Tamed (5 page)

The club Delores suggested is called Greenhouse, in SoHo. Although I’ve heard of it, this is the first time I’ve walked through its doors. It’s surprisingly crowded. The bar area walls and ceiling are coated with moss and lit up with blue, red, and green spotlights. The dance floor has a cave motif, with long jagged crystals hanging from the ceiling in hues of blue, purple, and pink. It’s dimly lit—shadowy—perfect for some up against the wall action. That’ll come in handy later on.

The music is loud, too noisy for any kind of conversation, but that’s fine with me. Talking is nice—action is better. We get our drinks and grab a table near the dance floor. Dee takes a sip from her glass, puts it down on the table, and gives me a sexy, “watch this” kind of smile before making a beeline for the dance floor.

I sit down at the table, lean comfortably back in the chair, knees spread, content to caress her with my eyes for now. She closes her eyes and rocks her head in time with the beat of the music. Her hips sway, and her arms rise over her head. The blue and pink lights dance over her hair—lighting her up—making her seem magical. The music gets faster, louder, and Dee keeps up. Shaking her shoulders and her ass, bending her knees and sinking toward the floor, before swirling back upward.

She knows how to move, and it makes me want her more. I glance around and notice Delores has gained the attention of several guys—make that every guy—in the club. They watch her dance with appreciative, slimy smiles on their faces and hoping-to-tap-that gleams in their eyes.

I’m not usually a possessive person. I’ve gone to clubs with girls before and ended the evening with both of us leaving with someone else. It’s par for the course.

But at the moment, my fists are clenching, ready to shove
the first fucker who tries to approach Delores through the wall and out to the street. It pisses me off that they’re even looking at her—that she’s fodder for their wishful thinking and deviant desires.

Maybe I feel like this because I haven’t screwed her yet. Maybe I don’t want to share a dessert I haven’t gotten to taste.

Or maybe, it’s because Delores Warren is just . . . different . . . in a way I can’t yet explain. What I know about her, I like—a lot—and there’s a part of me I haven’t consciously acknowledged with a deep craving to know more.

The music changes as I stand. “Wake Me Up” by Avicii pours out of the speakers and washes over the room. The crowd hums their approval. I walk onto the dance floor, straight to Delores.

The beginning of the song is slow, heavy with acoustic guitar. Dee’s body sways side to side in time, her long hair swinging out behind her, baring her neck. I step up behind her and wrap one arm around her waist, resting my palm on her stomach, over her jacket—pulling her gently back against me.

She tenses for a split second, opens her eyes and turns her head to the side. Then she sees that it’s me. And she smiles.

She relaxes against me, her back to my chest, and I lean forward, pressing us together. Her ass nestles perfectly against my dick, which hardened the moment she started dancing.

I think she feels it—she must.

She leans forward, bending a little at her waist, and moves her hips in tight circles, rubbing right against where my body is screaming for contact.

If feels fan-fucking-tastic.

I bend my knees and move with the music, even though my focus is solely on Dee.

I don’t mean to brag . . . well, okay . . . I’ll brag. I’m a good
dancer. It’s a lot like screwing, finding the right rhythm, staying attuned to your partner’s moves and responding accordingly.

I’ll rip the tongue out of anyone who’d let this get out, but when I was a kid, my mother made me take lessons. Drew, Steven, and I all did. Not the flashy, sequined costume kind—
thank Christ
—but the ballroom kind. It was a year or two before Alexandra’s cotillion. Yes—in our social circle, girls have cotillions, and knowing how to dance like a gentleman is a must. We all hated it. Drew and I had a detailed plan to run away and live in the Museum of Natural History until the danger passed, but it didn’t work out.

Still, as miserable as I was, I’m grateful for those lessons now. Because a kid who can dance is a fucking pansy, but a man who can dance is smooth—sophisticated.

For hip-hop club dancing, you need some natural rhythm, something that poor son of a bitch Steven is sorely lacking. But for a guy like me, with some inherent ability and former training? I kill it on the dance floor.

