Losing Control (12 page)

“Shh, Mom, rest. We’ll be back home soon.” I cover her in a soft down comforter with teal and yellow embroidered accents. The whole room looks fresh and inviting but the glare from the windows is too much. After she’s comfortable, I head toward the windows to pull the drapes, but I can’t find a dang cord. I feel along the edges because I can see the shades hanging beneath the curtain valance. A whirring sound startles me and I jump back. The shades start to close, and I turn to find Ian pressing a remote control which he lays carefully on the nightstand.

“Of course,” I fume. “Of course there are fucking automatic blinds. Everyone has them.”

“Language, Tiny,” my mom says in a scolding tone.

I stomp out of the room and both Ian and Steve back away from me. Steve slaps Ian on the shoulder, says, “Good luck, mate,” and leaves.

It’s just the two of us now. I stand at the other side of the starkly modern living room furnished in whites and blacks with splashes of yellow. A long, low-slung sectional sofa is arranged in front of the windows. A large TV hangs to the right and in the corner to the left is a large chair that looks like a giant, scooped-out egg. Upon closer inspection, the windows are actually French doors that lead onto a small balcony. The apartment is good-sized for the city, but it’s cold and impersonal. I can’t be bothered with what it looks like or how it feels because right now I am royally pissed off and Ian knows it.

“I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t get to appear in my life and then dictate what I eat, where I live, and how I spend my time.” I actually have my mom finger out and I’m waving it at him. I fist my hands and fantasize about popping him one in the arm.

He holds out his hands as if he can stem my barrage of complaints. “I’m trying to make things easier for you. That place you live in now, Christ—” He rubs the back of his neck, one hand on his hip pushing his jacket back and exposing his shirt clad flat stomach.

“You’re a jerk, Ian Kerr. A presumptuous, I-get-what-I-want-no-matter-what jerk.” I stomp down the hall with my pack. I need to change and get ready to go. He’s right behind me. Fine. He wants to watch me change, then fuck it. I drop my pack on the floor and kneel down, pulling out my shoes, athletic socks and leggings. I pull off my jeans, acutely aware that Ian hasn’t moved an inch and that his eyes are all over me. Well, he can look all he wants, but he’s not ever getting in my pants. And I tell him that. “You might as well take a good look because this is the closest you’re ever going to get to seeing me naked.”

L
EANING
ONE
SHOULDER
AGAINST
THE
wall, he sighs like I’m some tiresome child. “Bunny, what did I tell you about challenging me?”

“You can shove your hunter metaphors up your tight ass, Kerr.” I hop around pulling up the leg of my pants.

“I’m glad you’ve noticed. I had started to think I wasn’t making an impact. My huge ego was being crushed. By the way, I like the rose panties you have on,” he comments. “I particularly like how there are tiny bows right under the dimples in your back.”

Is that a smirk in his tone? Is he fucking smirking at me because I wore some of the underwear he bought? Then fine. I don’t need this stupid underwear either.

“You think you’re so cute, but what happens when you’re done with me? When I’m no longer interesting prey? When your little project is over? You must think my pussy is lined with fucking gold if I’m worth a million dollar apartment overlooking Central Park.” I hiss at him, pulling at the sides of the panties in an effort to jerk them off. Jesus, the lace must be made of titanium. People are constantly getting their underwear ripped off in movies.

“What are you doing?” he demands and brushes my hands away. I fight him, wanting him to let me go, but he pushes me up against the wall and thrusts his big, heavy thigh between my legs, stepping downward so that the spandex of my bike pants is down around my ankles. I feel hobbled and, worse, I’m turned on. His steel-hard muscle is pressing right up against my clit and his hands are pressing me backward so that I’m imprisoned between his chest and the hall wall.

“What makes you think I’ll be done with you?” he says as he moves my hands upward until they meet in an arch above my head and he can grip my wrists in one big fist. Free, his left hand slides down my arm, leaving a trial of goose bumps in his wake. His mouth is on my chin, my jaw, and then my neck. He’s tasting me, pressing the flat of his tongue against my racing pulse. “Maybe I’ll never be done with you and your solid gold pussy.” At the last word, he closes his mouth over that pulse point and sucks hard. The only thing holding me up is his hand around my wrists. He pumps his thigh against me and an involuntary moan escapes my lips.

