Chapter 36 Restraint
Restraint
Jonah
Ichoose sex with Renée over an indoor waterpark. I’m used to playing Would You Rather with two repulsive options, not two best-case scenarios.
I stand in Renée’s driveway with an arm around her and wave to Amber and the girls as they drive off for Paradise Jungle—without me.
“Have a great time,” she calls.
“Take pictures,” I yell.
Once the car is out of sight, Renée steps inside her house to grab two small duffle bags.
She bends over, and usually my eyes would train on that round backside, but they’re more interested in what’s behind her.
I try not to peek inside, but curiosity bites—urging me to find out more about her.
I want to know everything about Renée Wilde and her life.
Doesn’t she want me to? Am I not a part of her life now?
She’s been protecting herself for so long, so I understand why she’s still holding back, why she’s not letting me inside her home yet, but I’m itching to know when she’ll open the door for me.
I smile, carrying her bags to my place, and remind myself that doing the right thing takes time. Pressuring her isn’t worth the risk.
“Two bags?” I ask.
She shrugs, and it’s both adorable and saucy. “I wanted options.”
“I didn’t realize this weekend would require clothing.”
She winks. “It doesn’t.”
I open my front door and narrow my eyes as she strides past me. “What do you have planned, you minx?”
All three dogs greet her with kisses, and it warms my heart watching her love on my babies.
“Did you know there are mallard drakes in your living room?” she asks, gesturing to where two of my male ducks lie, curled up in a blanket on the floor.
“Yeah,” I chuckle. “Emilio recently bonded with Steve and they enjoy the soft life.”
“Aww, queer ducks.”
“You should see Peggy right now,” I laugh. “She’s pissed Steve left her this mating season.” Renée’s eyes twinkle when she turns them on me. “What?”
“Look at you, knowing about duck mating seasons and same-sex bonding.”
My eyes bug out. “Have you seen ducks in mating season? They’re the opposite of cute. They’re criminals. Every last one of them could have their own episode of Law and Order: SVU.”
The dogs follow us to my bedroom where I set her bags down.
I give them a kiss on their heads and guide their sad faces out of the room so we can have privacy—or some semblance of privacy.
I can hear them all grunt their displeasure as they lay down in the hallway.
They’ll survive. Short of the world burning, not much is going to stop me from this valuable alone time with Renée.
She sets something on my nightstand and turns to me with a look that tells me she’s as ready as I am. Our sexual hunger has reached an all-time high, and now that we have the space and time to explore—now that we have mutual trust—it’s all about to erupt.
My heart thunders as I cross the spacious bedroom toward the woman I’m head over heels for.
She tilts her head and strokes her hands up my arms. “Are you ready to give up control?” she asks.
“It’s funny you think I had any in the first place.”
“You know what I mean.”
I delicately play with one of her gold earrings. “You want to control me. You want to be in charge of what we do in the bedroom.”
Her emerald-green eyes are fixed on mine and she nods almost imperceptibly.
“Yes, Professor. I want you to control me.”
The corner of her mouth curls and her gaze darts away. “You have a king-size bed.”
“I’m six three,” I counter with a smirk. “I needed the California king. Why? How big is your bed?”
“I’m five two. I have a full.”
I run my hand over my face and groan. “I can’t wait for my feet to hang off.”
I shouldn’t have said that. She shouldn’t feel pressure to let me inside her home, and I don’t want her to think I’m expecting it, even though I am.
Thankfully, she chuckles at my response, and hope ignites in my chest. Maybe she’s picturing us cuddled in her tiny bed, my bare feet poking out from the end.
I glance at the nightstand to find the pair of tortoise shell glasses she set down moments ago. “These are hot.” I grin and place them on her face.
“They’re for reading.”
“Oh no no no no. They’re naughty professor glasses and they’re for always.”
“You know,” she starts, and traces a finger just above my belt along my bare skin and it prickles. “I’m not the only one with a sexy job. I do believe you have a special talent that makes you rather desirable with the ladies.”
Oh... “Guys too.”
“I’d like to see you dance for me, Jonah.”
Heat rushes through my body at her first command, but I suddenly remember I haven’t danced like that in over six months. “I might be a little rusty,” I say, and pull at the back of my neck.
“That’s okay,” she smiles. “I’ve also been dusting off some old skills recently.”
