Chapter 4
Miles wasn’t one to make mistakes. He was cautious. He mulled over his choices, thought through possible outcomes, weighing them carefully before picking his course of action.
But he’d made several mistakes tonight, starting with engaging in a conversation with Tabitha at the bar and ending with him sitting on his couch and ordering her to slowly, painstakingly strip herself bare for him.
He couldn’t regret any of them.
He would.
He didn’t let things go. Was never easy on himself. Especially when it was something he should have gotten right.
Something he should have known better than to do.
The time for self-recrimination and self-flagellation would come. Later.
But not now.
Not with Tabitha standing in front of him in just those red heels.
She was a fucking goddess with her lush hips, full breasts and a softly-rounded belly, her pale skin dotted with bursts of color. Golden where the moonlight touched her cheek and shoulder. Gray where the lamplight cast shadows on the slope of her waist, the outer curve of her thigh. The honey of her hair, the messy waves falling to her shoulders. The ruby red of her mouth
The dusky pink of her nipples and the soft brown strip of tight curls covering her pussy.
The pearly pink stain of arousal coloring her cheeks.
Christ, help him, but he liked this new version of her. She was stronger. More stubborn.
It made it that much more satisfying when she gave him what he wanted.
But what he liked even more was how much her submission—and his demands—turned her on.
He saw it in the way her nipples jutted out, two puckered berries desperate for his mouth, her chest rising and falling rapidly. In how her thighs were clenched together, as if trying to assuage the ache between them. In the darkening of her eyes, the blue matching the midnight sky.
He inhaled it with every breath, the scent of her arousal filling his nostrils. Clinging to his whiskers after he’d wiped the hand holding her thong across his mouth. He felt it beneath his fingertips as he rubbed them across the silky, damp material of those panties.
She was turned on and nervous.
But she wasn’t scared of him.
The proof of that was her standing naked before him, waiting for him to tell her what to do next.
The proof of that was everything she’d told him.
I don’t like being restrained.
I don’t like the missionary position.
I want you to take me.
She trusted him.
He liked that most of all.
“More,” he demanded, soft and gruff.
“I want you to take control.”
Her words were a whisper. Unsteady, but not uncertain.
“You want me to take control of what?”
“Of me.”
“More.”
Her body trembled with need or nerves, and he must be a real prick because he’d never seen anything so pretty.
Had never wanted anyone so badly.
But then she shook her head, the tiniest of movements, denying him.
If it had been her newfound strength asserting itself, he would have gone back to demanding. If it had been her newly acquired stubbornness, he would have butted up against it with his own more established tenacity.
But it was fear. And the same vulnerability that had drawn him to her all those years ago. The one thing she hadn’t changed about herself.
“You can do it,” he murmured, and at his coaxing tone, she flushed, pleasure darkening the pink of her cheeks and chest to a deep rose. “You can tell me the truth about what you want. What you need.”
She studied him, gaze seeking, as if trying to figure out if this was some sort of trick.
It wasn’t.
It was a way to learn more about her. To discover what made this new version of her tick.
And to use those lessons to his advantage.
“I want you to take control of me,” she finally said, her gaze never straying from his. “I want you to take control of what happens between us tonight. And I want…” She trailed off. Rubbed her lips together then said, quick and soft, “I want you to take what you need from me.”
His cock, hard and aching since she’d taken off her belt, twitched behind his zipper. He took a deep breath, then another. Squeezed both hands into fists, curling his fingers around the soft material of her belt and the silkiness of her thong so he wouldn’t grab her and yank her onto his lap.
“Is that really what you want?” He needed to know for certain. No doubts. No hesitation. Full consent. “For me to use you in that way? Because that’s what it’s going to be. Me using your body to fulfill my needs. Me taking from you everything I want until you have nothing left to give.”
Eyes wide, lips parted as she breathed quick and shallow, she nodded.
“I need the words, Tabitha.”
A pause, the hesitation lasting a heartbeat. Then two. “It’s really what I want.”
He believed her. But there was one more thing he needed to know.
“Why?”
She blinked. And dropped her gaze. “Does it matter?”
It shouldn’t. He shouldn’t give a damn about her reasons for any of it. For being in Mount Laurel. For coming home with him.
It shouldn’t matter if it was remnants of what they’d had together years ago, or if she was just lonely. It shouldn’t matter if she was using him just as much as he was using her.
But it did.
“Yeah. It matters.”
It mattered if she was here as part of some fucked up guilt trip.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he ground out when she remained quiet. Eyes downcast. “You can’t make up for the past. Not this way.”
“It’s because I like it,” she whispered to the floor.
