by Jenna Elliot
He draws me against his chest. My breasts squash against his jacket, and my nipples go hard. Damn my traitorous body.
People walk by, tourists and businessmen, kids on skateboards. No one cares that I try to break his grip.
“I got your message. What’s wrong?” he asks.
“What’s wrong?” Anger rages inside, storms up my throat, and my smart mouth takes over. “Every fucking thing is wrong. Nothing works. Not my car, my computer, my phone. Or you.”
“There’s nothing wrong with me, baby. I work just fine. Firing on all cylinders last time I checked.”
I slam my fist against his shoulder. It’s like hitting a stone mountain. I wince, but he doesn’t flinch, damn him.
“I am not talking about fucking.” My voice breaks. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“Yes,” he says simply, but his amber eyes search mine. “This isn’t about the other night, is it?”
“Oh, please. Everything is not always about you.”
That’s obviously news to him. “You said you can’t afford the new fender.”
“That’s right. Send it back.”
“Doesn’t work like that, babe. So I might as well paint it, and put it on the Jeep.”
“I will not owe you.”
He nods acceptance. “Fine. Consider it a gift then.”
“For services rendered. Fuck you.”
His grip tightens around me, so tight I can’t draw air. His voice is hard when he says, “You keep talking about fucking. Sure you don’t want me to do you right here against the bike?”
I’d scream except he’s holding me so tight I can’t breathe. I struggle, and he finally eases up his grip.
“Get on the bike, Mia.”
He sent me away. He has no right to tell me what to do. Maybe I am too stubborn for my own good. He accused me of that.
“We are not at the club, so don’t boss me around.”
His eyes darken. He’s annoyed. “I ordered and paid for the fender, and I want your Jeep out of my place. If you won’t accept my gift, then you work off the debt.”
“I am not screwing you for a damn fender.”
I know the instant I push him too far. Suddenly, he plunks a helmet onto my head. I take a step back, prepared to make a run for it, but he hangs onto the chin strap. I can’t go anywhere without ripping my head off.
With a few flicks of his fingers, he tightens the strap into place, and just when I get a chance to try again to run—and I will take his damned helmet with me, thank you very much—he grabs me around the waist and drags me onto the bike. Patting my leg, he shows me where to rest my feet, then drags my arms around his waist.
I don’t get a chance to swing my leg back over. He kicks the bike in gear and I’m hanging on for dear life, abducted right off the street. I don’t know whether to be scared or pissed. The one thing I shouldn’t be is electric. I damn sure shouldn’t be reacting physically to him.
We had our wild and crazy night. Our one-nighter. And that’s all he wanted. He made that plain, loud and clear. But I need my damned car before we can make a clean break. That’s reality. And that’s the only thing I want right now—a clean break from my past. Emme’s the only thing that gets to stay. The Jeep can go back to my father. I won’t need wheels in Europe, anyway.
Okay. Okay. I have a plan. I feel better. I’ll wrap up things with the Jeep and give it back to my father repaired, so I don’t have to listen to him bitch.
Then I walk away.
19
Ethan
WHAT THE HELL am I doing? I need my focus to be on Ace’s and Jax’s offer and deciding how I’ll make time to run the new club. I really need to consider all the angles. Not be chasing around this needy little pet, who can’t control her mouth, her pussy or her finances.
If I wasn’t convinced before I dropped Mia on my bike—which I was—I am damn sure now. My dick is so stoked at the feel of her pressed up against me. The swell of her tits against my back. Her thighs spread around mine, so her crotch molds my ass.
This babe is one big distraction. Her body is synced to mine. Not her mouth, though. God, that mouth of hers.
I pour on more speed and veer up an on-ramp like I can outrun my thoughts about this babe wrapped around me.
She runs her mouth because she’s upset. I get it. No money to pay for a fender? Dead phone and computer? After I took just one phone call from her father, I can paint the picture. Daddy’s pissed at his little Amelia because she wrecked her car, or whatever the reason, and he cut off the bucks.
The guy sounded like a real asshole, talking to me like I’m some douche bag. I don’t put up with his kind of shit. Mia shouldn’t, either. For Christ’s sake, since when do I give a shit about a girl’s family? Can’t be near this babe without getting all worked up.
I open up my bike on the highway. The engine purrs, and the ride in the sunshine eases my tension. Hers, too. Her hands at my waist relax. Her body melts into mine. She rests her cheek against my shoulder. This babe is looking for something whether she knows it or not. Prince Fucking Charming I am not.
I had planned to let her stew for another day or two, but the message she left . . . Her voice all rattled while she poured on the bravado to cover up how upset she was . . .
Christ, how the hell is she going to work off a fender? That should be as simple as flipping her over and sinking my dick in. I’m good with that. Even-steven. But no. Fucking her can’t even be simple.
She’s so passionate. Suddenly, the pieces fall into place. Can it really be that simple?
I turn the thought over in my head for a few miles. Passion makes her go from zero to sixty when I touch her. Passion makes her mouth get ahead of her brain. In bed and out.
It’s what fascinates me about her.
