Hard Compromise (Compromise Me)

by Samanthe Beck

  Every stunned muscle in her body leaped to obey, but what passed for her better judgment issued a reminder. Not in your bed.

  “Why be so conventional?” She crawled onto the chaise, held onto the lavishly scrolled arm, and arched her back to enhance the pose. “I’ve got this virginal white sofa just waiting to be…used.”

  He ran his hands over her, from shoulders to hips, and then ended the caress with a quick slap to her ass. “Next time. Tonight, we need the bed.”

  There it was again. The assumption they’d do this again. Before she could correct him, he leaned close and added, “What’s the matter, Jailbait? Did you lie about no ground rules? Is your bed out-of-bounds?”

  The way he saw into her head was out-of-bounds. Her mind now advised her to abort. Eject herself out of this situation because she didn’t have the upper hand with Booker, and when it came to sex, she always had the upper hand. The rest of her wasn’t hearing it though. He’d stood her nose to the wall like a naughty schoolgirl and punished her with an orgasm so brutal it left her shaking. And he hadn’t even used his dick on her yet. Her body craved it. Clamored for it. Okay. Fine. Rule clarification. You can be on the bed, just not him. “Merely trying to keep things interesting.”

  His smile suggested he didn’t buy her explanation. She started to ease off the chaise, but he lifted her and put her on her feet. “Keep trying.” He cocked his head. “The bed.”

  She turned on less than steady legs and walked to the other side of the room, feeling the weight of his stare on her the entire time. Once there, she planted her feet hip’s distance apart, bent from the waist, and rested her forearms on the bed. “I trust this is interesting enough for you?”

  His footsteps fueled her adrenalin. She lowered her head to the mattress, and lifted onto her toes.

  “It’s definitely a start. Hand me my belt.”

  She raised her head as a hundred imaginary feathers fluttered down her spine. “Your…what?”

  “My belt,” he repeated. “It’s right beside you.”

  “Why?”

  “Give it to me, and you’ll find out.”

  If she wasn’t in the mood for this, all she had to do was say so. Booker would let it go, without question. Even knowing this, backing down felt too much like surrender. She handed the strap to him, but couldn’t help adding a caustic comment. “Who would have guessed there were fifty shades of Sheriff Booker?”

  His soft laugh stirred invisible molecules in the air around her. “I would never do anything so conventional. Besides”—he folded the belt in half and ran the edge along the back of her thigh—“I think you secretly prefer gentle.”

  “I told you before, you don’t have to be gentle with me.”

  “You’re tough, huh?” The edge of the belt tickled her skin again.

  She faced front and held her position. “That’s right.” Dammit, she was her own worst enemy.

  “Okay, tough girl. Be still.”

  Impossible, because her legs were shaking again. Then he moved, and she sensed more than saw him kneel behind her. What the…? She straightened her arms and pushed up as he slid something through the ankle strap of her sandal.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I told you I had plans for these shoes.” Expertly, he threaded the belt through the other strap, nudged the prong into the hole that afforded her the least amount of leeway, and pulled the end through the loop. After a final tug he stood, flipped her around, and dropped her on the bed.

  Getting tossed about at his whim shouldn’t have excited her, but it did. So did watching him tear open a condom and roll it down his length, but excited or not, she couldn’t help challenging the limits of the leather. The impromptu bondage only allowed her to part her ankles a foot, at best. “Nice job, Booker. You rig a hell of a chastity belt.”

  In answer, he crawled onto the bed. Illegal move! Her inner referee cried foul, but all thoughts of calling him out fled as he wrapped his hands around her ankles and lifted her legs, moving into the space left behind as he slowly folded her body in half. His brow winged up and he tossed her words back at her. “Just trying to keep things interesting.”

  With her knees shoved up to her shoulders and her toes pointed toward the ceiling, her interest was impossible to disguise. He squeezed her butt, and then trailed his fingers into the divide.

  Her breath hitched as fingertips cruised over territory his tongue had exploited earlier. “Interested, Lauralie? Or would this violate one of those rules you didn’t feel the need to discuss?”

