Out of Control (5 page)

“The hell with it. Smart is overrated.” Drake’s voice came out as a growl, nothing Jen could imagine in a civilized Cornell classroom but could definitely imagine in a bedroom. He reeled her in, pulled her against his hard body.

She felt small and soft. Normally that would make her want to demonstrate her strength—which, thanks to her active life, was surprising for someone who looked more like the petite-flower type. But she liked feeling small and soft in Drake’s arms, with Drake’s mouth crashing down onto hers.

He lifted her up effortlessly, not breaking the kiss, and carried her toward the unmade bed. My God, what did this man do for a workout? This mathematician had muscles like a cowboy. Holding her with one arm, he swept piles and bags of clothes off the bed onto the floor. She saw a wince cross his face as he did it, as if it offended the sense of order she’d seen reflected in his side of the house. “Don’t worry,” she joked, “my clothes are used to spending time on the floor.”

“Not for much longer,” she thought he said. She would have puzzled at the words, except Drake distracted her by pulling her T-shirt off with one decisive motion. She had accidentally packed all her bras last night. At the moment, this seemed like the best accident ever. Drake studied her bared curves, running his big hands along her sides. She purred and arched up. His hands moved to her nipples, began caressing in a gentle, exploratory way, not what she would have expected from his earlier fierceness. Lovely but too light for her taste, it teased and tickled as much as it aroused. She squealed and tried to squirm away at the same time she arched her hips up to meet his, turned on and tormented at same time. The pleasure was almost painful, in the same paradoxical way pain, in the right circumstances and with the right person, could be pleasurable.

“Too much?”

“Too
little.
I like it rougher.” Not something she’d admit to most guys this soon, for fear they’d take it too far, but Avi’s words inspired confidence. The woman wrote about safe BDSM practices for a living, after all, and she’d said Drake was all right.

Drake chuckled. “Good.” Her brain was whirling like cotton candy in one of those machines at the county fair and felt just about as pink and fluffy, but his tone registered. Evil glee, definitely. She was in trouble, but it was the kind of trouble she loved. With one hand, he began pinching first one nipple, then the other, tugging and kneading. Delicious pleasure and equally delicious pain seared through her. “Good girl. Put your arms over your head.”

She obeyed. She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want to help herself. Why wouldn’t she play along? This was the best thing that had happened to her in a long, long,
long
time that didn’t involve making art.

He grabbed her wrists with his other hand, his grip viselike, unbreakable. Heat pooled in her belly, and she couldn’t help whimpering.

“Do you enjoy restraint, Jen?”

She nodded. “Oh yeah.” She felt like she should say something more, something about their mutual friend, even, but the time for intelligent dialogue was either past or yet to come, at least on her end. Drake was talking just fine, but maybe it took longer for hormones to shut down his extra-smart brain.

“Would you enjoy a lot of restraint? Rope bondage, maybe?”

She nodded again, unable to speak. Her eyes felt like they were as wide as a cartoon character’s, taking up her whole face. Avi had experimented on her with rope back in college—just practicing a few ties on her, nothing more—and she’d gotten a kick out of it. With Drake in charge, and actual sex involved, it would be heaven.

“Excellent.” Drake chuckled, and it was the kind of chuckle you’d expect from a supervillain whose evil plan was coming together.

Maybe she was in a bit over her head.

Hurray! Over your head was fun.

And she had it on good authority that he was an ethical perv, not an ax murderer.

“Right now,” he said, “I think we’re both feeling too impatient for rope. Which means we should do it anyway, once we’ve gotten a few things out of our system. You need to learn patience and order. Luckily, I’m here to help you.”

Jen’s head spun. She knew how to sprinkle kink into sex, like a touch of brilliant color to set off clear glass. Still, beyond playful spanking and casual bandana-and-stocking bondage, beyond flipping a coin to see who’d take tongue-in-cheek charge in bed on a particular night, she hadn’t explored very far since rooming with Avi in college. She’d looked at Web sites, especially ones Avi had recommended on her own site, and she’d listened to a few erotica audiobooks, but she was definitely a beginner.