A flashback of that night in my living room when she sang and played the mandolin makes my insides all fuzzy and warm.
Knowing that she shared that vulnerable moment with only me renews my cocksure attitude.
But it’s more than that—now there’s a new feeling swirling beside it: the urge to submit to a powerful woman.
I’ve never wanted to dance for someone more.
“Can I have a moment alone to practice?”
“Of course,” she says. “I’ll wait in the den down the hall. Come out when you’re ready.”
When she shuts the bedroom door, I run through my old stripping playlist and am pleasantly surprised to see my muscle memory is alive and well.
I hook up to the bluetooth speaker1 in the den, which is just a small, informal living room up here on the second floor.
When I emerge, Renée has drawn the curtains and dimmed the sconces.
The den is decorated like the rest of my house, with warm red and cream tones, sandstone work, wood elements, and cozy leather furniture.
The music I selected thrums low through the space, softer than the club speakers I danced under, but somehow it hits harder. Maybe that’s because she’s the only audience tonight. Just her. No lights, no crowd, no stage—just the woman who accidentally walked back into my life eight months ago.
It wasn't an accident, if you ask me. It was fate.
I nearly choke when I round the couch and see she’s no longer wearing the cute, long dress she was in fifteen minutes ago when she left me in my room to practice.
Blood rushes to my dick and it’s suddenly a struggle to remain in performance mode, because CHEESE AND RICE, SHE’S HOT.
She’s wearing a skin-tight, short-as-hell leather dress, with lace and mesh at the sides that showcase her wide, beautiful hips.
The deep V neckline converges into a gold zipper that travels all the way to the hemline.
Holy smokes. Has she been wearing that the whole time?
I came out of my bedroom like a jaguar on the prowl, but she just threw the Uno reverse card and now I’m her willing prey—her boy toy she can do what she pleases with. I know I’m lucky, but I never thought I’d be this lucky.
She crosses her legs, and there’s heat smoldering in her stare like coals. Her posture is so elegant in the way it always was when she lectured, except now she’s relaxed. Watching me. Enjoying me. Not pretending not to.
I move with the beat, letting it sink into my soul the way it always has. I didn’t know that night she came into the club would be my last time dancing. I hung up the fireman costume, packed away banana hammocks, and said goodbye to breakaway shirts.
But I’m dancing once again, and only for her. If I would have known she wanted this, I would have worn something a little sexier than jeans, an undershirt, and a button up.
My shoulders dip and I let my long sleeve drop. I roll my hips like I did onstage, but slower, sweeter—a little less performance, a little more devotion. She notices the difference. I can tell by the tiny tilt in her head, the subtle softening of her seductive mouth.
“Still got it,” she purrs, barely loud enough to hear over the music. Her praise hits deeper than any applause or screaming crowd ever could. I push my palms against my groin and thrust in rhythm to the music.
I grin—probably too wide, too eager—and slide my hands down my chest in a practiced line that once got me ridiculous tips.
But here? I don’t care about tips. The greatest payment is the way her eyes follow every inch of my body, like she’s studying or devising a plan.
Renée looks at me like she owns the view. And I love that.
I bite the hem of my undershirt and expose my abs before leaning over her.
I quickly rip open her crossed legs, and plant one hand on the couch back.
I roll my hips and rub my jean-clad erection into her chest. And because she knows she owns me, her firm, little hands slide anywhere she pleases.
Through the valleys of my hips, up my chest, until she’s toying with my nipples.
“You’re doing so well,” she murmurs. “You’re beautiful, baby.”
Baby?!
I push my face into her neck and run my tongue along that column of creamy freckled skin. “I am your baby. I’m yours.”
She stuffs a hand into my hair and tugs. She licks my cheek—branding me, sending another jolt of hot pleasure straight into my balls. Then she releases me as fast as she claimed, pushing me off her with a sadistic smile. “Keep going.”
In the club, customers might playfully demand something from me, but it was always my choice to agree or decline. But with her, right here, it doesn’t feel like I have choice—and that imaginary power imbalance consumes me in lust.
Why do I like this so much? Why does this make so much sense to me? It’s like when I suddenly notice my breathing, and then I’m questioning if I ever knew how to breathe in the first place. But there’s no question that my body wants and was made for her instructions.