Buckled

by Pam Godwin

  He returns to my position at the fence and sets a few things on the ground. My heartbeat tumbles into a pounding flurry, suspicious and eager, turbulent and exhilarated.

  “Arms up.” He clutches the hem of the dress at my knees and gathers the material, slowly sliding it to my thighs.

  My muscles quiver, and my stomach coils. I knew my clothes would come off, but knowing isn’t the same as standing in the presence of a potent, sexually-charged man who’s intent on stripping me bare in every way.

  I ache to do this. For me, not for him. But I can’t contain my nerves. “If I tell you to stop—”

  “I’ll stop and take you back to the house.”

  “And you’ll make me leave the ranch.”

  “That was the deal.”

  Disappointment hitches my chest, but I agreed to this deal on day one. I gambled my need for answers on the outcome of a kinky game.

  Getting answers, however, isn’t the only thing at stake now. If I tell him to stop, I’ll lose access to him and this captivating thing between us.

  Can I call it a relationship? Is there even a name for the feelings I harbor for him? I like him, but I don’t trust him. I want him, but I’m terrified of him. He frustrates me, arouses me, captivates me, and fills me with equal parts dread and joy, vulnerability and fire, doubt and sin. There isn’t another person on the planet who affects me like this.

  “Would it be hard for you to make me leave?” I despise the insecure crack in my voice.

  “It would destroy me.” He lifts the dress to my ribs, exposing my lower body to the evening heat. “I won’t let it go that far.”

  Relief surges, girding me with courage. I raise my arms.

  He yanks the dress over my head, leaving me braless and clad in only panties. My back is to him. It’s pitch black outside, but I feel more naked than I ever have as his hands roam over me. I can’t stop trembling like a damn virgin.

  “Christ, you’re beautiful.” His exhale stirs my hair and trickles a chill down my spine.

  “You can’t see me.”

  “I feel you.” His hands follow the lines of my collarbones and around the outer swells of my breasts. “You’re exquisitely shaped. Every curve.” He caresses the dip of my waist. “Every bend and toned line.” He palms my backside and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of my panties. “Every soft, sexy inch of you begs to be eaten.”

  He slides that last scrap of fabric down my legs, crouching to work it past the boots. Then he steps back and groans.

  I glance over my shoulder. Is he holding my panties to his nose?

  “Oh my God.” My pulse lurches. My cheeks flush, and a rush of heat spirals between my legs.

  He stuffs the satin into his pocket and grabs something from the ground. Then he slings himself over the fence and approaches me from the other side.

  The bundle of rope in his hand quickens my breath, but he doesn’t give me time to think. His arm hooks around my back. His head lowers, and his hot mouth seals over my nipple.

  I squirm against him, overcome by the stimulation. His arm holds me in place, and his teeth dig in, replacing the suck of his lips with deliciously harsh bites. I stab my hands into his hair, yanking at the strands as he abuses my breast with savage expertise.

  He drags me closer, feasting. I curl my fingers against his scalp, scratching. The wooden railing rubs against my stomach, separating us, preventing us from climbing into each other.

  He releases me, and blood rushes to my nipple, throbbing, aching. God, I need more.

  “Hands on the fence.” The gruffness in his voice summons images of hard, wet fucking.

  My body throbs for exactly that as my mind panics. I can’t. I shouldn’t. Don’t do it!

  I grip the railing, boots braced apart, knees locked, and nipples erect. I’ve never felt so wanton and reckless.

  He ties my wrists down with practiced efficiency, looping and knotting in swift movements.

  “You’ve done this a lot.” I search the shadows of his gorgeous face.

  Without responding, he drops the excess rope and hops the fence to return to my side.

  “How many times?” My stomach hardens. “How many women?”

  “I’ve been sexually active since I was sixteen.” He crowds my back and feathers his fingers up the fronts of my thighs.

  My skin prickles beneath his touch. “Do you have regular lovers? Friends with benefits?”

  He makes a sound of irritation. “No.”

  “You always restrain them?”

