Let Me In Read online

  His mouth travelled eagerly to the orphaned twin, his hand gently squeezing the base of her breast, ruthlessly forcing her nipple into just that much greater prominence which he bent his head to take full advantage of, giving that eager nub the same treatment as he had treated its companion to.

  She couldn't think while he was doing this kind of thing to her, as he well knew. Still, Randa always felt she shouldn't give into him as easily as her body wanted her to. "Please... st— ahhhh... uhhhh... mmmmm. Stop, Mace, pl-please." She said it as if she recognized the fact that she was mere inches from yielding to him completely, and she was relying on his own ethics – which were, granted, dubious at best, especially in this kind of situation – to get him to do as she asked.

  To her surprise, she found her wrists released immediately, her nipples bereft of his moist heat, standing proudly, hard and tight, as if they were reaching to recover what they'd lost and craved the most in this world – his mouth.

  He hadn't moved away from her at all, instead remaining as close to her as he could be without actually touching her overtly with one good sized exception, his hands remaining at his sides. He stood unashamedly before her, massive chest rising and falling with his ragged and heavy breathing, the rampant bulge of his hard on their only point of contact as it relentlessly sought the soft, wet heat of her. "Is this what you want, Miranda? You'd rather go wanting than to let me touch you because I was angry that you did something you knew I didn't want you to do?"

  Damn, it was almost worse to have him talk to her than to have him touching her! That deep, dark, molten chocolate voice of his insinuated itself into her brain with just the right stern, dommish tone he only used with her. He wasn't angry any more, she could tell. He was just unhappy, probably at both the fact that she'd cut her hair quite dramatically short without consulting him about it and that she hadn't spoken to him in ten days. She hadn't replied to any of his emails or texts or taken any of his calls – not that there'd been many of any of those things. She knew he was busy this time of year, especially at the ranch, and that had worked nicely in her favor.

  "You never told me that I couldn't do it," she replied, knowing that was a grammar school defense. But she was unable to marshal her wits about her with him so blasted close, and her body screaming at her to let him do whatever the hell he wanted to her – that it always turned out amazing for her in the end. She literally had to lace her own fingers together in order not to reach out and rub one hand over that enticingly swollen package of his, using the other to test the roughness of his beard against her fingertips. He was almost always clean shaven when he came to her, and this scruffy look just made him look all that much more dominant – which was something he definitely didn't need.

  One thick eyebrow rose nearly into his hairline. "Do I need to give you a list of things I don't want you to do? Is that how we're going to work this now?"

  Miranda sighed angrily. "No. I mean, I don't know. And just what is this, anyway, hmm?"

  That was just the opening he needed – well, one of them, anyway, his body reminded him with a twitch of his massively swollen equipment. "Well, that's one of the reasons why I'm here right now. I want things to be a little more formal between us, so we don't run into a problem like this again."

  That wary look came back to the forefront of her eyes as soon as he mentioned formalizing things, but he gritted his teeth and continued, ignoring it in favor of rolling the dice and hoping it all worked out in the end. "This is our relationship." He wasn't expecting her to snort at that word.

  "This is your idea of a relationship?" she asked, and he had to admit that she had a point there. It wasn't really much of one. "At best we're kind of... mildly kinky fuck buddies, really, aren't we?" She watched the frown he had been wearing since they began this particular conversation deepen exponentially.

  That wasn't at all the description he'd hoped for, although he had to concede that she was kind of right – again. "Well, I don't know about you, but I'd like to make it something more."

  "What kind of 'more' are you thinking about?" The wariness wasn't just in her face; it was in her tone – every word of that last sentence heavily weighted with it.

  Her eyes had met his – voluntarily – at that question, and he pressed his advantage immediately, taking a good sized step forward, which had her taking one backwards, causing her to become wedged into the corner of the counter, unable to see much but the pure size and breadth of him. She was well and truly caught, and she had a sneaking suspicion that this was what he had been working towards since he'd shown up on her doorstep.

  "Well, exclusivity, for one thing. I don't want you seeing anyone but me."

  This time it was her eyebrow that went up. "Mutual exclusivity, of course?"

  He nodded. She'd been the only woman he'd seen for the entirety of their relationship anyway, so he wasn't going to be missing anything. Miranda was more than woman enough for him. Hell, he could barely manage to haul himself out of bed to go to the bathroom when she was finished with him – although he knew it seemed much more the other way around to her. She devastated him, every single time they came together, despite the fact that he was the one running the show ninety-nine percent of the time. "Of course."

  "And?"