  This usually went into the same category as blowjobs, for her. Something she did on occasion, mainly for her partner’s satisfaction. Tonight, though, the idea of being filled by Booker in every possible way created a need so profound it bordered on terrifying. When he dropped his gaze to where he touched her, the muscles enduring the patient weight of his fingers quivered. She’d demanded filthy dirty, but now that they were getting down to it, she couldn’t find her voice to respond either way.

  Maybe he sensed her struggle, because he looked at her again, and said the two words guaranteed to draw a response from her. “Next time.”

  She reached up and wrapped her fingers around the lowest bar in her headboard. “I’m not big on ‘next time,’ Booker. Whatever’s on your to-do list, you ought to get it done tonight.”

  “We’ll have a next time.” The utter certainty in his voice tripped up her pulse. “And a time after that, and then another thousand next times. You want to know why?” He slid his fingers into her heat, and she nearly levitated.

  “W-why?”

  “Because I’ve got a thousand ways to please you. You’re going to get addicted to the way I make you come. You already are, and I haven’t even been inside you yet.”

  “I’m not.”

  Those diabolical fingers inched up, spreading her open to his view. “Maybe I’ll suck the orgasm out of you, and save being inside you for next time.” He grazed the very tip of her clit and turned her into a raw, exposed bundle of need.

  “Oh, God. Don’t you dare!” She tried to close her legs, but his shoulders prevented her. She’d shatter if he put his mouth on her, but it would be too fast. Too fleeting. A deeper, more elusive orgasm lurked inside her, rare and restive, and slowly building, but she’d never reach it without the help of his long, thick cock.

  “No?” He leaned forward, bringing their faces closer, pressing her to the mattress with his weight. “What is it you want?”

  Was it possible to die of frustration? “Booker, you know damn well what I want.”

  He worked his arm between their bodies and dragged the smooth, wide head of his erection through her center. Then he stilled. “Say it. Say you want me.”

  I want you to shut up and fuck me. She swallowed the reply, in part because it wasn’t completely true, but mainly because he might be contrary enough to withhold relief until her side of the conversation satisfied him. She closed her eyes and offered up, “I want you.” The admission came out soft, and far too heartfelt. Pride made her tack on, “I want your cock.”

  He lined them up, head flush against her clit. “When do I put my mouth here?”

  She gripped her headboard so tight her knuckles ached, but the need mounted to unbearable proportions—the kind of proportions that rolled right over defenses like pride. Fuck it, she was going to say what he wanted to hear, and they both knew it. “Next time.”

  He rewarded her reluctant response with a precise surge of his hips, stopping halfway, forcing her body to submit by degrees to the very part of him she’d begged for. His pupils momentarily disappeared behind eyelids suddenly battling gravity, and an irrationally attractive flush rose in his tanned cheeks. He jerked his head back, breathed deeply—in and out—and then refocused on her. “I couldn’t hear you. Look me in the eyes and say it louder.” Perspiration dampened his face, and a muscle ticked in his jaw, but otherwise, he stayed stubbornly still.

  Stranded on a razor thin edge between plea
sure and panic, her lips rushed to form the words. “Next time. Next time. Please, Booker…next time.” It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to survive this time. Every part of her felt hot and tight. Her brain in her skull. Her skin. The stretched-to-capacity muscles straining to take him. Her breath turned choppy from the effort. She couldn’t move, but she couldn’t keep still.

  He grabbed the rail above her head, his hands on either side of hers, and withdrew a fraction of an inch.

  A sound very close to a sob snuck out between her clenched teeth.

  “Are you ready, Lauralie?”

  She rocked her hips. A quick, awkward, and mostly ineffective motion, but enough to have him tip his head back and groan. Then he surged forward.

  The powerful thrust sent the bedframe crashing into the wall, and forced a sharp cry out of her. Her legs had nowhere to go except over his shoulders, knees splayed to give him room. His sweat-slicked chest flexed. Muscles rippled in his shoulders, and his abs pulled taut. At the same moment, something inside her loosened a critical fraction. Pleasure seeped into those tight spaces.