  “Yes.” His fingers bite into my upper thighs.

  He’s twenty-four, so that’s… I close my eyes. Eight years. Different women every week. I don’t need to do the math to know he’s a manwhore.

  “I’m just a number.” I twist my neck to glower at him. “One of hundreds, I’m guessing.”

  His heat vanishes from my back, the only warning he gives me before slamming a palm against my bare bottom. The impact lifts me onto my toes, and I gulp as the sting deepens, spreading fire through tissue and muscle.

  “You will not judge me for enjoying sex with willing women.” His voice is unruffled velvet as he strikes me again.

  “No, I’m—”

  He spanks my other cheek and smooths his hand over the hurt. “Nor will you cheapen what’s happening here.”

  I tighten my fingers around the railing, swaying against the burning pleasure in my backside. Every swipe of his palm reignites the throbbing heat. I feel it everywhere—in the gust of my breaths, the tingling in my muscles, and the molten spasms between my legs.

  I want him to hit me again before the pulsing ache fades. At the same time, I don’t want him to stop caressing my hot, sore flesh.

  I’m losing my mind.

  “What’s happening here?” I hope he can explain it, because I’m at a loss.

  “Something different.” He lowers his hand, depriving me of his touch.

  “Different?” Anger leaks into my voice. “I saw you with McKenna. You were rough with her. You restrained her. How is this different?”

  He grips my jaw and wrenches my neck around, imprisoning my gaze in the black cage of his.

  “I fucked them.” He shifts closer to my side, fingers pressing against bone as he glares into my soul. “They took from me. I took from them. When it was finished, I walked away.”

  I’ve spent nine nights with him, and he hasn’t fucked me. I’ve slept beside him when no one else has. He gives me more than he takes, and he isn’t bored yet.

  My lungs expand. This is different.

  “I can’t walk away from this.” His fingers loosen, gliding across my cheek and into my hair. “Can’t walk away from you.”

  “Same.” A knot forms in my throat.

  He ducks under my restrained arm and slides up the front of my nude body. The sheer size of him makes the space between me and the fence terribly cramped. But he fits, his chest pressed against mine, his hands meandering along every part of me he can reach, and his mouth…

  The instant our lips connect, my back arches and my insides crackle and fizz. His fingers slip between my legs, and my knees buckle. One long digit curls inside me, and my breath sprints away.

  “Goddamn, you’re wet.” His tongue brushes against mine, and he lifts his hand. “The spanking did this.” He trails a sticky finger across my mouth.

  “You did that.” I close my lips around his touch, tasting the tang of my arousal.

  “You’re authentic, Maybe. So fucking real and dirty and stunning from the inside out. Jesus, look at you.” He clutches my shoulders and stares down the length of my naked body. “You’re everything I never dared to hope for.”

  His words have the power to slay me. The kiss that follows is a filthy, unhinged, catastrophic confirmation that I will never be able to walk away from him. Not if I want to remain whole.

  Time stands still as he lavishes me with the seductive pleasure of his tongue and hands until no oxygen remains in the atmosphere. Then he tea
ses that skillful mouth down my neck, my chest, my stomach, covering every inch of skin with licking, sucking kisses as he fingers my pussy.

  I shiver and moan and fall apart beneath his aggressive attention. My brain fries. My blood sings, and I wring my wrists in the rope, trying to reach him.

  “I want to touch you.” I shudder against the diabolical stroke of the fingers inside me.

  “Not yet.” His voice is gravel and smoke.

  “Take off your shirt.”

  “Stop talking.” He kicks my boots apart, forcing me into a wide stance.

  I bite his lip. “Don’t be a dick.”

  “If you don’t shut up, I’ll gag you with my dick.” He lowers his knees to the ground between my feet and clasps my hips.

  “If you’re going to threaten me, make it—”

  He buries his face in my pussy, stealing my voice and deleting my thoughts.

  A deep groan vibrates against my clit, and his tongue joins in, flicking and lashing. He kisses my sex the way he kisses my mouth—deep and penetrating, hot and vicious, open jaw, lapping tongue, bruising lips, no holding back.