His heart picked up speed, but he kept his body still, his tone controlled. “Eyes on me.” His cock surged when her gaze immediately snapped to his. “Say that again.”
“I like it,” she repeated, no hesitation this time. “I like letting you take control. I like doing what you say.”
A rushing sound filled his ears. Adrenalin, excitement, and lust shot through him, a potent, dangerous mix that wanted him to surge to his feet, push her to her knees and shove his cock in her mouth. Fuck those full, red lips until he emptied himself down her throat.
But this wasn’t a punishment. He’d been honest when he’d told her he didn’t want to do anything to make her feel less than.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
Sitting up, he drew his legs together. “Come here.”
And she did. Just stepped forward as if attached to a string his words had pulled.
“Spread your legs.”
A hesitation this time, a few moments before she shuffled her feet a few inches apart.
Lifting his gaze to her face, he raised one eyebrow. “Wider.”
She lifted her hands as if unsure what to do with them before letting them fall back to her sides. Shifted from one foot to the other. But this time, she didn’t move her feet.
And she kept her upper thighs pressed firmly together.
But he’d already learned something about her.
She liked to be coaxed.
That wasn’t surprising. The girl he’d known had been eager to please. Always agreeing with him. Never pushing him for more—not more of his time or affection or his thoughts or words.
He’d thought she hadn’t asked for more because he’d given her everything she could possibly want.
But he was starting to think that maybe she’d been agreeable and accepting of whatever he gave her not because he’d been so fucking benevolent, but because she’d been afraid to ask for what she truly wanted.
She was still afraid.
He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the possibility that the confidence she’d shown in the bar was another aspect of the part she was playing.
She deserved it to be real.
“Come on,” he cajoled, an edge of command to his request because he knew she liked that, too. “Spread those pretty thighs for me.”
She trembled, those pretty thighs quaking, her breath coming out in a shaky exhale.
And then she widened her feet, stepping them far enough apart that he could see her pussy lips, puffy and glistening.
He shot her a cocky, half-grin, all he could manage with his dick hard and leaking in his pants and his hold on his control fraying with each surrender she gave him.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “So wet for me.” She swayed toward him, her body undulating as if seeking his touch. Seeking some sort of relief. “And so eager.”
“Miles…” His name on her lips was half whisper, half whimper. “You can touch me.”
Touch her? He wanted to devour her. But he wouldn’t. Not yet. Not until she was weak and shaking and sobbing his name.
Not until she begged.
“Hmm,” he said in response to her offer. “Put your hands behind your back.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want you to.” Because he liked looking at her, taking in his fill of her after all these years, noting the way her hips were fuller, her breasts bigger. He liked that she’d stood there for this long, naked and bared to him. “Because I told you to.”
Movements slow, eyes on his, she bent put her hands at her lower back, the pose thrusting her tits forward.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmured.
Her entire body twitched and she made a sound, soft and low in the back of her throat.
He went still and alert, learning even more about her. “Is that what you’re playing at tonight? Being a good girl?”
Dropping her gaze, she shook her head, refusing to give him the truth after she’d promised she would.
“Do you remember what I told you?” he asked. “The promises I made?”
“I remember.”
“Do you believe me?”
Do you trust me?
“Yes.”
There was no doubt in her answer. No hesitation.
He grinned for real, sharp and pleased. Felt like a predator, starved and on the prowl, and ready to pounce.
Instead, he kept his movements slow and controlled as he shifted forward to the edge of the sofa. “You want to pretend to be a good girl?” He pressed his knees against her inner thighs, forcing her legs to widen even more, then slid to the ground between them. “Let’s see how good you can be.”
***
Let’s see how good you can be.
Those words should have struck terror in Tabitha’s heart. Would have, she admitted, if any man other than Miles had murmured them to her.
She wanted him. But more than that, she still trusted him. Not completely, of course. She didn’t trust his motives.
She trusted that heated, hungry look in his eyes. The bulge in his pants.
She trusted him not to force her to do something she didn’t want to do.
“Don’t move,” he told her. “And keep your hands behind your back.”
While his heated gaze roamed over her, she stood, silent and still and waited.
And about shattered into a million pieces when he reached up and traced her nipple with his fingertip, his nail lightly scraping the sensitive skin of her areola.
Her breath caught and she swayed, pushing her breast forward, seeking more.
He dropped his hand.
“You’re not listening,” he scolded, sliding his hand to his lap once more.
She stilled.
“That’s better.” He tipped his head to the side and studied her. “Now,” he drawled, his tone dark enough, dangerous to have apprehension prickling the nape of her neck. “Apologize.”
Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”
“Tell me you’re sorry for not listening. Tell me you’re going to spend the rest of the night being good.”
Her jaw dropped, just… hung there as she gaped down at him. Who was this man and what had he done with the sweet, reverent boy he’d once been?
And why did she like this version so much?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For not listening.”
Her words were quiet. Sincere. It was easy enough to do. Not because it was the truth necessarily, but because it was what he wanted.
“And?”
She cleared her throat, but when she spoke, her voice was low and husky. “And I’m going to spend the rest of the night being good for you.”
His eyes heated, his jaw clenching at the twist she’d put on his words. The additional two words that changed the meaning. That told her truth.
I’m going to be good for you.
“You’re not going to move. And the only time you can speak is when I ask you a question, you want to stop me, or you want to beg me. Do you understand?”
He was toying with her. Like a lion playing with a baby gazelle, swatting it around a few times, taking a nibble here or there, letting it think it had a chance at escape before finally pouncing and taking what it’d wanted all along.
Her complete and utter surrender.
Even knowing that, she couldn’t imagine stopping him.
“Yes,” she said, knowing he needed to hear her say it. “I understand.”
Her reward? An upward twitch of his lips.
And his fingertip once again on her skin.
Not her nipple. Seemed she’d lost the right of his touch on one of the places she so desperately wanted it. Her breasts. Her nipples. Her pussy.
No, this time he started low, his fingertip skimming across the top of her foot as he traced the straps of her shoes from the base of her toes up to where they circled her ankles.
“When I first saw you at the bar, I imagined these shoes resting on my shoulders while I fucked the hell out of you.” He trailed his finger up her calf. “But now that I know you don’t like to feel trapped, I’ll have to see if I can come up with another scenario.”
Her heart lodged in her throat.
He must suspect why she didn’t like being restrained. Why she felt uncomfortable being beneath a man.
But before she could dwell on it, before the memories could seep in, he circled that lone fingertip behind her knee, the sensation light, so very, very light, the end of her belt still wrapped around his hand brushing her calf.
She was with Miles.
She was safe.
“You’re so beautiful.” He dragged that fingertip down her calf and around to the top of her foot. Then he went up again, this time on the inside of her shin, past her knee and up her inner thigh.
She forced herself to stay still, unbelievably still, knees locked, breath held as his fingertip floated over her skin, feather-light and barely there.
“So fucking gorgeous,” he continued, that finger going up, up, up.
Suddenly he stopped. Shook his head. “It pisses me off,” he admitted quietly. “And I hate that. I hate that I don’t want to pleasure you.”
He slid the hand wrapped in her thong between her legs, keeping the touch so delicate she barely felt it as he brushed his fingertip against her pussy lips. Her inner core clenched, but her pussy remained empty as he lightly swiped his finger back and forth. Back and forth.
“I hate that I don’t even want to just fuck you.” He withdrew his hand, held it up between them, his forefinger wet with her arousal. Holding her gaze, his voice dropped to a whisper. “I hate that when I see you standing there, being so good for me, I don’t want to worship you. I want to wreck you.”
She couldn’t stop the tremble that went through her. But it wasn’t fear. Fear would have been rational. Reasonable. Fear would have been a sign that she had some self-preservation when it came to him.
It was need.
And it was growing stronger with each barely-there touch. With each softly-spoken word.
“I hate it,” he continued. “But that’s not going to stop me from doing it.” He lifted his hand higher, holding his wet forefinger up, his other fingers still clenching her belt. “Open.”
She blinked down at his finger. It surprised her, this domineering side of him.
Surprised her even more when she licked her lips, opened her mouth, then leaned down and wrapped her lips around the tip of his finger. Moaned at the taste of herself on his skin.
He didn’t move. “Deeper.”
She slid her mouth down past his first knuckle. Then his second.
“Deeper.”
She went farther, until her lips were at the base of his finger.
“Suck,” he said, low and gritty.
She did, hard and long, her cheeks hollowing, her gaze on his. Then she moved, pulling back until she held the tip of his finger lightly between her teeth. Laved it with her tongue, licking it clean before lowering her head to take it deep again.
“Stop.”
She did, and he slowly withdrew his finger, then traced her parted lips before dragging his wet finger down her throat.
“Did you wish it was my cock you were sucking?” he asked, back to that carefully controlled tone as he skimmed his finger down between her breasts.
He kept his fingertip there, pressed between her breasts, right where her heartbeat was thundering.
And then, he took his touch away.
“Answer me.”
She worked moisture back into her mouth. “Yes.”
“Hmm.” He lightly traced his damp finger around her right nipple. She’d learned her lesson and didn’t move. But her pulse skittered. Her breathing grew ragged. “Say it.”
