With His Consent (For His Pleasure, Book 13) (7 page)

Part of her was also hoping he could see as much.

Scarlett quickly slid into bed, covering her body and immediately trying to use the blanket to create a barrier between her and Bryson.

She heard him rustling next to her. “I know this is awkward, Scarlett.”

“It’s fine,” she lied.

“Would you feel better if I moved to the floor?”

“You don’t need to do that.” She jerked the covers towards her, trying to wrap herself more tightly.

“Hey, what are you doing?” he laughed.

“I need more blanket.”

“Now I’ve barely got any covers on me.” He pulled some of the blanket away from her.

“Hey, stop it.” She tugged again.

Now they were fighting over the covers. “Scarlett, knock it off. Just share the stupid blanket with me. There’s enough for everyone.”

“No, there isn’t. And I need it more than you do.”

“Why?”

“Because.” She wouldn’t answer that on the grounds that it might incriminate her.

“Fine, you want to play this game?” he said.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She wrapped as much of the blanket around herself as possible, and then lay her head on the pillow, smiling contentedly. She was in a nice little cocoon now, just as she’d intended.

Suddenly, Bryson grabbed the blanket and yanked it hard. The entire cover was whisked away, as if by magic. Now she was absolutely bare, out in the open, and Bryson had the blanket all to himself.

“Hey, what the hell!” she yelled.

He chuckled. “I warned you, Scarlett.”

It was dark enough in the room that she couldn’t see his face or his expression, and she realized that he probably didn’t even have a clue just how scantily clad she was right now.

“Give it back, Bryson.”

“No.”

“I’m serious.” She leaned across the bed and tried to pry some of the blanket away from him, but he had it in a death grip.

“Goodnight, Scarlett.” He sighed contentedly.

“Fine, you want to play this game?” she said, using his own words against him.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he said cheerfully.

Scarlett found that her inhibitions were quickly fading. Maybe it was the lack of light in the room, or the wine, or the fact that she was tired—maybe mostly it was how much she was enjoying Bryson’s playfulness in bed.

Whatever it was, she decided that she was going to take things up a notch. She was going to get that stupid blanket off of him, whatever the cost. So she pounced.

Jumping on top of Bryson, she straddled him and grabbed the top of the blanket.

Then she pulled with all of her weight.

It started to come loose. She pulled harder.

“Are you insane?” he shouted.

“I told you I was serious,” she said.

“You’re seriously insane.”

“I’m getting this blanket. And I’m going to keep it all to myself.”

She could feel him beneath her, moving, his body warm and strong. The only thing between them was this blanket. Scarlett realized that she was getting very, very turned on.

This struggle, this physicality with a man—she craved it like air to breathe.

Bryson grabbed her wrists tightly. “You need to chill,” he said.

“No.” She fought against his strong, firm grip.

“Scarlett…” he said, holding her.

She struggled harder, building up a sweat, grinding her pelvis into him, feeling her sexual excitement grow and grow. She wanted to ride him, wanted to feel his hardness against her, rubbing her.

Suddenly, he rose up, like a lion—easily sweeping her onto the bed. She was on her back now and Bryson was on top of her, and the blankets were cast aside, forgotten by both of them.

“Why are you acting like this?” he said, still holding her wrists.

“Don’t ask stupid questions.” She tried to wiggle away.

He pressed his weight down on her, forced her arms up over her head. She wrapped her legs around him and hooked them together around his waist. He smelled clean, like soap, and his body was hard and heat poured off him. She could feel Bryson’s breath on her cheek.

Their bodies were pressed together, both of their chests heaving from the exertion.

In the semi-darkness, she could just make out his eyes.

He grinded his pelvis against hers, very slowly, and she moaned softly. She could feel him now—feel all of him. He was excited too, very excited.

She liked having him on top of her, controlling her. Surprisingly, it was as if he knew exactly what she wanted and needed, without her having to say a word. He let go of one wrist and slowly caressed her hair, softly, and then wrapping his hand in her hair, he pulled.

