Unleashed: Declan & Kara (Unleashed #1-4; Beg for It #1) (8 page)

Back when I’d known
Kara, I’d only known that I wanted her. Now I knew I wanted to
possess her, own her, dominate every inch of her and more.

And she’d come to me
needing me. Vulnerable. Asking for my help. Wanting to be put under
my control, actually asking to work for me. I had to bite back an
ironic laugh. She was an innocent. I could see it in her eyes. Years
had passed but she had no idea what she was messing with.

I reached down and took
my hard-on in my hand. Grasping my thick shaft, I began to stroke. I
could feel the need within me. She’d once had power over me. Now it
was time to have power over her. Complete power.

I had her right where I
wanted her. I could strike a bargain, require an exchange. Force her
to submit. The steam curled around me. The rhythm of my hand sped up,
my breathing faster, harder.

It was time. The beast
needed to be let out of the cage. It was time to torment her the way
she’d tormented me. How I’d longed for her and could never have
her, not the way I’d wanted. Not the way I’d needed.

Now I wanted her
completely in my power. I needed to see her pant and cry out and
plead for the fulfillment that I’d deny. I’d had years to
cultivate dark sexual fantasies. Now it was time to unleash them.

One week. I’d strike
a bargain. I’d agree to help her. She’d even suggested that I
name the terms. My terms would be that she submit to me and serve me
for one week. It would be an exchange, a business transaction. I’d
have seven days to do everything I’d always wanted and make her beg
for it.

Because deep down I
knew Kara wanted it. She needed to serve me, yearned for it, even if
she wasn’t yet aware of her own base desires. She needed me to
stoke them, teach her the nature of her own lust. She was a true
submissive, I could tell, and she needed her dom to bring it out.

I wanted to teach her
how much she needed it. I wasn’t going to force her. I didn’t get
off on coercion. If a woman wasn’t into it, it wasn’t hot. What
got me hot was the thought of making Kara crave the discipline she
knew she should fight. The thought of her choosing my power, asking
for it, helpless without it. When she knew she should pull her
panties up and march right out of the room, I wanted her to slide
them down, baring her flesh and then see her arch her ass up,
quivering, desperately seeking the palm of my hand. I needed to hear
her beg to serve me.

My thick cock grew
larger in my hand and I pumped its rigid length, drawing close. I
could picture Kara in the next room, naked, wrists bound to the
headboard of my bed. I could hear her voice begging me, please
Declan, pleading with me to fuck her. My breathing grew ragged, my
cock straining for release as I imagined taking my time with her,
mercilessly making her come again and again. I could hear her calling
out my name, raw, pleading for more until I finally plunged hard into
her tight, wet, needy pussy.

I came hard, shooting
out a thick load as I groaned. I rested my palm and forehead against
the shower wall. Panting. Still hard. Ready to take control.

Kara

Then

If you’ve never been
to Montana, you can’t possibly imagine what you’re missing.
Everything’s so crystal clear, the blue of the sky, the white of
the puffy clouds, the outline of the mountains in the distance.
Picture all that, then add a big, drop-dead gorgeous man on horseback
in the middle of it. Long legs in worn jeans, faded cotton shirt
clinging to his broad shoulders, a cowboy hat dipped down low.

Let me also say a few
words about cowboy hats. There are a lot of different kinds and,
honestly, men who haven’t worked on a ranch probably shouldn’t
even try to wear one. The risk of looking like a tool was too great.
On a scale from 1 to 10, a cowboy hat on a guy was either going to be
a zero or an 11. On Declan, he went right to 11. The brim pulled
down, it highlighted the strength of his jaw, the hard angle of his
chin. He let it shade his eyes and I could never tell what he was
thinking, or if he was even looking at me. It drove me crazy.

Today, I decided to
bring him lemonade. Technically, I wouldn’t bring out an ice-cold
pitcher to just Declan. It would be for him plus the other couple of
guys working on our ranch. But it was all for Declan.

A twinge of guilt
gnawed at me. I did have a boyfriend. But school was almost out and I
didn’t see us dating much longer than that. As the quarterback and
the cheerleader, pieces of the larger puzzle of our high school
scene, we worked. But as Bruce and Kara? Not so much. We never talked
about what would happen when he left for college in a couple months.
We both knew it would end, and neither one of us would be torn up
about it.