  And then he started to move.

  Calm, cool Ethan Booker had a reputation for self-control, but none of his legendary control came into play now. She belatedly appreciated the extended foreplay he’d subjected her to, because the man fucked without restraint, and he’d primed her so thoroughly she didn’t need any.

  Fortunate, since the belt binding her ankles and the impossible angle he had her in left her little more than a passenger on this ride. She struggled to hold her position—hips lifted, thighs as wide as possible—because every time he thrust, the base of his cock crushed her clit, pumping pleasure into her bloodstream like a drug.

  Over the squeak of her ancient bedsprings, and the smack of flesh, she heard his voice. “Look at me.”

  She forced her attention from the view of his abs framed by the V of her thighs. His tense jaw, and the feverish slashes of color riding high on his cheekbones told her he was close. Dark, intense eyes lured hers.

  “Next time, Lauralie. Next time, you’ll come on my tongue. Right before I drape you over that pristine white sofa myself, and fuck you until we break the damn thing, but this first time, I want to see your face.” He surged deeper, reaching a place inside her where fear and excitement dwelled in a precarious balance, and stirring the unstable mix into something even more volatile.

  “Next time,” he growled, and thrust again. The words thundered in her ears. Pleasure brutalized her, first coming in waves so rapid and overwhelming they pounded her like a singular force, holding her under, denying her a chance to breathe. Slowly they separated, refining into distinct experiences she could ride out—crests that lifted her to dizzying peaks, followed by shallow valleys of recovery time—and then those eventually subsided and left her floating, warm and safely anchored by the weight of Booker’s body. At some point her brain surfaced, and the self-preserving part started in on her.

  One lousy rule, and you broke it.

  Her satisfied hormones didn’t give a single shit. It was a dumb rule.

  Maybe, but lying here feeling safe and anchored is dumb, too. Wish him a happy New Year, and say good—

  He shifted, leaving her cold and startlingly bereft. A moment later, careful fingers undid the strap at her ankle, and slid her sandal off. It landed with a thump on her rug while he moved on to the other foot dangling limply over his shoulder. An instant later a second thump sounded. “I like the shoes, but they served their purpose.”

  The same could be said for her, and she’d been happy to serve, but she’d reaped more than her fair share of rewards. The gentlemanly behavior wasn’t necessary. She forced her eyes open and raised her head. “I’m sure you have early plans”—his thumb took a slow sweep along her arch—“tomorro…ooohhh.”

  “Feel good?” His other thumb followed, at the same time his lips found two small, old scars just above her ankle. She started to push herself up, but then he gently swiveled her ankle, taking it through the full range of motion.

  Her neck gave out and her head sank back into the pillow. Good? It’s possible he’d just given her the third out-of-body experience of the night. “Yuh.”

  “But I interrupted you.” He moved on to her other foot. “You were saying?” he prompted as he eased his fingers between her toes and slowly flexed them forward, and back.

  “I was saying”—the scrape of teeth along her instep scattered her thoughts—“I…can’t…remember.”

  “Roll over, so I can do this right.” He phrased it almost like a request, even though he was already shifting her onto her stomach.

  She let him put her where he wanted her, moaning her gratitude when his thumb pressed its way from her big toe to the back of her knee.

  “Lauralie?”

  “Hmm?”

  His thumbs slid up the center of her thigh, and heat licked into parts of her she could have sworn were too exhausted to respond. “The only plans I have for the next several hours involve you.”

  Revised rule. He can be in your bed. He can massage any part of you he chooses, with his hands, his mouth, and his very talented dick. But as soon as it’s done, he leaves. You absolutely, positively cannot spend the night wrapped in Ethan Booker’s arms.

