Out of Control (11 page)

Chapter Nine

Jen’s legs shook as she climbed the stairs, rubbery and uneasy as if she’d spent three days on a boat. Her pulse pounded a tattoo that echoed in her clit. Her pelvis was weighted with blood and need, and her head swam with vague erotic images in shades of red and purple. Drake’s hand burned against the small of her back, where he’d slipped it under her shirt. That bit of skin-on-skin contact was ramping up her arousal to almost unbearable levels, and the climb to the bedroom took decades. Slow, molten, throbbing decades.

By the time they reached Drake’s room—which couldn’t have been more than a minute after leaving the kitchen, because, roomy as the house was, it wasn’t Downton Abbey—Jen was sure she was going to die if she didn’t have Drake’s cock soon.

The bedroom was large, and like most of the house, white-walled and sparsely decorated, almost painfully neat. A blue-and-green-plaid comforter was pulled up to meet pillows in navy pillowcases. The bed was actually a futon on a low black platform with storage drawers underneath.

Or a couple of storage drawers and a few faux drawer pulls that might work as tie-down points, she surmised, her mind seizing on visual details to counter a sudden wave of nervousness. She
had
seen a riding crop over the mirror when she’d caught a glimpse into the room the day she’d viewed her apartment. But she hadn’t seen the skeins of rope, some colored, some plain hemp, on the back of the door. And she certainly hadn’t seen what she glimpsed when Drake opened one of those drawers: paddles and another crop and floggers and some shiny bits of metal she couldn’t identify at a glance.

What he pulled out of the drawer, though, she could identify easily. A blindfold made of black leather and padded with shearling.

My God, was she trembling? The blindfold made her crazy in several senses of the word. Made her wild with curiosity, because what did he not want her to see? Frightened her—she dreaded missing some random image that might spark art. Intrigued her, and aroused her, pushing her even closer to the edge of a precipice. She felt like she might come at any second. “But I want to see you!” she blurted.

“You will. Just not the whole time.”

Then he began to strip.

Jen had seen and felt enough of Drake’s body that she wasn’t surprised by what she saw. Delighted, yes but not surprised. Still, she couldn’t help staring, drinking in his beauty before he covered her eyes. Shirtless, his broad chest had well-defined muscles, which she’d expected from how good his legs and arms were, how strong he felt when he held her, but the furring of light brown hair was a pleasant bonus. She liked chest hair, liked how it looked and the texture of it against her skin, liked the masculine contrast with her relative hairlessness. She looked forward to feeling its crisp softness under her hands, or better yet, moving against her erect nipples. And she liked the wildness of the thick chest hair in contrast to Drake’s neatly trimmed beard and mustache, his short-cropped hair. He had a tattoo on his left shoulder, a short formula, she thought, numbers and Greek letters, curiously beautiful.

His cut abs looked good enough to eat, and she hoped for a chance to nibble them later. Again, not a real surprise, though she hadn’t imagined quite this level of excellence. A Greek god, not an overbuilt hulk of a fitness model, but the well-defined, useful muscles of an actual classical Greek statue. Not a kouros, a pretty young man just past boyhood, nor an aging-warrior Zeus, but an Apollo, sexy and strong and smart. She couldn’t resist letting out, “Whoa, I thought you had a desk job.”

“I do martial arts,” he said modestly.

“I guess so.” She was going to ask more questions. She was genuinely curious about what form he did and how long he’d been doing it.

And then he unzipped his jeans, and all thought fled, or at least all thought that wasn’t directly related to sex and the body of the man in front of her. Her breath hitched in anticipation. Maybe Drake was deliberately drawing out this part, teasing her, or maybe time actually slowed.

His cock was nothing like a Greek statue’s, and thank goodness for that. The marble statues carved for temples and other public places were never erect. You only saw that on private art, things like pottery and wall frescoes where naughty satyrs pursued and sometimes caught graceful nymphs or those boyish kouros. Drake was definitely erect. Thick and hard and rising from a tangle of curling hair a slightly darker, redder shade than his head and chest.