Walking toward the
barn, pitcher of lemonade in my hands, I wondered if I’d chosen the
right outfit. First I’d tried on jean shorts with a cropped tee and
wedge sandals. With some lip gloss and my hair in a high ponytail, I
thought I had it going on. Once I hit the hallway, though, I lost my
nerve. How could I seriously strut out across the yard in the middle
of the day in 3-inch heels? Even if my father didn’t see me, Bill,
our foreman, probably would. He’d known me since I was about six
years old and he’d be sure to shake his head, maybe even tsk tsk.
I’d feel like an idiot, probably fall flat on my face.

I’d changed out the
wedges for flip flops, but then the shorts went from Daisy Dukes to
Farmer Teds, so I’d settled on a sundress, simple blue and ending
above the knee. Thin cotton but not tight, it was the kind of thing I
might wear around the house even if Declan weren’t there. Honestly,
I’d probably be in something old and ratty like my 8th grade class
t-shirt and boxers. But still.

The dress had thin
straps that sometimes slid down my shoulder. You could see my bra
straps when I wore it, and I did have a pretty new pink one. But what
did I know? Maybe guys didn’t like pink bras?

There was so much I
didn’t know, and I used to not care. That was life before Declan.
Before Declan, I’d been a kid, a little girl who had everything she
wanted. True, it had always been just me and my dad and we didn’t
exactly live like kings, but I’d never wanted for a thing. I had
love and birthday parties and Christmas trees, plenty of friends and
sleepovers. I didn’t exactly knock the ball out of the park in
school, but I could get Bs without too much effort and that suited me
fine.

Things had coasted
along smoothly, not many ripples in the pond. In 9th grade I sprained
my ankle toward the end of football season and missed cheering at the
final games. I tried out for the school musical in 10th grade and
only made the chorus. Junior prom had been lame. My date had pawed at
me like a drunk circus bear, then spewed vomit all over the side of
the road. But besides that, I’d been happy. Content. It had been
enough, more than enough.

Then there was after
Declan. AD. He’d shaken up my world like fake white flakes in a
snow globe. I barely knew which end was up. I had a month and a half
left of school before graduation. I should be living it up, all
keggers and bonfires and goofing around in the DQ parking lot.
Instead I felt restless and unsatisfied, wanting something more even
though I didn’t know exactly what that was.

When I finally got to
the barn, I didn’t see anyone. I ducked inside where it was darker
and cooler. At 11 a.m. I guessed it had to be around 80, so it was
bound to climb even higher that afternoon. My friend Mandy had
already asked if I wanted to go swimming. Crazy person that I was, I
kind of wanted to stay at the ranch, even if just to catch a glimpse
of Declan’s stubble. Even though it seemed like he shaved pretty
regularly, he always had stubble by the end of the day. With his
black hair it made him look so savage, like a wild pirate from a
romance, the kind you really hoped would capture you. I wanted to
bring my hand up to his face, feel him rough against my smooth skin,
press my check against his.

Shaking the crazy out
of my head, I walked over to the long, wooden table. The guys usually
made their way over there at various points in the day, some even
coming in to eat lunch. Declan, of course, seemed to prefer eating on
his own like a lone wolf. Honestly, the man didn’t seem to want any
company at all. Sun up to sun down and sometimes long after that,
Declan was all work and no play.

You’d think with us
both living on the same ranch we’d see each other more often. But
Declan kept to himself. Bill lived in a cabin down by the stream,
more remote than Declan’s place, but he still made his way up to
the big house almost every day. He’d amble into the kitchen, help
himself to whatever I’d baked. Say a few words about the weather,
nothing too much but sociable, friendly.

Declan? He’d never
once come inside the main house. I knew because I’d hoped so badly
he would. He’d stood outside it plenty of times, talking to my dad.
One time he’d even made it up onto the porch, holding his hat in
his hands and twisting the brim like he wished he were anywhere else.
My father had called out to him from an open window and Declan had
continued the conversation from outside. It was almost like he
banished himself.