  Chapter Four

  Laurie blinked herself awake and focused on the glowing red face of the clock on her night table. Quarter ‘til five. The one morning she could sleep in, but something had pulled her out of dreamland. A noise, or—

  A muscle-corded arm settled across her waist, and a big hand rested along the sensitive skin below her navel. Long fingers extended perilously close to territory they’d exploited repeatedly. That territory swelled and dampened with frightening eagerness at the prospect of being exploited again, but the even breaths fanning her shoulder told her the man responsible for the reaction could literally pull it out of her in his sleep.

  The bargain she made with herself last night came back to haunt her. You absolutely, positively cannot spend the night wrapped in Ethan Booker’s arms.

  If you get up now, technically, you haven’t broken your rule.

  True, and yet…the thought trailed off as Booker shifted again. Something hot and hard jutted into the gap between her thighs. Mmm. So he spent the night? What was the big deal? She had her shit together. She had nothing to hide.

  Booker’s masterful cock slid a little higher.

  Since when have you cared about following rules? Just as she prepared to roll over and break all kinds of rules, she caught movement through the sheer white curtains covering the sliding door that led to her little patio. Seconds later someone bumped into the glass. A muffled snicker followed, and Laurie’s stomach sank. She knew that laugh.

  Happy fucking New Year. She slipped out of bed fast, and silently crossed the room, biting back a groan as sore muscles in exceedingly personal places complained about the sudden call to action. The curtain provided minimum protection for her modesty, but she drew it back far enough to glare through the glass and stop the woman on the other side from knocking.

  Good old mom. Here for a surprise five a.m. visit after—what had it been this time—a year and a half of blissful absence? She looked like shit. Two inches of grown-out, dirty-blond roots contrasted with brassy red. Black liner ringed her over-bright eyes, and her tight, low-cut dress in an extremely unbefitting white showed signs of a few spilled drinks. Chapped lips pulled into an artificial smile, and she waved enthusiastically before opening her mouth to speak.

  Laurie shook her head, and pressed a finger to her lips. Loaded or not, Denise got the message. She made a zipping motion across her mouth and tossed the imaginary key over her shoulder.

  Hilarious. Laurie held up her hand and mimed, Five minutes. Then she pointed to the left, silently telling her mother to go around front. Denise nodded, executed an unsteady pivot, and meandered off the patio, leaving the wooden gate hanging open. Laurie let the curtain fall back into place as soon as her mother disapp
eared from view.

  Five minutes. A quick glance at the bed confirmed Booker remained asleep. Maybe there was a patron saint of put upon daughters because the third drawer of her dresser barely made a noise as she carefully slid it open. She stepped into a faded pair of cut-offs, breathing in as denim dragged over newly sensitive skin. Her eyes tried to drift to the cause of the tender spots, but she denied the detour by pulling on a white hoodie with Babycakes’ trademark—a silhouette of a pinup girl wearing a short, frilly apron and holding a cake—emblazoned across the front in periwinkle blue. Calling herself dressed, she headed to the door. Halfway out of the room, however, her eyes won the tug-of-war. She paused and looked back at the bed.

  Booker had rolled into the space she’d vacated, and lay stretched out on his stomach with his dark, rumpled head nestled in her pillow. A massive shoulder blocked the lower half of his face, but the long, tapered lines of his back remained on display—all the way down past the dimples at the base of his spine. The comforter covered his hips, but as she watched, a sleepy kick sent the covers to the end of the bed. Then he settled, one knee drawn up toward his elbow, unknowingly treating her to an awe-inspiring view of his ass, the endearingly vulnerable cushion of his balls, and the root of his cock. Under different circumstances, she might have snuck her hand into that unprotected crevice to give him a good morning squeeze before wrapping her fingers around his hard-on and putting it to good use.

  But the circumstances right now involved her mother on her doorstep, wanting money for sure, and likely to wake the whole neighborhood if Laurie didn’t get out there and manage the situation. She started to walk away, but…dammit. Even as the two-minute warning bell rang in her mind she hurried to the bed, soundlessly opened her nightstand drawer, and withdrew a pen and sticky note. She squandered another quarter of a minute biting her shredded cuticle and trying to figure out what the hell to say. Finally, she scrawled, Happy New Year, Booker. See you around.