  No one has ever eaten me with such obsessive, crazed enthusiasm, and damn if he doesn’t know the right spot, the exact pressure, the precise rhythm. It’s a perfect storm of talent and passion, executed by the sexiest, most dominating man I’ve ever met.

  Sparks of an impending orgasm flicker to life, building and strengthening in my core. My nerve endings multiply, spread out, and strain toward his mouth, wired and greedy.

  Just as I reach that blissful crest, he pulls back.

  “No.” I shamelessly arch toward his face, trembling and desperate.

  He spanks me again, not as hard as before, but the bite he inflicts on my hipbone tears a scream from my throat. His teeth break skin, and holy shit, that hurts. I jerk away and glance at the wound. No blood.

  “You left a mark!” I gape at him.

  “Exactly.” He ducks around my leg and rises to his full height behind me. “By the end of the night, you’ll be covered in my marks.”

  “Unless I say stop.”

  “You won’t.” He sinks his teeth into the tender part of my shoulder.

  My moan shudders through the darkness, laced in pain and reedy with pleasure.

  “Please, Jarret.” I crane my neck, unable to capture his gaze behind me. “I was seconds from coming.”

  “I know.”

  His hand returns to my drenched heat, stroking and tormenting as the other lifts to my chest, tweaking my nipples with ungodly pinches.

  He’s a torrent of brutal force and sensual precision, fluctuating between violent bites and gentle kisses, rough hands and expert caresses. His passion is explosive, his touches methodical. Nothing about him is tame.

  While I’m uncertain about my limitations, he seems to be fully aware of them, never pushing me too far and always easing back when pain overrides enjoyment. But there’s a wildness about him, a feral wolf trapped beneath his skin, snarling and clawing to escape. Just when I think he can no longer contain it, he sweetly tucks a curl behind my ear or peppers a tender trail of kisses along my jaw.

  “I want you,” he murmurs against my lips. “I’ve never wanted anyone or anything this much. What are you doing to me?”

  My gasps deepen, stretching my ribs. If he shoves his cock inside me right now, I won’t stop him.

  That scares the crap out of me. I need to untangle my feelings, compartmentalize, and separate. I need to remember why I’m here.

  How do I do that when it’s no longer clear what I want? I need the truth about my past. I need Jarret in my future. Which do I need more?

  Because I can’t have both.

  The sky lights up in the distance, a bolt of white ripping the utter blackness like paper. A moment later, thunder peals.

  I shiver against the electricity in the air, and the tiny hairs on my arms bristle beneath the static.

  “Have you ever watched a summer storm roll across a field?” He swirls his tongue along my neck, short-circuiting my thoughts.

  “No.”

  “Keep your eyes on the horizon.”

  He steps back as another flash of lightning cleaves the night. Thunder booms, and a second later, a sharp crack slams against my backside.

  A guttural scream bursts from my throat, and I bow beneath the burn.

  That’s not his hand.

  Before I can look behind me, another strike comes. Then more and more, one on top of the other in rapid succession.

  I didn’t see him pack the riding crop, but the deep stings laddering down my thighs could only be from the whip of a leather tongue.

  It’s an acute pain, barbed and merciless. Each whack leaves behind the sensation of branding, one that awakens me emotionally, mentally. The torment is so horribly and wonderfully strange I don’t know whether to fight it or sink into it.

  Brilliant shocks of white fork across the graphite sky, and the rumble of thunder arrives sooner, closer, announcing the storm’s approach. He seems to be timing his hits with the crackle of lightning, flogging my butt and legs in sync with the jagged strobes of light.

  This can’t be safe. We’re standing in the middle of a pasture, like targets begging to be struck. But the danger heightens the thrill. I’m naked and restrained to a fence, staring down an imminent tempest as another violent storm slams against my back.

  Each searing lash of leather magnifies the soreness of its predecessor. But beneath the flames of discomfort lies a tingling, all-consuming realization.

  I love this.