The idea gains speed as I maneuver lane to lane. I feel better already. Mia just needs discipline to focus all that passion in constructive directions. There’s a big difference between training a pet and breaking one . . .
I’m a man with a plan by the time we get to the shop.
Taking her hand, I tug her through the place, so I don’t have to talk with anyone. My guys are all good, sanding and prepping, answering phones since I still haven’t hired a temp.
“Where are you taking me?” She tugs to free her wrist.
I don’t let go. Her anger isn’t irritating me anymore. Of course, she’s flinging around emotion. “My office.”
“You . . . have . . . an . . . office?”
Does she think I just work here? “I own this place.”
“Oh.” She doesn’t seem impressed. In fact, she looks almost disappointed—not exactly the reaction I expect, and I feel robbed of her appreciation.
Does she have something against business owners?
I open the door, and she prances past me into my lair. She eyes racing trophies, photos of my paint jobs on Ferraris and Porches and Rolls. Even a Bugatti. She should be impressed.
But she’s interested in an old photo. “You served in the military?”
“Yeah.”
“You still keep in touch with your unit?”
“No.” Not possible. Not unless nightmares count.
She gives me a look, like she wants more than yes and no responses. But talking about my past is the last fucking thing I want.
I shut the door behind me, turn the lock.
She spins around as I slip a deadbolt key into my pocket. Her throat works as she swallows hard. But when she doesn’t protest, I savor a minor victory. I sit behind my desk and leave her standing. There are no other chairs.
“So. You can’t pay for the fender?”
The phone rings and rings and rings. No one answers it. My guys are busy.
She eyes the unit on my desk. “Should you answer that?”
“You and this conversation are more important to me than any call.”
Her eyes light up. She eyes me, hungry and happy and hesitant.
I know she’s stall
ing. But she’s right. I really need to hire a temp or answer the damned calls myself. “I’m waiting to hear why you can’t pay for the fender.”
She leans back against the door, maybe even looks the tiniest bit contrite. “I already explained—”
“No, you didn’t.”
Okay, maybe not contrite. She walks toward my desk, lays both palms flat, leans in, her body language oh-so impassioned. “I don’t owe you explanations.”
Her defiance really stokes my flames. I’m not used to all this rebellion. “Do you know what I’m thinking right now?”
“I’m not a mind reader. If you have something to say, say it.”
“Okay.” I lean forward so she doesn’t miss a word. “I’m thinking about yanking down your jeans and making you count out smacks as I spank your ass.”
Man, I had no idea anyone could blush that fast. But fire licks her cheeks in less than a breath.
She’s still not backing off, of course, blush or not. Plucking a cell phone from her pocket, she holds it up. “And I’ll call 911.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Daddy turn that service back on, sweet cheeks?”
Her pretty mouth pops open. Guess she doesn’t know her old man called.
“Why did Daddy cut you off?”
More fuel to the fire in her cheeks. More bravado, too. “Not that’s it’s any of your business, but my father is trying to muscle me into doing what he wants me to do.”
“Which is?”
She exhales heavily, the first signs of worry cracking through her anger. “Finish law school. Marry a man he approves.”
“Not that unusual for a father to want a good career and husband for his daughter.”
“No,” she says. “You don’t understand. He wants to control me.”
Okay, here we go. Leaning back in my chair, I process what I’m hearing. All the fighting suddenly makes sense.
“He wants to tell me what to do. He doesn’t care about what I want. No one ever asks what I want.”
“What do you want, Mia?”
She looks surprised, then she’s off and running with that mouth again like it’s the first time anyone ever asked her that question.
“I want to be independent. I don’t want to have to jump through hoops to get attention or because I’ll get cut off. I want a chance to figure out what I want to do for myself.”
Understanding dawns. This is why she resisted the tire, why she won’t accept the fender as a gift. It’s pride, but it’s also more than pride. It’s a whole lot of hurt and resentment, too.
I understand what it’s like to want what you’re never going to get. “If your goal is independence, then you can fix the fender yourself. When you drive away, you’ll know we’re square.”
Seems the least I can do for the killer blow job.
Her pretty face ties up in a frown. “I don’t know—”
“I’ll teach you.” I soften my tone, lean back in my chair. “You’re not afraid of a little hard work, are you?”
“Of course not,” she spits out. “But why don’t I answer your phones? How many calls will it take to pay off a fender?”
“I have better plans for you.”
Her gaze narrows. She doesn’t trust me, and I don’t blame her. She knows I’m angling. With me, it’s always about sex.
“You think you can teach me to paint a fender?”
I nod, knowing my ability isn’t what’s in question here. She just needs a stroke, some confidence. “I can do anything. But there’s a price to be paid, baby. You don’t want to take a freebie, so I intend to collect.”
“I won’t trade sex to learn anything.”
“Don’t recall saying I want you.”
That shuts her up fast. Folding her arms across her chest, she cocks a hip against my desk with a huff.
I have a solution for this, too. I’m a damned genius sometimes. “If you’re going to work in my shop, babe, you’ve got to wear the uniform.”
