Being Me by Lisa Renee Jones
“You don’t.” His jaw clenches. “Which is why I tried to warn you away and why I tried to walk away.”
My stomach knots. “You still can.” I start to get up, suddenly needing an escape, and this time Chris can’t give it to me.
He shackles my wrists in his hands and pulls me to him, between his legs, on my knees. “That’s just it. I can’t and I don’t want to even try. And I don’t want you to, either.” His expression softens and he brushes his knuckles over my jaw. “You’re inside me now, baby. All the rest was how I stayed outside myself and I’ll be damned if I let it tear us apart.”
I soften instantly at his confession and my hand slides to his face. “It’s the unknown that scares me, Chris. It’s what you need, the pleasure inside the pain, that I can’t possibly understand, and that terrifies me. I need you to make me understand.”
“You do understand, Sara. More than you know. More than I wish you did.” His mouth closes down over mine, hot with demand, and I know he believes this conversation is over, that he means to end it with the wicked caress of his tongue against mine, the possessive splay of his hands on my body. But I refuse to be this powerless, to be silenced with the very passion that drives me to need to understand this man.
“No,” I gasp, and shove against him, breathless as I meet his gaze and demand, “Make me understand, Chris.” And on some level I know this is that unknown place I’ve craved to go with him, that place he hides from me, that place he wants to take me. This is where we have to go, where we’ve always been headed.
Five
“You want to understand?” he asks, his voice low, his eyes ripe with challenge.
“It’s not about want. It’s about need, Chris. I need to understand.”
He considers me, his expression impassive, but his pale green eyes shimmer and then burn. “Stand up and take off your clothes, Sara.”
After a moment of hesitation, I decide his command is as close to an agreement as I’m going to get. It’s enough. I stand up and walk to the bottom of the pedestal and Chris shifts to sit against the bed. In spite of this power play he is using on me, or perhaps because of it, there is something wickedly erotic about standing before this man and undressing. This brings my vulnerability back to the forefront. It is an act of trust, and my chest tightens at the implications of giving myself to him, of why he might need me to do this. I think . . . I think he needs to know that I’m not holding back, that he’s shown me his dark side, and I am still willingly his.
Yes. I am willingly his. Suddenly, I want him to know this more than ever.
With a lift of my arms, I peel away my T-shirt and toss it away. My hair catches on my mouth. I tug away the long, dark brown strands and Chris’s gaze settles on my mouth. My sex clenches because I know he is imagining my mouth on his body and I very much want my mouth on his body. But he is always in control, deciding what I do and don’t do. I vow right then that he won’t tonight. Now, yes, but not all night. At some point before he leaves for Los Angeles again, my mouth is going wherever it damn well pleases. I cannot be naked quickly enough. He will leave in the morning for a week. There is much unresolved between us. Too much.
I strip away my clothes in seconds, and I’m pretty sure the art of the seductive, slow striptease is really not my forte. I’ll work harder at it when I want to tease him and not me. I just need Chris right now. I need to be naked with him, all barriers gone. I need him to know that I want to understand him because he matters, because we matter. Because life made me believe that what is blossoming between us wasn’t possible, but maybe, just maybe, it is.
“Come here,” he commands urgently as I toss aside my panties, his voice gravelly, affected, and I revel in the impatience in him that matches mine. It is still hard for me to believe I affect him sometimes. He is so many things that I aspire to be: strong and powerful, confident and in charge of his life, his destiny. It moves me to know I make this man as hot as he makes me. It makes me stronger. He makes me stronger.
I go to him, letting him pull me to his lap, straddling him, his thick erection settling between my legs. I do not like that he is fully dressed, but I know this is about control to Chris. I know on some level I have taken it from him and he needs it back.
“Lace your fingers together behind your back,” he orders.
Adrenaline rushes through me instantly and my heart thunders in my chest. Yes. This is about control with Chris, but in his control he’s revealed far more than he knows. He has to have it and that says much about him. That I have some deep burn to let him have it says just as much about me, I know.