Drake wasn’t. Even if she wasn’t already clued in, she could guess. It was in the way he’d been touching her ever since she’d told him she liked a firmer touch, but more than that, it was in his voice. In his eyes.

She strove for words, tried to say the words that hovered on her lips:
You’re a dom.
Not just a guy who liked to dabble in kink once in a while, but a serious dom. But she couldn’t make the words come out.

And wouldn’t she sound like a weirdo stalker if she admitted she’d checked him out with Avi?

Then he was kissing her, holding her in place with his weight, his strength, while he alternately pinched and caressed her nipples, and even if she could have found words, talking was no longer an option, not the way he knew just when to go from a light, teasing touch to a sweetly painful one and back again. She writhed against him, pinned down by his big hand braceleting her wrists, his body straddling hers.

Tall as he was, he didn’t have any trouble keeping her hands restrained as he moved from her mouth to her breasts. His lips were hot on her nipples, his teeth sharp as he nibbled and bit on the nipple and the tender curve on the underside. His hand continued its insidious, wonderful work on the other breast.

He was hard, and she was already so wet that her underpants were history, and they were both wearing far too much clothing—hell, he still had sneakers on, though she’d discarded hers as soon as they were done unloading. She wanted to rush, to get his focus off her breasts, blissful as that was, and onto the rest of her.

Hell, she wanted to get the focus onto him. His body felt divine against hers, and she wanted to explore it, to sculpt it with her hands, to enjoy every hard inch of it. She tried to wiggle a hand free. Drake’s grip tightened. He raised his lips from hers long enough to ask, “Are your hands falling asleep? Need to move?”

“Need to touch you.”

“I know.” He grinned a vulpine grin. “And you will, when I say it’s the right time. Meanwhile, let go. I’m in charge. And I think you like it that way.”

“I do.” Her voice came out very small.

He rolled her onto her side, cuddling her as if to allow her time to calm down. She didn’t think for a second that calming her down was what he had in mind. More like revving her up even more.

It was obvious Drake knew exactly what effect he was having on her. And he wanted to drive.

As in drive her crazy.

It was bound to be a wild and interesting ride. She might as well let go and enjoy the scenery.

He ran his hands down her body, hesitating at the curve of her denim-covered ass. Just when she thought she’d jump out of her skin waiting to find out what he’d do next, he smacked her ass. Hard, far harder than any previous playful attempts at spanking had been, except for Avi. She yelped.

Then she groaned as the sensation cascaded through her, bouncing off her sensitive, happy nipples. Her ass still throbbed, but the hurt transmuted to fierce pleasure that made her feel both soft and demanding. Her blood felt carbonated from pleasure.

“Do you like that?” Drake asked. “Do you want more?”

She was already fumbling with the zipper of her jeans when she managed to blurt out, “Hell, yeah.”

Drake chuckled and grabbed her wrist. “Not so fast. Ask first.”

She wasn’t sure what she was asking or how she should ask. Her head was full of words that didn’t quite coalesce into sentences, and swirling colors that Drake couldn’t see or understand if he did. “S…sh…should I undress?” she managed to stutter out.

“No, allow me,” Drake said. It seemed both an eternity and eye-blink-fast before she was bare-assed over Drake’s knee on the edge of the bed. She was naked; he was still dressed. It wasn’t the first time she’d been spanked, but this position, and especially the naked/clothed dynamic, was different and remarkably right. His jeans were dark, new-looking, stiff on her bare skin. He smelled good. She hadn’t noticed before how good he smelled, in a non-cologne, non-soap, totally male sort of way, like he’d gotten up and worked out lightly, then rolled into clothes when he realized she and her movers were in the driveway. She breathed deeply, enjoying the smell and the position and feel of his hand on her ass, stroking over the curve as if he could read her soul through the skin.