I open a drawer and sift through the stuff in there. My junk drawer. I finally find what I’m looking for, but it’s a tangle of chains. She watches as I separate the wallet chain from nipple clamps from my old canteen lid.
“You keep a drawer filled with sex toys in your office,” she comments drily. “I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Are you?” She doesn’t get a chance to answer before I hold up the shiny nipple clamps connected by a medium-weight chain in triumph. “This will look good on you.”
She scowls. I can almost hear the battle going on in her brain. Shut up. Fight back. Shut up. Fight back.
I drop my wallet chain back in the drawer and say, “Ready to get this show on the road? The sooner you get your work done, the sooner you can drive away.”
Shut up. Fight back.
“Is sex the only thing you ever think about?” she asks.
I nod cheerily and motion for her to circle the desk, confident I’ve won this battle. “Come here.”
She does as directed without argument for a change. I position her right in front of me, trying not to think too much about my own reaction, the anticipation that’s coursing through me like a livewire.
“Now take off that shirt and bra. It’s in my way.” I want her to strip for me, to anticipate her punishment. Only she can tell me if that punishment turns out to be sweet. Many of my pets love the clamps.
She can’t drag her gaze from them. “I thought you didn’t want me?”
I dangle the clips from my finger, enjoy the sound of the clinking metal in the air, growing heavy with excitement. “Just because I didn’t say it doesn’t mean I don’t.”
“You sent me home the other night, then didn’t call me again. What do I make of that?”
Ah, here we are . . . the real problem. Mia doesn’t understand how the game’s played. She’s all wounded.
I clamp my hands around her waist and force her to bend toward me until I’m right up in her grill.
“You disrespected me.”
“I did everything you asked.”
Fair enough. She did do what I asked—to the best of her ability for a brand-new and undisciplined pet. The problem that night was me. Okay, I own it. All this passion of hers stokes me in places I forgot I had. That’s part of the challenge.
But owning it and admitting it are two different things.
“You just have to trust me, babe.” I release her, and she immediately straightens up to put distance between us. “This is all about you doing what I tell you, when I tell you. You think too much. You deliberate over every single thing I tell you to do. Should I? Shouldn’t I? You turn everything into a power struggle, and it wears you out. This is all about compliance. If you trust me, I can make you cum in ways you’ve never imagined.”
“You’ve already made me faint.”
My turn to scowl. “A fucking appetizer.”
That shocks her. It’s all over her pretty face. She clearly can’t imagine more pleasure.
Which is only one of the problems.
She’s also sensitive to people telling her what to do, compliments of her asshole father. That’s a little trickier to work around.
“Mia, you need to remember that our sex games have a whole different set of rules. These rules are designed for one purpose, and one purpose only—pleasure. I’m not telling you what to do to bully you. I’m telling you what to do to make you feel good. Just because you give me control of your body, doesn’t mean you’re not in control of your life.” This isn’t quite true. She’s not in control of her life yet, but it’s what she needs to hear right now. And what she needs to accept is that control is hers to give or keep.
I rest my hands on her hips, a casual touch designed to take the edge from my words. The nipple clamps tinkle again as they settle against her thigh. “I’m not telling you to go back to law school if that’s not where you want to be. I’m telling you to let go of your inhibitions and all the mental energy you waste fighting back, so you can have mind-blowing orgasms. Doesn’t tha
t sound like a decent trade?”
The answer to that would be yes, whether she admits it or not. Her chest rises and falls on a shallow breath. Her eyes dilate. I bet if I slide my hand into her jeans, I’ll find her pussy dripping wet. Even talking about sex turns her on. So, so passionate.
And stubborn. She eyes me warily with her mouth shut.
Raising a hand, I dangle the nipple clamps between us, mentally willing her to jump off the cliff. She’s rebelling everywhere else in her life . . . “Do you really want to settle for boring sex and tepid orgasms, babe, when you’re capable of so much more?”
Got her.
I can see it in the way she lifts her chin, the way the light in her gaze flares. Got her. Got her. Got her.
“Take off your shirt.”
She reaches for the hem at her waist and peels the fabric over her head, treating me to the sight of all that silky skin. She wears a no-nonsense nude bra that clings to her tits like a glove. When she unfastens the clasp and lets the bra fall away, her tits tumble free, already heavy with anticipation, nipples already puckering.
My cock nods in approval.
Oh, yeah. I take the moment to simply enjoy her. She has a wonderful shape, and such luscious skin. But it’s her submission that stokes me. She wants whatever I’ll do to her. And her willingness excites me like no drug ever could.
“Pinch your nipples.”
Emotion flares in her gaze again, and her fingers tremble as she lifts her hands to her tits and plucks her nipples.
“Harder.” The raw edge of my own excitement fills the breathless quiet between us. “Pull them. Lift your tits up.”
Her mouth parts around a breath, and her eyes flutter shut. Arousal or embarrassment? Probably a little of both.
She pulls on her nipples, lifts her tits away from her chest until they quiver. Goose bumps spray across her skin.