Watching his face, I search for a reaction I do not find as I slide my hands behind my back. His hands settle firmly on my upper arms, branding me with his touch, even as his gaze rakes over my breasts. The air crackles with a charge I feel in every inch of my body, before his eyes lift to mine and his voice is rougher now, tighter. “Lace your fingers together, baby.”
I do as he bids and the instant I comply, he lowers his mouth to linger above mine, his hands still holding my arms, his breath warm, teasing me with the kiss I burn for, but he withholds. I am breathless when his mouth brushes mine, and shocked when his teeth nip my bottom lip. I yelp with the sting and my fingers loosen behind me. Chris holds my arms in place, so I can’t reach for him, and his tongue snakes forward. He licks the wound before he delves deep into my mouth, stroking me into a compliant moan.
“Pain,” he explains moments later, his arms still wrapping my shoulders, “that becomes pleasure.” His eyes burn into mine. “Lace your fingers again.”
Shaking inside, I nod, afraid to speak, afraid I’ll somehow do something to shut this window he is opening for me. His hands caress a path up my arms and down my shoulders. His path travels downward, over my chest, and he fingers my nipples, sending a rush of sensation through my body with the delicate, sensual caresses that become rougher and rougher. He tugs the stiff peaks, and this time I squeeze my eyes shut against the bite of tension.
“Look at me,” he orders. “Let me see what you’re feeling.”
I force my lashes to lift and the amber glint in his green eyes is as wicked as his touch. It is not just what Chris does to me that is enticingly erotic, but how he commands and claims me with every action, every reaction.
He pinches my nipples, tugging roughly at the same time, sending conflicting sensations of pain and pleasure through my body and straight to my sex. I pant with the delicious roughness and arch against his hips, against the thickness of his erection straining against his zipper.
His lips press to my ear, nibbling on the delicate lobe. The gentleness of the touch is a startling contrast to the way he continues to pinch and tug my nipples, and I can hardly stand the way he is teasing me. I want to reach for him, to touch him, but I am afraid he will stop what he is doing and I cannot bear the idea. I want more, not less, and I am wet and achy and I think . . . oh . . . my sex clenches and I think—no—unbelievably I am almost certain I am going to come.
Seconds before I tumble, his hands leave my breasts and slide down my arms, holding my hands behind my back, and I know this is no accident. He has intentionally taken me to the edge and pulled me back. I am panting and I want to scream with the pain of needing release and having it denied.
He leans back, putting intolerable distance between our lips, our bodies that makes me want to scream. “Pain that’s about pleasure,” he repeats huskily, “and sometimes, baby, that pain is so intense that it becomes the pleasure.”
I understand. Right now, I understand oh so well. “And clearly you know how to make someone feel just that.” There is accusation in my voice. I can’t help it. He knows what he just did to me. He knows he took me to the edge but not over.
His shift in mood is instant, the game we’ve just played ending abruptly. He reaches behind me and unlaces my fingers, settling my hands on his shoulders. “Yeah, baby. I do. But I have never hurt anyone. And I won’t ever hurt you.”
Guil
“You didn’t know that last night.” His voice is tight, strained, the torment I’ve caused him etched in his words, in the tight lines of his face.
“I was scared and confused.”
“And when you feel that way again?”
“I won’t.” I barely contain the urgency to tell him I love him, but I fear I will scare him and he will reject me, maybe reject us. “I won’t.”
He studies me a long moment, his expression impossible to read no matter how hard I search for a clue to what he is thinking. I’m still trying to read him when suddenly his mouth is on mine, and he is kissing me, tasting me, testing my words on his tongue. I cling to him, meet him stroke for stroke, trying to answer him, trying to show him that I am here. I am not going anywhere.