Just when she’d reached a relaxed, dreamy place, lost in the touch and almost forgetting why she was over Drake’s knee in the first place, he struck, and struck hard.

She shrieked and jumped as best she could. When another blow followed, and then another, she tried to squirm away, even though a fire was igniting inside her, a fire hot enough to melt glass, from the combination of sensuality and pain. As quickly and instinctively as she’d tried to get away, she pushed back, craving more and dreading it at the same time.

Drake laid one hand on the back of her neck. “Be still.” His voice was deep, calm, soothing. He stroked the nape of her neck as if he petted a beloved but jumpy pet. Something melted inside her, like glass would melt in a furnace, and she went limp across his lap.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Surrender to the sensation. Surrender to me.” Still stroking her hair, he spanked her again.

Jen dimly though it may have been even harder than the other times. But the sting didn’t feel like pain. It felt like a gift, a gift Drake was giving to her, and that at the same time she was giving to him. Which made no sense, but the thought was the clear spring green of truth. She accepted it just like she accepted the pain and pleasure, the gentle hand on her head and the hard one smacking an ass that felt as red as her thoughts.

She was molten. She was soft and pooling, ready to be molded and shaped—another one of those nonsensical thoughts colored like truth. She wanted to squirm, try to rub herself to orgasm against the coarseness of denim and the hard muscles underneath. Wanted to push back and beg for more. Wanted. Wanted. But at the same time, she just wanted to see what Drake would do next. So far, she had no complaints, though it was hardly how she would have anticipated things going their first time together.

Hoped, maybe; anticipated, no.

The blows were coming faster now but felt lighter. Was that real or was that just because her clit and pussy were throbbing more than her butt was, making it impossible to think of pain as pain?

Colors exploded behind her eyelids, swirling together in impossible ways. She clung to the colors as best she could, some dim part of her knowing she could reproduce the effect, maybe even the surreal spangling, in glass if she could remember how it looked.

Then Drake let his fingers trail between her throbbing butt cheeks to stroke her pussy.

The colors exploded into fireworks of hues she saw only in dreams, and she exploded with them. No way could she capture those colors. She didn’t think she could see them again unless she was coming, and orgasms and hot glass would be a dangerous combination.

Though with Drake’s hand on the back of her neck, maybe she’d be safe, as safe as she felt now to let go with a cry and soar among the colors.

Drake eased her into a seated position on his lap, curled against him, a dubious mercy as the position made her deliciously aware of her tender butt. His chest was broad and comforting, and for a while, she was content to snuggle there, floating among the residual colors, enjoying the throb of her ass and the afterglow of the orgasm, enjoying the way his hand cradled the back of her head against his shoulder.

When her brain came back on line, she began nibbling at his shoulder and throat, unable to resist the lure of his skin. The gentle hand on the back of her head became an insistent grip on her hair, forcing her face away from his chest, tilting it up so Drake could kiss her. A mysterious rainbow flickered behind her eyelids and any reality other than Drake’s mouth, Drake’s hands, Drake’s body slipped away. She moved to straddle his lap, her wet pussy pressed against the rough fly of his jeans, moving against him as they kissed. She wanted to unzip him, slip his hard cock inside her, but she guessed Drake was as perverse as he was perverted, and taking the initiative before he was ready might get her the opposite of what she craved. So she lost herself in the kiss, and when he began kissing down her neck to her collarbone, she arched back to allow him access to her breasts if he wanted.

He wanted.

“Hands behind your back,” he whispered, and even though she didn’t want to let go of him, she obeyed. She had a feeling whatever he had planned was going to feel great even if it was something she hadn’t thought to desire yet. She clasped her hands loosely behind her back, and one of Drake’s hands captured her wrists. Hardly surprising, considering what happened earlier, but still searing. She sighed, leaned back farther as he gave a gentle tug. His mouth moved farther down, back to nipples still sensitized from before.