Was this a trick? She wasn’t sure.
She didn’t want to do or say anything that would have him stopping again.
He’d made the rules.
And she liked following them.
“Are you asking me to?”
He lightly scraped his nail against her nipple, and it was all she had in her not to squirm. “I’m telling you to.”
“I wished it was your cock I was sucking,” she whispered.
He made that humming sound again, his finger dragging down the bumps of her ribcage, that one single fingertip wreaking havoc within her body. “When you say that, it makes me want to wrap your hair around my fist, yank your head back, and fuck your mouth.”
She blinked at the contrast between his cool tone and heated words. Another aspect to his game. One she wasn’t familiar with.
One she wasn’t sure how to handle.
She wanted to tell him he could absolutely do that. He could fuck her mouth and any other part of her he wanted. Anything to break past his calm, controlled wall. But he hadn’t asked her a question. Hadn’t demanded she speak.
And despite her body trembling with need, her arms aching from holding them in this position so long, despite her doubts, she didn’t want him to stop.
And she wasn’t going to beg.
So she kept her mouth shut.
He looked up at her with a small, knowing grin, as if sensing her frustration. Silently applauding her restraint and obedience.
“I see all this pretty skin,” he murmured, his fingertip now drawing lazy circles around her belly button, not a care in the world, this man at her feet, “and I want to mark it. With my fingerprints here” —he tapped her left hip, then her right— “my whiskers here” –he lightly, lightly trailed his finger along her inner thigh— “my cum here” —reached up and slid that fingertip along her collarbone.
She felt like a phoenix, one set aflame by his words and the images they invoked. Each touch like oxygen to that fire, building it higher and higher. Her need for him a living, breathing entity that subsisted only on his words. Fed off his touch.
“I see you standing there,” he continued, “being so good for me, and I want to ruin you.”
He drew his hand away and once more stretched his left arm out to the side, resting it on the sofa cushions behind him.
Showing her that despite his words, despite how he felt and what he wanted, he wouldn’t lose control.
“Put your knee here.” He gave the cushion to the right of his head a pat.
She looked at the distance between the floor and the cushion. “I can’t.”
He tipped his head back against the sofa. “Are you stopping me?”
She could. He’d made it clear she could stop this, could stop him, at any point.
“No. I mean, I can’t. My heels are too high.”
Her balance was already precarious with how far her legs were spread, the unsteadiness to them. With her hands still behind her back, there was no way she trusted herself to move even the slightest, let alone lift one leg onto the couch.
“You won’t fall,” he told her, as if it was true simply because he had decreed it to be. “I won’t let you.” He patted the sofa again. “Your knee. Here.”
It was another test. He had them lined up for her tonight, one after the other. So many ways for her to disappoint him. To prove him right.
So many ways for him to feel superior and righteous.
Shifting her weight onto her right leg, she lifted her knee. Wobbled. But Miles was there, right there, his wrapped hands going to her waist, steadying her.
“Hold onto the back of the couch,” he told her.
Biting her lower lip, she unhooked her hands from behind her back then slowly reached over him, her nipples brushing the top of his head, dragging through the soft strands of his hair. The moment she curled her hands around top of the couch, he let go of her hips and once more lengthened his arms across the cushions.
She’d never been in a position like this before. Spread so wide open, bent over a man, her hair hanging on either side of her face like curtains, her core inches from his face.
Had never felt so exposed before.
So vulnerable.
So needy.
“Such a pretty pussy,” he purred, his words a low rumble. His lips barely brushed the cropped curls covering her clit as he spoke, his breath warm on her outer lips. “Sopping wet and swollen for me, just like you said.”
She moved her hips, just a little. A sign. An encouragement.
A plea.
He made a sound, a thoughtful hum. “But there’s only two ways this cunt gets what it needs from me.” He skimmed his nose along her left inner thigh. “You’re going to have to beg me to give it to you.” He swept his tongue along her slit, the caress too light, too fast. “Or you’re going to have to take it from me.”
She made a sound of her own, a cross between a moan and a whimper. He teased her some more with slow, barely there brushes of his mouth. Quick, soft strokes of his tongue. He flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit and she rolled her hips again, seeking more pressure.
And the bastard grabbed her by the waist, his thumbs pressing against her hipbones, and held her still.
“Beg me,” he repeated. “Or take it.”
The old her would have begged. She would have cried and pleaded and done whatever it took to get him to give her what she needed.
But the new her had given him enough.
It was time he gave her something in return.
She lowered her center inch by inch so that she hovered just above his mouth.
Beg me. Or take it.
She would take it.