I feel the moment he snaps, the moment he needs to claim and possess, rather than question. He picks me up and carries me to the bed, a man with a mission, and I am that willing mission. He sets me down on the edge of the mattress and reaches up and yanks his shirt over his head. I barely have time to admire him when he’s pulling me forward, spreading my legs. He sinks to his knees and his mouth closes on my clit and he suckles and licks. I gasp and fall back against the mattress, my fingers curling around the black comforter. I pant and try to hold back but his fingers are inside me and his tongue tantalizes me in all the right spots. I shatter with ridiculous speed that screams of him owning me. He owns my pleasure. He owns me. It is a terrifying thought because I’m not sure I will ever have that power over him. Not the way he does over me. I scoot up the bed, grappling with my emotions, but he is already undressed and pulling me beneath him, and I am helpless to resist. Of course I am. He owns me. Damn it, he owns me.
My arms wrap his neck, and he comes down on top of me and his weight settles on me. I am suddenly, intensely aware that we have never been like this, in a bed, with him on top of me. We’ve fucked all kinds of ways, but never in a bed, never in his bed. Awareness rushes over me, the reason I’d been nervous. We are in new territory, the intimacy of this night taking us to a new place.
“I’m going to make love to you now, Sara.”
It is the last thing I expect, and everything I both want and fear. My world is spinning out of control and I’m not sure if it will stop in a place where I will have even footing. “What happened to fuck and get fucked?”
“Baby, the ways I’m going to fuck you are too many to count, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to make love to you.” His lips part mine, his tongue delving deeply, exploring, and the demand of minutes before becomes a sultry, sensual caress. He has torn down every wall I possess and I cannot fight him, or this.
He spreads me wide and settles between my thighs, thick and pulsing, parting me with the promise of finally filling me. I feel him press into me and my arms tighten around his neck. I lift my hips and meet him, urge him to go deeper, to give me more, when I know it is him demanding more of me, taking what I try to hold back but cannot.
He sinks into me, buries his cock inside me, and we lie there, foreheads touching, breathing together. I have never felt as part of a man as I do in that moment. Never felt so a part of another human being. I do not know what to do with the emotions inside me. I do not know how to be this close to someone and still hold on to myself.
“Chris?” I rasp desperately, afraid of this, of him, of where I am spiraling and will never be found.
He moves then, the thick ridge of his shaft caressing a path backward until I think he is going to pull out, to move away. I arch forward, desperate to bring him back, and he answers me with a hard thrust. I cry out and wrap my leg around his, lifting my body, moaning as his hand slides under my backside and pulls me closer, drives him deeper. He pumps into me over and over and I feel him shaking, or maybe it is me who is shaking. I don’t want this to end, and I sense he, too, is fighting it, as if we both fear the moment after, and what comes next. But the pleasure is too intense, too overwhelming, to be sustained. My sex clamps down on him, spasming with the most intense orgasm of my life. He growls low in his throat and thrusts deep into me, before I feel the wet, hot heat of his release. And then we are there, in the moment after, him on top of me in his bed. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what to do with this ball of emotion threatening to explode in my chest.
Chris moves first, shifting me to lie in front of him and pulling the blanket over the top of me. I feel the wetness clinging to my thighs but I don’t care. Chris is wrapped around me, holding me in his bed. For long minutes, we lie there in silence and I don’t want to sleep. I just want to feel him here with me.
“Come with me to Los Angeles.”
For a moment I consider saying yes and my reasons are many. Chris somehow steadies the shaky ground of uncertainty in my world.
“I bought you a seat on the plane.”
“Chris,” I say, rolling over and feeling defensive, and more than a little pressured. “You know I can’t. You know I have a job. And when did you even have time to buy me a seat?”
“Before I even knew about the storage unit power outage. I came here tonight determined to convince you to come back with me, and before you start to argue, getting out of town gives the private detective time to check on what happened last night and gives us some peace of mind that it was nothing to worry about.”