“I don’t care,” I manage to choke out. It’s an obvious lie; my body cares a lot. “I’m not a toy. You don’t get to put me in Barbie’s expensive town home and play with me until you’re bored. I’m a fucking real person, and my mom’s a real person. And we don’t need this shit right now. I say who I sleep with and whose bed I'm in—and right now, you aren't even in the same conversation.”

“I am the entire fucking conversation.” He sucks hard at the spot where my neck curves into my shoulder, and his hand is under my ass, moving me backward and forward along his thigh. His other hand has worked its way under my shirt and is palming my breast, a large thumb rubbing my nipple.

I realize my hands are free and that I’ve been holding them above my head while he rubs all over me. When I drop my hands to his shoulders I find I don’t want to push him away. Instead, I use his shoulders as leverage to grind down on his thigh.

The nerve endings of my sex are hyper sensitized and I swear I can feel every thread of his superfine wool pants. His leg moves, a tiny hitch, but it interrupts the rhythm and removes the pressure. “Don’t you stop,” I threaten him, all the heat turning from anger to throaty desire.

“Shh, bunny, I got you.” He lifts me completely and spins me around. I have no option but to wrap my legs around him. A few quick steps and we’re in another bedroom with one giant bed and nothing much else. He tumbles us onto the bed and then lowers himself over me. There’s nothing in my field of vision but the hard planes of his face and the ruddy flush of desire on the high points of his cheekbones. He looks fierce and hungry.

Before I can capture another thought, his mouth is on mine and his hand is pushing aside the lace of my soaked panties. I’m moaning from both the feel of his thick tongue inside of my mouth and the sensation of one and then two of his fingers thrusting inside me. Sucking hard on his tongue, I lift my hips to grind against his hand.

His free hand spears my hair and tugs my head back as if he can’t get his tongue deep enough inside me. He tastes of spearmint and earthiness, of true desire. My whole body is alive and it’s straining toward him, toward completion. I brace my feet against the mattress, seeking more pressure. Breaking away from his mouth, I pant, “Harder. Fuck me harder with your fingers.”

He shoves a third finger in and I cry out in surprise, but it ends in a deep groan as he begins thrusting relentlessly. “Oh, I’m going to fuck you hard. I’m going to shove my thick cock inside you, and you’ll be feeling it for days after. Is that what you want?”

“God, yes,” I cry.

“Your greedy pussy needs me, doesn’t it?” he demands.

“Yes.” It’s the only answer I can give.

“Next time, it won’t be my fingers inside you. Next time, you’ll be riding my cock, squeezing your tight pussy around me and coming all over me like you’ve never come before.”

Instinctively I know that this man, for all his faults, can bring me to higher plateaus than I’ve ever visited. And I want to go there. Right now. I grab his wrist and squeeze my thighs around his hand so tight I can feel the bones in his wrist between my legs. “Make me come, Ian,” I order. He’s not the only one who can demand things.

He gives a hoarse, dark laugh and bends down to bite my nipple, right through my T-shirt and the cotton of my bra, and that’s apparently all I need because the first tremors of my release start shaking my body. He sucks harder until I swear half my breast is in his mouth. The left breast is being squeezed and tormented while his other hand continues its relentless fucking of my pussy. He doesn’t stop the sharp, hard movements of his hand even after my thighs fall open and I collapse, shuddering on the coverlet. No. He continues to work me. He’s covering me with his body, and his mouth is over mine again.

“You’ve another one in you,” he growls against my lips.

“No,” I say weakly and try to push him away. “I’m done.”

He’s immovable. “You’re done when I say so. Your pussy still wants me.” His long fingers are still stroking my post-climactic nerve endings, more gently now but still firm. His thumb caresses my clit lightly, and I shudder with each pass. “You’re so wet and hot and fucking beautiful right now and I want you to come.
Now
.”

And somehow he’s right. I come again as he commands. The white heat of my second orgasm overtakes me, and my body bows against the mattress. My toes curl as the power of my release draws all my attention inward, coiling my spring and then exploding outward.