She let out a gasp and tightened her legs around his waist. He let go of her other wrist now and put his hand in her hair. With both hands, he pulled her hair and then his mouth was on hers, intensely kissing her with a passion that blew her away.

She kissed him fully, not holding anything back at all. His kiss was sweet and salty, intense and loving, his lips caressing hers with a seemingly intimate knowledge of what she wanted and needed.

Her breathing was faster and faster, and she was moaning from deep in her throat.

Bryson was bringing out something new, something that freed her up completely. She wanted his hands on all of her bare skin, holding her breasts, her legs, touching her most private spaces.

For now, though, he did none of those things. His hands were entwined in her hair, pulling, sometimes more forcefully, sometimes less.

She was wet. Startlingly wet.

He was moving against her, his cock pressing, pressing forcefully. She opened to him, wishing he would pull her panties off and slip into her. She wouldn’t dare stop him—in fact, she would do it herself if she dared face the rejection.

She felt his chest, and then his muscular back, as his tongue entered her mouth again and again, telling her something about how he would enter her in other ways.

She moaned again and again. God, she was going to come and they’d barely even done anything yet.

Was she that pent up or was Bryson that good?

She thought she knew the answer.

“Scarlett,” he said, breaking off his kiss.

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure what we’re doing here.”

“Me either.”

“Maybe we should stop,” he said.

“Maybe.”

He caressed her cheek softly. “God, you taste good.”

She smiled. “Then what are you waiting for?” she asked, feeling his chest again.

He grabbed her wrists and forced her arms back to the bed again. “I don’t know,”

he whispered. And then he leaned in and began kissing between her breasts, kissing her bare skin that the bra didn’t cover. Soon he was licking her nipples over her bra. It was the lacy kind of bra and he was sucking her nipples through it.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “I—I think I might come.”

“No, you won’t,” he commanded, his voice dark and husky. “Not unless I say so.”

Her breath caught in her throat. How could he know about this—about her desire to be controlled in bed? It was as if he was reading her mind.

“I need to come,” she whined.

“You can hold off,” he said.

“Why should I?”

“Because I said so.” His voice was firm and demanding that she follow his instructions.

She moaned louder as he went back to sucking her nipples, while holding her down. Her legs flailed as her hips arched into him.

He let go of one wrist and grabbed her by the back of her head. Then he was kissing her again, deeply. More deeply than before, if such a thing was possible.

She met his kiss with ferocity. She wanted him—wanted him to take her now.

She was ready, ready to have him inside her.

“Bryson—” she gasped.

“Say it,” he told her. His lips were against hers, just brushing them, his breath meeting her breath, his warmth burning her with its intensity.

“Bryson, please. I need you.”

“Tell me more.” He bit her lower lip playfully and then released it.

“I want you inside me, Bryson.”

“Then beg me like you’ve never begged before.”

Scarlett was losing control now. She knew this whole thing was twisted beyond belief and a distant part of her was protesting, reminding her of all her promises to keep things between them professional.

But the way she felt right now—none of that mattered. She needed him—she wanted him. She would do anything to have him.

“Please fuck me, Bryson.” The words came out of her mouth unbidden, unexpected in their raw, unfettered honesty. Perhaps it was all the years of training, all the years of BDSM she’d practiced that completely took down her defenses when a strong man was controlling her.

“Why should I fuck you?”

“Because. I’ll do anything you say.”

“Tell me what you’ll do,” he said, his voice low and tempting against her ear now.

“I’ll be so warm and wet for you,” she promised. “I’ll take you in and I’ll be tight around your cock, like a glove. I’ll make you come, I’ll let you fuck me all night long.”

“That’s good,” he said, and as he spoke, he slid his hard cock back and forth against her dripping wet panties.

She gasped and shuddered against him, as a ripple of something resembling a climax wracked her entire body. She closed her eyes. She needed to do something or she was going to really come—have an obvious, over-the-top orgasm—right now. The thought of it was horribly embarrassing. To lose control so easily was a symbol of failure.