  The restraints on my wrists, the futility of struggle, the stabbing pain, and Jarret’s unwavering attention on my body—all of it enables me to connect to my sexual self in a way I’ve never connected during actual sex.

  It’s like I’m crossing a bridge between what I’ve experienced and what I’ve only dared to fantasize about.

  Desires are dangerous, and I’ve suppressed so many in my life, never permitting myself to act on submissive tendencies. I feared my cravings would make me needy and weak and turn me into a doormat. As a result, I became sexually anorexic and lost my appetite for pleasure. When I engaged in sex, all I felt in my body was panic.

  I’ve never even had an orgasm with a man.

  But I hoped. I still hope. With the right person, I know I can give him total control over my body.

  Like now.

  Jarret broke through my misgivings. He’s the only one who has ever restrained me, spanked me, and made me so damn aroused I can’t think straight. When I’m with him, I actually feel like a sexual being, with none of the hesitation and disconnect I’ve experienced during conventional sex.

  And his dick hasn’t even left his pants.

  Lightning crashes and breaks apart the inky night, reminiscent of what sex would be like with him. Stormy and powerful, combustible and dramatic, white-hot, perilous, and electrifying, with thundery flashes of radiance that burn into my retinas. Just thinking about it charges my pulse and floods my pussy with wetness.

  Behind me, his breathing accelerates with each ruthless swing of the crop, the lashes growing faster, harder, until a strange illumination flickers across the field.

  “Did you see that?” I hold still, straining my eyes through the dark.

  “St. Elmo’s Fire.” He drops the crop, and his sweat-damp chest slides against my back. “Keep watching.”

  A few seconds later, an eerie glow dances through the pasture, accompanied by the bright white of electrical zig-zags high above. The lightning illuminates the meadow and the herd of horned cattle standing in the stillness.

  “St. Elmo’s Fire?” My mind trudges through the sensations firing in my body. I can’t focus with him all hard and hot against me.

  “It’s the discharge of electricity from the storm.”

  Spiky bolts endlessly protrude from the sky, sprinkling an incandescence of light along the silhouettes of horns.

  “Why is it glowing on the tips of th
e bull’s horns?”

  “They’re steers.” He nuzzles my neck. “When the electrical field strength reaches a high level of volts, it gravitates to pointed objects, like the long horns.”

  “Does it hurt them?”

  “No.” He glides talented fingers around my breast. “They probably feel the static.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Me, neither.” His lips feather down my neck, making me moan. “Nothing compares to you.”

  He shoves a hand between my legs and sinks his fingers inside. The roar of thunder clashes with the panting sounds of his groans. I melt against him, gasping as his clothes rub against my sore backside.

  My orgasm has been building since the drive to the prison. With the thrust of his fingers and the raid of his lips on my neck, I’m seconds from detonation.

  “Don’t come.” He grazes his teeth, followed by the ravishing slide of his tongue.

  “Jarret.” I moan. “I have to. It’s too much.”

  “Not until it rains. When you feel the first drop, you can let go.”

  My gaze darts to the dark canvas of sky as jolts of light flash like a camera. He continues to fuck me with his hand, curling those sinful fingers along my inner muscles as I shake and wheeze uncontrollably.

  His other hand fondles my chest, kneading and cupping my breasts. “I fucking love your tits.”

  “I need to come.” I quake with the effort to hold it back, but I’m falling fast. “Oh God, Jarret. I’m right there.”

  “Wait.” He rolls his tongue around my earlobe. “Just a few more seconds.” His thumb finds my clit, thrumming and torturing. “Three… Two…”

  “Jarret, I need…” Everything inside me tightens and squeezes.

  “One.”

  The sky opens to a deluge of rain, and I come. Fucking hell, I come violently, wildly, screaming and writhing, throbbing and panting. My vision blackens. My legs give out, and my insides shatter into a million fiery sparks.

  He holds me up, grinding his erection against my welted flesh as I choke and laugh beneath great sheets of rain.

  “Holy fuck.” I tilt my face to the sky, relishing the cool shower on my heated cheeks.