The synthesized portion of the song takes over—faster, more primal, with a strong bass. Dee straightens up and wraps her arms around my neck, behind her. I have one hand on her hip, holding her steady as I thrust against her. My other hand creeps under her jacket, to the taught, warm skin of her stomach.

I feel the vibration of her moan as my hand strokes and climbs higher.

When the music slows down once more, Dee turns in my arms, facing me. With her heels, we’re almost nose-to-nose. I’m caught in the dark gaze of her eyes as the singer croons about traveling around the world, staying young, and winning love.

The beat picks up again, but our eyes hold. Our bodies move
against each other, hot and needy. My fingers dig into the flesh of Dee’s ass, pushing her harder against me.

To the lyrics of a man not knowing how lost he was until he found what was missing, Dee’s palm caresses my face. And it feels tender and intimate.

Meaningful.

I lower my head and press my lips to hers. And she’s right there with me, opening for me—warm and wet—taking everything I have to give and kissing me back with equal ardor. Both my arms wrap around her, the dancing forgotten. One hand stays on her lower back, while the other buries in the softness of her hair as our mouths move together. Her hands cling to my shoulders, kneading the muscles, pulling me to her.

Have you ever had a moment when you think to yourself, this is going to change everything? From this point on, there will be a before, an after, and this event will forever divide the two?

Most people don’t. They’re too caught up at the time to recognize the significance of what’s happening.

That’s how I was.

But looking back now—this was it. That first, scorching, perfect kiss. This was the moment that would determine the rest of my life. And nothing after it would ever be the same.

W
e walk back to Dee’s apartment. Stumble might be a more appropriate word.

Dry-hump would fit too.

I have the overwhelming need to kiss her every few steps—to pull her to me, or press her against the wall of a building to gain the necessary friction. And she’s in no way passive—dragging her fingernails along the bare skin of my abs, dipping her hands into my pants to squeeze my ass. We’re like two hormone-driven teenagers, making out in the school hallway, who don’t give a shit if they get caught.

We eventually arrive outside her apartment door. I stand behind her as she fiddles with the double locks—grinding my pelvis against her ass, cupping both tits in my hands, massaging and teasing those beautiful attributes. Once we’re inside, Dee crashes against me, standing on her toes to give me an intense, wet, tongue-tangling kiss. Her hands are all over my hair, pausing in their exploration just long enough for me to rip the jacket off
her body. Then I bend low and make quick work of those minuscule shorts, leaving Dee wearing the white tube top and a string thong, with a scarce lace triangle.

I thought Delores was beautiful clothed, but naked—she’s breathtaking. Long, lean legs, narrow hips, a tight stomach with skin so soft it feels like a caress. She’s not overly sculpted; she has a yoga body—slim with the suggestion of firm muscles just below the surface. On my knees, I unbutton my shirt. Dee bends at the waist and pushes it off me, her hands grazing my back’s physique appreciatively.

“God, you’re so fucking hot.” She sighs.

Already using the new nickname, and I haven’t even made her come yet.
I’m good.

Without pause, I spread her knees wide enough to fit between them. Her upper body uses the wall behind her for support. And I place a long, openmouthed kiss against her cloth-covered cunt. Delores’s chin rises and she keens. Her scent is sweet, fruity, with a hint of spice—like a ripe apple with a touch of cinnamon. I drag her thong from her body, craving full contact. With my moist, heated tongue, I trace her cropped, flaxen landing strip, then I move lower to lick and nibble the rim of her pussy. Done with the warm-up, I sink into her, laving and sucking, making her whimper and buck.

I wasn’t talking shit when I said I know my way around a clit. Most guys think heading straight for the hot-button is the way to go—but they’re wrong. Too much pressure, applied too fast, isn’t enjoyable, might even be uncomfortable for a woman. You have to tease it, gradually stimulate it, until it’s stiff and reaching and pleading to be fondled. Once Dee is at that breaking point, I open her lips with my fingers and dance over her knotted bud with my tongue.