He slips his fingers out of me but presses them flat and tight against my sex to soothe the ache left there. In my ear he whispers how beautiful I looked and how sweet I sounded and how he can’t wait to taste me—all the while, I’m trying to gather myself.

“I’m still mad at you,” I mumble as I lie like a beached starfish.

He chuckles and leans down to pull off my panties and leggings that are still attached to one leg.

“What’re you doing?”

“Cleaning you up, bunny. Stay here.”

“I’m only staying because I want to,” I call after his disappearing back. “Not because you tell me to.”

“That works.”

I hear the sound of a faucet running. Moments later, he returns with a washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other. He ignores the massive hard-on that is tenting his wool pants as he tenderly cleans me down with one and then dries me with the other.

“You confuse me,” I whisper as he ministers to me, but I can’t deny how good it feels to be taken care of instead of the other way around.

“I’m pretty simple.” He tosses the towel and rag aside and then begins to pull up my bike leggings.

“Yeah right, and the Eiffel Tower was built in a day. Hey, what about my underwear?” I protest, finally sitting up and taking over for him.

“They’re damp. You sure you want them?” He dangles them from one finger, and when I move to grab them, he closes his fist around the pink lace and tucks them into his pocket.

“Fine,” I huff. “Be a pervert. Keep them.” Pulling up my pants, I notice the time on his wristwatch—a big thick black leather banded one this time. “Shit, I’m going to be late.”

Running out the door, I scoop up my shoes and socks. I’ve got to catch a cab across town to get to my apartment and get my bike.

“Whoa, your bike’s right here.” Ian takes me by the shoulders and points to the bike mounted right by the door. I missed it when I came in. Its presence and the mount itself gives rise to so many questions that I don’t know what to say.

Pulling it down, I check the air in the tires and am happy to see they are both fully inflated. I pull out my headphones from my pack and settle the helmet over my hair. I’m a mess and likely stink of sex, but the city will air me out.

“You’re not a toy to me,” Ian says.

Buckling my helmet and then pulling on my gloves, I give him a quick once over. His suit is ruined. He never even removed his coat when he finger-fucked me, and I’m guessing the fragile wool wasn’t meant to be worn during any intense physical encounters. There are creases in the arms and shoulders where I clutched him, and was that a . . . stain on his thigh? I duck my head to hide my embarrassment. “You owe me a lot of explanations.”

“I’ll be here when you’re done. Come back and we'll talk.”

I give him an absent nod, but it’s not a sufficient response for him. He strides over and tips my head back. “I’m having this suit bronzed, you know.”

My cheeks heat because I know he’s referring to the mark in the wool made from my arousal. He leans down and gives me a hard kiss. “Come back here tonight.” It’s a demand and not a question.

Sighing, I give in. “Only because my mother is here.”

He strides to the door and holds it open as I wheel the bike out into the hall. “If it makes it easier for you to return, then yes, by all means use that excuse.”

I’
M
STILL
LATE
—
SHOULD
DEFINITELY
not have given in to Ian—and my supervisor isn’t happy.

“Two deliveries on the West Side,” Sandra orders. I pick up my radio control unit and shove my phone in my backpack. “By the way, Neil is going through some hormonal crisis. If you’re late again or miss another day, he’s going to fire you.”

My heart thuds heavily but I manage to give her a nod of acknowledgment. “Thanks.”

I work extra hard that night to make sure my deliveries go without a hitch. I wonder where Ian’s company is. I don’t remember delivering anything to a Kerr office.

My phone stays mostly silent, which is rare because I usually field at least one phone call from my mother during my early evening runs. She doesn’t like that I do them because she’s convinced someone is going to hurt me. I tell her that there’s more traffic in midday Manhattan and, therefore, a greater likelihood of getting hit by a bus or taxi in the sunlit hours than at night. She’s my mom, though, and part of her job is to worry over me. At least I know someone out there’s thinking of me.

As my shift winds down and I deliver my last set of documents to a law firm in Times Square, the ringtone for Malcolm thrums in my ear. It plays for three measures before I’m able to maneuver out of enough traffic to answer. “Yo, big bro,” I yell into the phone.

“Thanks for the eardrum-breaking hello, Tiny.”