She’d spent years as a submissive woman, and her body was trained to obey the man who controlled her in bed.

And yet here she was, unable to hold back from having a climax when nothing was really even happening yet.

Just then, a passing car’s headlights struck the window, illuminating part of the room. As Bryson leaned down and kissed her chest, she saw the butterfly tattoo on his shoulder blade lit up as if by a camera flash.

She reached out and ran her fingers over it softly, trying to distract herself from her desire.

She felt his body stiffen as the room faded into darkness again. “What are you doing?”

“I just noticed your tattoo. It’s beautiful.”

He sat up, his heat drawing away as he withdrew his body from hers. “Thanks.”

He grew quiet, sitting now on the edge of the bed.

Scarlett felt as if she’d been slapped. Why was he moving away? Was it because of his tattoo? “Is it something personal?” She felt the hole she was digging grow deeper. “Is it something you don’t want to talk about? Because we don’t have to --”

“Scarlett, please stop asking me questions.”

“I’m sorry. I …I didn’t mean to make things weird,” she said. She suddenly felt cold and alone and confused, as if waking from a spell.

“You didn’t.” He rubbed his face and sighed. “I’m just tired, I think.”

She could tell he was lying. “Maybe we should go to sleep then.”

“Yeah.” He moved to grab the blankets and pulled them back onto the bed. “I think we’re both just exhausted.”

Scarlett felt a wave of self-pity and disappointment nearly overwhelm her.
Don’t
speak for me,
she thought.
I’m not tired at all.

A minute later, Bryson was lying still next to her and Scarlett was staring up at the ceiling, her eyes filled with tears. She wondered what exactly had happened.

Perhaps, she thought, it was her own discomfort that had spurred Bryson to withdraw.

Or maybe it was her question about his tattoo that he found so intrusive.

Maybe he simply took a long enough pause in the action to have a moment of regret about what they’d done.

All Scarlett knew was that she was having difficulty sleeping.

She drifted off eventually, but woke again perhaps an hour or two later, and this time she was unable to fall back asleep again.

She got up and went to the bathroom, decided to take a shower. Why not? She didn’t want to just sit in that room, in that bed, next to Bryson after everything that had happened that night.

It was frightening how close she’d felt to him, how excited and turned on he’d made her. It was as if he understood everything she’d been through and needed without her ever having to tell him.

That was different.

Scarlett stood under the hot water and let the warmth soak into her skin. Bryson had been warm, too. She’d enjoyed the warmth of his body more than any man she’d ever been with.

How was that possible?

She just couldn’t come to grips with how quickly she’d fallen for him. But even with her eyes closed in the shower, she was haunted by his smile, his eyes, the way he’d touched her. All of it kept running through her mind on an endless loop that she was powerless to stop.

And in the end, he’d so clearly rejected her and decided that it wasn’t worth pursuing.

The water began to grow cold, and Scarlett stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in the hotel’s bathrobe.

When she went back into the room, she left a crack of light from the bathroom as she sat and used a towel to continue drying her hair. Bryson was an unmoving lump in the bed, and she could occasionally hear his deep breathing.

He was sleeping easily, as if nothing had happened at all between them.

It made her angry and sad and frustrated all at once. Why was she always the one feeling things?

After a time, she grew restless. Looking down at his computer bag, she saw it was partially open and a sheaf of paper was sticking out. At first, she ignored it, but then she grew curious enough to take the papers out and look at them.

It was the script.

She hadn’t seen it before, and it was somehow impressive with its dog-eared pages and scribbled notes in the margins.

It was Bryson’s handwriting. The whole thing was marked up.

She wanted to read it, and besides—she had nothing to do and sleep was an impossibility at this point. And hadn’t he mentioned that he was going to let her read his copy at some point?

So Scarlett went back into the bathroom and sat on the toilet and read Bridge and Tunnel from start to finish. She loved it. She loved the story and the characters and the fact that Bryson’s wry humor and intelligence was laced throughout all of the description and dialog.