She screams—in relief and decadent bliss. I lick her with more force, up and down, without ever losing contact, then I slide two fingers into her sodden, clenching pussy. Her hips thrust against my face and her hands hold me in place as she comes with an openmouthed moan.

With the sound of Dee’s heavy breaths still in my ears, I stand up and wrap an arm around her waist. She sags against me, pleasure spent and wobbly. I lift her feet from the floor, but she doesn’t seem to have the strength to wrap her legs around me. Her lips seek mine, and her arms cling to my shoulders.

“Bedroom?” I ask between kisses.

“Last door on the left.”

My tense legs carry both of us to the room. When I step in, I don’t take in my surroundings or notice the décor—my senses are solely attuned to Dee and my own raging desire. Slightly recovered from her come-coma, Delores sits on the edge of the bed and beckons me forward with entreating amber eyes. Holding my gaze, she unbuckles my pants—the hiss of the zipper and our labored breathing making the only sounds. She pushes the clothing down, and I step out of them. She eyes me eagerly, like a treasure hunter seeking a fervently sought bounty.

My cock is at his best—long, thick, painfully willing. Delores licks her palm.

And it’s the sexiest fucking thing I have ever seen. Bold and brazen.

Then she encases my dick in her slippery, searing hand, gripping it firmly, jerking tenderly. I move closer, without really thinking, and Dee takes it as a sign to bring her mouth into play. I watch as she licks me from base to tip, swirling around the foreskin, before taking me fully into her mouth—so deep I feel the back of her throat.

My eyes roll closed. I grunt and I curse and I beg for more. Dee doesn’t disappoint—plunging me in and out of her heavenly fucking mouth over and over. But when she takes my balls in her hand—rolling, rubbing them, tugging in the most delectable way—I have to put the brakes on. I’m afraid I may blow my load—and I’ve got way too many ideas for that to happen now.

I grasp a handful of her hair and ease her off. Then I lean down and kiss her as blood pounds in my eardrums. She lays back and takes me with her until we’re stomach-to-stomach, thigh-to-thigh. I rip at the remaining fabric of her tube top and yank it down, revealing two plump, gorgeously full tits.

And on one, is a winking diamond piercing.

Holy mother of fuck
.

My cock grows harder, weeping at the sight. I attack her breasts like a gluttonous animal—sucking and biting, grasping and tugging with my hands. My mouth covers her pierced nipple, tasting cold metal and warm flesh. I pull at it with my teeth and lap it with my tongue. Dee writhes and whimpers below me, scratching my back with her nails, leaving scalding, sensuous gouges in their wake.

“Fuck me, Matthew,” Dee wails. “I need you to fuck me, now.”

In a flash, I retrieve a condom from my wallet and roll it on in record time. Holding her ankles, I pull her to me, so her ass is at the edge of the bed. I drag the head of my dick over her needy pussy, teasing at the opening.

Then I look her in the eyes and ask, “How . . . how do you want it?”

“Hard,” she moans. “Hard and deep. I want to feel every fucking inch of you inside me.”

I thrust inside harshly, as deep as I can. Dee’s back bows off the bed and she screams, “Yes! Please . . . yes.”

I pull out slowly, until just the head remains in her, then I push back in, circling my hips, rubbing against her clit when I’m buried balls-deep.

This is lust at its finest—primal passion, visceral hunger.

I keep the pace Dee craves, fucking the breath out of her with every thrust. Until she’s reaching for me, begging for
faster
. I cover her with my body, and she wraps her arms around my neck, tasting my mouth as I drive into her furiously.

Her cheek is pressed against mine when she comes—eyes closed, crying my name over and over, a phenomenal sound that I’ll never forget. And as her orgasm clenches my cock, I come too—so exquisitely long and hard, I’m pretty sure I blacked the hell out.

It’s amazing. Groundbreaking. Easily the greatest sex of my life. And while I’m still inside her, before my heartbeat is able to relax, I know that Dee Warren is like no other woman who has ever come before.