My stomach flutters wildly. “You think I’m in danger?”
“I just don’t want to take any chances, Sara.”
“You do think I’m in danger.”
“I’m not trying to scare you, but I also told you I want to protect you and I meant it. That means being cautious.” He teases a tendril of hair at my forehead. “And I want you with me. I’d want you with me even if this wasn’t going on.”
He wants me with him. These words please me deeply and I yearn to say yes but my fear for my job holds me back. “I want to go, but I can’t. I have to stay. And I’ll be fine thanks to you. I feel safe here.”
His expression darkens. “You won’t be in the apartment around the clock.”
“I’ll be at the gallery and it’s safe.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” he says dryly, and I know he’s talking about Mark’s presence there, not the security. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and casts me a wry glance. “I’m about as likely to change your mind about this as I am likely to get you to watch Friday the 13th with me, aren’t I?”
“Less.” I cup his cheek and plant a quick kiss on his mouth. “Buttered popcorn and the promise of a chick flick to follow might convince me to watch the movie.” I roll back over and he leans away from me and turns out the light before pulling me close, and yes, we are spooning. It’s wonderful.
“You really are making me crazy, woman,” he murmurs, nuzzling my ear.
“Good,” I say, smiling into the darkness. “Because you make me crazy, too.”
“Is that right?” he challenges.
“Hmm,” I assure him, feeling the heaviness of emotional and physical exhaustion begin to settle deep in my limbs. “Yes. You absolutely make me crazy.” And it’s crazy good, I add silently, letting my lashes lower and the groggy sensation of sleep claim me.
• • •
Blinking awake, I am instantly aware that Chris is gone. For a moment, I fear that morning has come and he’s flown off to Los Angeles and hasn’t given me a chance to say good-bye. But there’s the soft hum of a light beyond the door, and it gives me hope he’s still here. The sound of muffled music slides into my awareness, and relief washes over me. I know I am not really alone and I am eager to seek out Chris.
I sit up and the blanket falls to my waist, the cool air chilling my naked body. Still, I toss away the comforter and find Chris’s shirt on the floor, and glance at the clock to find it’s almost five in the morning. I wonder how early his flight leaves and hope it’s not the early bird, but it must be since he’s awake. It is odd to imagine being here wi
Pulling his shirt over my head, I inhale the delicious scent of the man who has come to fill such a big part of my life, and I decide I’ll keep this shirt to sleep in until he returns.
I pad in bare feet to the doorway and stare at the empty living room. The music pulls me to my left and down a hallway that is long and narrow, and I pass several closed doors. The one at the very end of the walkway that serves as an endcap is open several inches, and I rest my hand on the surface. I am certain this is Chris’s studio, which I have longed to see, and I know the crack is an invitation. The music changes, and the song, “You Taste Like Sugar,” a sexy Matchbox Twenty tune, begins to play. I remember Chris saying he paints to music and I wonder what this song inspires, and I am almost nervous to find out.
The door opens, taking me off guard, and Chris stands there wearing nothing but low-slung jeans and looking like he tastes of sugar. My eyes travel the rich reds, blues, and yellows of his dragon tattoo, which covers hard muscle and taut, tanned skin, and my mind plays something he’d said to me not that long ago. Do you know what happens when you push a dragon? They burn you alive, baby. You’re playing with fire. I’ve played with fire tonight with Chris, pushed him to be that dragon, and the way he’s looking at me now, the way he sees what I do not want him to see, is burning me alive. I know in that moment that I cannot keep asking Chris to show me who he is and not be willing to show him all that I am. My gut twists with the biting possibility that holds because it means confessing something I haven’t been completely honest about, something I don’t want him to know. Something I wish I could forget forever but it is carved in my chest like a brand that only seems to get deeper when I try to wash it away.
Chris draws my hand into his and my eyes lift to his and there is mischief dancing in their depths. “Come into the ‘man-cave,’ baby.”