Jen would normally say something cute and coy like,
Is that for me?
but it seemed inappropriate. Drake was living art, and silent visual appreciation was more fitting. Otherwise it was like making wisecracks in front of Michelangelo’s David. Though David, a beautiful statue of a beautiful boy in pure, cold marble, couldn’t hold a candle to Drake, a handsome man in his prime, in all the colors of life.

“What color rope would you like?” He waved his hand over one subset of the rainbow array, so she deduced the thinner ropes would work best for what he had in mind. She picked a deep crimson. It would clash with her hair but match the patterns of lust in her head.

“Good choice. Now put your hands on your head.” The rope was doubled, with a wrapping of black string to mark the middle. Meticulous, she thought. Then she stopped thinking as he began to wrap the rope around her rib cage, below her breasts. “Watch in the mirror when you can,” Drake said, his voice deep and rich.

The rope transformed her as Drake wrapped it above and below her breasts, hitching them together with a kind of rope corset. Her breasts looked fuller, pushed together and enhanced by the rope, but it was more than that. She stood taller. She wasn’t sucking her gut in, wasn’t self-conscious under her new lover’s eyes. The soft curve of her belly looked as perfect as the curve of a ripe apple or the lines of the Venus de Milo. She noticed the muscles of her thighs, firm from all the biking and walking in Ithaca’s hills, as if she saw them through someone else’s eyes. The rope, and Drake’s hand guiding the rope, guiding her, made her dreamy, compliant, but at the same time aware of every inch of her own sensitized skin, every inch of Drake’s body.

“Look at yourself,” Drake said—no, ordered—spinning her around to look in the mirror. He clasped one arm across her upper chest, another at her hips, holding her against his full length. His cock toyed between her legs in this position, sliding teasingly over her slick pussy. Jen wanted to grind against him, wanted to defy common sense and engulf him now, despite the lack of a condom. Here, in front of the mirror, where she could see the play of his muscles and appreciate the lines of her own body as if they were someone else’s, someone who wore rope like jewelry, someone who looked small and pale next to this big, lean man, like a toy but at the same time not weak. But that wasn’t to be. Drake said, “Look your fill now,” and turned her around to look at him. “Look and touch.”

On the outside, she simply smiled and nodded, but inside she was singing,
Yes! Yes!
like a stoned opera singer. She’d waited so long to touch Drake Matthews. Waited forever, it seemed, even though she’d known him such a short time. Drake’s skin was hot, as if he burned inside, and that heat and his hard cock belied the distance in his gray eyes. It was their color, she decided. He couldn’t help looking cool and far-off with eyes of that shade, but the intensity in them, the grip of his big hands—one on her hip, the other grasping the knot of rope at her back—was anything but remote. When she brushed her hands over his nipples, he gasped as if he held back a louder sound. She lingered there, watching his control waver, reveling in it until he hissed, “Enough!”

She explored down from there in wonderful retaliation. The ridges of his abs looked like sculpture, but they were flesh. Suede skin over improbably toned muscle, sure, but flesh nonetheless. They yielded under her fingers. They’d be warm and slightly salty if she licked, but when she tried to duck down, Drake tugged up on the rope harness, keeping her in place. Her hands could move, though, and they did, down to that glorious cock. One hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently, enjoying their heft and the way they changed as she touched them. The other circled his cock. She stroked up the length firmly, passed over the smooth head.

All the while she looked, not down at Drake’s cock, tempting as it was, but up at his face. At the way that mask of remoteness and control cracked. His eyes were closed now, and without their gray, acute gaze, he looked…different. Not softer but less distant. The chiseled planes of his face didn’t do
soft
and his muscles, if anything, seemed more defined as he struggled to maintain his composure. He was losing. His face was darker, flushed with arousal. His head was thrown back. The muscles in his neck stood out.

Then he shook himself. “Enough,” he barked. He almost sounded angry, but the way he touched her as he guided her to lie on the futon bed didn’t feel annoyed.

He kissed her and slipped the blindfold on while she was still savoring his lips.