I’d see him out
working, of course, but I had to do the looking. Sadly, I did. I
couldn’t help myself. The handful of other guys working on the
ranch were all polite, friendly. When I’d come around and see if
they were hungry or thirsty, bringing them a little something, they’d
all thank me kindly. Not Declan, though. He’d stay real busy with
something or other. It was almost like he was avoiding me.

I set the pitcher down,
my eyes adjusting to the darkness after the bright April sunshine.
With high ceilings and exposed rafters, I loved the barn. It almost
felt like church to me. We kept hay, equipment and tools there and I
breathed in, looking up at the sunlight streaming in through a few
loose boards up top.

Something moved over in
the corner by a tractor.

“Hello?” I called
out.

No answer.

“Bill? That you? I
brought some lemonade.”

A distinctly male grunt
came from behind the tractor.

“Are you OK?” I
made my way over and found Declan kneeling on the wooden floorboards,
twisting a wrench or something on a something. I couldn’t quite
follow what was happening because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I took
a stumbling step back. He looked up, that sardonic, half-amused,
half-mocking expression he usually wore on his face.

“’Sup, Betty
Crocker? You bake me a cake today?”

“Um, no!” I took
another step back. I’d never seen him without his shirt. I’d
imagined it before, but even my wildest fantasies hadn’t gotten me
this far. He was so defined, so hard, all muscle with a few veins
traveling down his biceps, near his neck, down below at the waist of
his jeans. I swallowed hard, my throat completely dry, my eyes as
round as saucers.

“Feeling OK,
princess?” He gave me a knowing look. He knew what was making me
nearly pass out.

“Um, I think it’s
the heat.” It wasn’t the heat. Not radiating from the sun,
anyway. I tried to look away. I knew I was being an idiot, but he had
tattoos. Two of them, one on his shoulder, the other around his
bicep. The one on his shoulder looked like it said something, the
other looked like a pattern stretched taut across his large, bulging
muscle. Dear lord, I really might pass out.

“Why don’t you run
along home now? Go cool off.” He waved a wrench at me.

That made me look away.
He was such a jerk. Why did he always brush me off like a pesky fly?

“Do you want some
lemonade?” I asked, my voice shy and whispery. I was such a
13-year-old around him.

“Nope.” He turned
his attention back to the tractor.

“Is it broken?” I
really didn’t want to leave yet. Maybe if I feigned interest in the
tractor I could go stand next to him.

“No, it’s working
fine. I just felt like coming in here and messing around with it.”

“Really? Why?” I
asked, taking a step closer.

He looked up at me like
I was a moron and I realized that I was. It was broken. He was being
sarcastic. I could feel myself blushing, a deep crimson flush working
its way up across my chest, neck and face. I hadn’t factored in
that possibility when I’d so carefully chosen my outfit. The more
exposed skin meant the more embarrassingly obvious it would be if I
blushed.

“You pink right up,
don’t you?” He had his wrench resting on his thigh and he watched
me now with dark eyes.

“My skin’s just…
sensitive.” I shrugged, wishing I could disappear into the
floorboards.

“Um hmm.” Good
lord, how did he make that sound so sexy? It came out like a deep
rumble in this throat. Suddenly the word ‘sensitive’ seemed
ridiculously suggestive. He made me so aware of myself, the way the
cotton of my dress clung to my shape, how short the hemline really
was, ending several inches up my thighs. I swallowed again and I
swear it was so loud it echoed.

I felt so nervous, and
when I got nervous I babbled. “I hate how I blush. I don’t know
why, but I’ve always blushed really deep red ever since I was a
kid.”

He shook his head and
returned his focus to the tractor. “You are a kid. Now let me get
back to work.”

Tears pricked my eyes
and I turned tail. He was so mean to me. It was like he hated me.

Why did he treat me
like I was a toddler? I was 18. He couldn’t be that much older. I
had to admit, he seemed much, much older, but I wasn’t a baby. Some
girls were married and pregnant—not necessarily in that order—by
my age. He treated me like I belonged in a preschool.

I fairly ran back to
the big house, grabbed my stuff and burned rubber tearing out of
there in my truck. I didn’t need to stick around and take his abuse
any more.