and I put my arms back. “Not yet. Not until I’m sure you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” I say. “I’m always ready for you.”

His answer is a murmur, and then he is upon me. Gently, sweetly. Hands, mouth. He strokes me, plays me, touches and teases me. If his goal is to turn me into nothing more than pure awareness, pure need, then he has accomplished it fully.

I am melting, wanting. And what I want is more.

“Please,” I beg. “If I can’t see you, at least let me touch you.”

Gently, he lifts my hand and presses it to his chest. It is bare, and I stroke lightly over the smattering of chest hair. I find his back with my other hand and stroke down, delighting at the firmness of his tight, bare ass beneath my fingers.

“I can’t wait,” he says. “I want you, kitten, and I’m taking you now.”

“Yes,” I whisper, lifting my hips and spreading my legs. I want him in me, on top of me. I want to lose myself under the weight of him, to feel consumed by him.

He strokes me first, his fingers readying me, and I moan in pleasure and anticipation. Then I feel the head of his cock at my sex, the pressure of entry, and then the sweet thrill when he drives himself home.

We move together, anticipating touches, sharing kisses. It is sensual, romantic, soft and easy. He is right—we are making love, and that sweet reality makes me want to weep with joy even as much as it scares me.

He strokes me, bringing me higher and higher until I tremble in his arms, the orgasm rippling over me this time like waves upon a sunlit pond.

His coming is much more violent, and he cries my name as he finds his release, and I cling to him, urging him deeper and deeper, wanting every last bit of him.

We lay together, and he takes off my blindfold then smiles down at me. Then he pulls me close and holds me.

I sigh with delight and contentment. And as I curl up against him, I try not to think of how much I want to stay with him, and that all of this is leading to the one inevitable conclusion—me in Texas, and Ryan in California.