Jen fought down a flash of panic at the darkness, lost without the anchor of vision. A sliver of light peeked under the bottom of the blindfold, though, despite the fleece. It didn’t let her see anything, but still it reassured her, let her go on breathing normally.

Once she could relax, she realized without the lush distraction of vision, her other senses fed her more information. The rope around her torso and breasts became simultaneously more confining and more embracing. More sensual, as if it hadn’t been sensual enough to start with. She was aware not only of Drake’s hands on her, but his breath playing on his skin, his clean, yet musky scent. He positioned her on the bed, pulled the ends of the rope wrap on her torso to either side. He wrapped the ropes around her wrists, making quick, simple loops.

Her breath quavered in her throat as he then did something that immobilized her wrists to either side. It wasn’t stringent. She could still move a little, but she found she didn’t really want to.

Drake moved down the bed, keeping one hand lightly on her body. She supposed it was so she’d know where he was and not feel abandoned, but she would have known anyway, aware now of the movement of air, the sound of his bare feet on the wooden floor, though he moved quietly for such a big man.

She couldn’t help jumping as Drake fastened something—a leather cuff, she thought—on her ankle. The cuff was lined with something soft, like the blindfold, but with a leather border that felt cool and decisive on her skin. Unfamiliar, but a good unfamiliar. He moved her leg farther out, spreading her even wider. A small snick that she placed as a carbineer attaching to one of the D-rings on the frame only when she realized she couldn’t move that leg, and by then Drake had moved on, repeating the process on the other side. She wasn’t spread wide enough to be uncomfortable but enough to feel pleasant tension in her thighs. The air kissed her pussy, accenting how very wet she was.

He drew back once he finished, now not touching her. Jen felt the weight of his presence at the foot of the bed, felt him looking at her spread-eagled, appreciating the view and his handwork, the crimson ropes on her fair skin. “Bondage suits you.” His voice stroked her skin, warm and seductive, and then he fell silent. Was he touching himself? She thought she heard slight movement, but it could be anything.

And since it could be anything, she pictured him stroking along the length of his big cock, hard and needy already but making himself more so for her. For them both. This was going to be a quickie, after all. The ropes, the confinement, had her wet and ready enough she’d go off fast, but Drake struck her as the kind of guy who was so used to holding back to make sure his partner went crazy that he might need encouragement to let go.

What a lovely “problem” to have.

While she hadn’t been sure of the sounds she heard earlier, she knew the sound of a condom wrapper being torn, guessed at the slight hitch in Drake’s breath as he drew the rubber over his cock.

His weight came onto the bed. Knees first, between her wide-spread legs. “I can’t take my time properly,” he said, his voice pure sex. As he talked, he ran his cock over her clit and her slick cunt. Her body twitched and clenched. She wanted to push herself onto that tempting cock. But she couldn’t, and that ramped the need even higher. “I want to leave you spread and open like this, tied up and at my mercy, and taste every inch of you.”

“Oh God.” Maybe there was more she should say, but those groaned words seemed like they’d sum it up.

“But I need to get you to work by midnight, so that will have to wait.” Still the punctuation with his cock. “I hate to rush.”

“Rush. Please. Need you.” She couldn’t raise her hips to meet him, not well, but she could angle her pelvis, and she did. “Please.” She thought fast, or as fast as she could when her brain was red and purple and syrupy. “Please,
sir
.” Even lost in arousal as she was, her well-honed sense of the ridiculous kicked in, and she almost laughed as she said it.

But it must have been the right thing to say. Drake pushed into her with a groan.

For a few delicious, agonizing strokes, he moved slowly. Nothing touching her but his hips and his cock. She imagined him kneeling there, pumping into her. Imagined him from all sides so she could picture the muscles of his ass clenching as he thrust, visualize the play of quads and hamstrings and the tension in his back and abs. The image was almost as good as the cock stroking deep inside her.

“Can’t hold back.” Drake fell forward, catching some of his weight on his hands.

“Don’t. Please. Hard. Please, sir.” She didn’t know where this person who begged came from, but it felt good. Felt good to be helpless for these moments, able only to take and enjoy.