  Mace took another abbreviated step towards her, spreading his legs so that hers were encompassed by his, so close that they were pretty much touching from shoulder to ankles and crowding her back into the corner as far as she could go, so that there was no escape from the way he was pressing himself against her. "No, we're not going to go on to another point until you agree to this. There's no sense in it. It's a deal breaker. I'm not interested in sharing you any more. I'm too greedy for that."

  Sharing her "any more"? Miranda snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure you've noticed the line of men at my door on occasion when you've been over here and had to wade through them to get to me. There've been those times when I wasn't at all sure I could fit you in—" As she said it, she recognized the entirely inadvertent double entendre, but not quickly enough to stop the words from leaving her mouth.

  His smile was downright wolfish. "I'm sure there were, but we were speaking about other lovers, not how wonderfully tight you are around me."

  "And you think that, if I had armies of other lovers, I'd still be that tight?"

  "Touché, missy." He'd had a feeling that he was the only one – given how tentative she was about him at first.

  Randa allowed herself a small, triumphant smile.

  But Mace wasn't going to let her off that easily. "So, no one else?"

  Miranda nodded. "I can agree to that."

  Unable to leave it alone quite yet because he hadn't gotten quite the answer he wanted, he asked, "So, is there anyone you're going to have to say goodbye to in order to comply with our little... agreement?"

  "Is that any of your business as long as I agree not to see whoever it might be from this point on? Telling him it's over is my problem, not yours; I just have to do it."

  He actually growled down at her, baring his teeth, since she seemed almost incapable of easing his concern in that area – not that the points she was raising weren't right. He just didn't like that she wasn't going to admit whether or not she'd had other lovers while they were together. He had to give it to her; she didn't flinch one bit but rather stared directly back into his eyes, getting right in his face to do so.

  "I want you." He let the statement hang right there. "I want to support you. I want you to be available to me whenever I need to drive my cock into you. I don't want you to have a job that might interfere with that. I don't ever want to hear you tell me that I can't have you, short of injury or sickness. I want to be able to tie you to the bed in the morning and not have to worry about getting everything I want done to you before you have to leave my house and my bed. I want you answerable only to me, in every possible way I can manage. I want this body," he reached out and placed his palms over her breasts, deliberately covering her nipples so that
he could feel them burning and burying themselves against his skin, "to belong to me, completely. Wholly. Unreservedly." These were his ultimate goals with her, not necessarily things he was going to introduce this evening, but they were tumbling out of his mouth because of the uncertainty she was creating within him about other men. He wanted to lock down her commitment to him, deepen it faster and further than he might have originally planned, feeling feral and possessive at that moment and gambling everything, half expecting her to tell him to go do a physically impossible act and get the fuck out of her house.

  But her body betrayed her to him every time. He felt the way she'd started when he'd touched her so intimately, saw desire win out over caution in her eyes, watching her pupils expand and darken, feeling how ragged her breathing became as his hands rose and fell with her efforts. It was his fingers that took possession of her nipples now, as he watched her eyes avidly, seeing them drift slowly shut, as if she was drugged by the passion he inspired in her, helpless against it – just the way he wanted her to be. "You can't tell me that that vision doesn't excite you, Miranda," he whispered, feeling her feet moving restlessly between his own as she began to writhe under his teasing ministrations.

  Her eyes didn't quite pop open, but he knew she was forcing them wide, pitting her will against his and winning, at least this round.

  But he intended to win the war – to win her, completely.

  Their eyes locked and hers – he was glad to say – looked faraway and unfocused. Her mouth opened, but he was plucking at her nipples, pinching just a bit more than slightly, twisting and pulling on both of them at the same time. And as much as she wanted to, needed to, she knew, to preserve her sanity as well as her independence from him, she just couldn't maintain the outward façade. Instead, he watched her try to speak, those luscious pink lips moving but nothing coming out until she gave up trying entirely, her head lolling back, mouth still open, mindlessly excited mewls and whimpers the only thing she was capable of emitting.

  Mace felt a surge of masculine pride at what he was able to reduce her to in such a relatively short amount of time. Granted, she hadn't yet agreed to anything he'd said, but he knew he was making progress. Pressing his advantage, he let his right hand drift down her rib cage. He noted just how skinny she was and that was something he definitely was going to set rules for her about. Then he ran his hand over her flat tummy to rest just above the waistband of those faded, cutoff jean shorts, reaching out just his index and middle finger to coax the button open, sliding the zipper down seconds later, but still leaving his hand merely hovering over the private flesh he'd laid bare.

  Miranda felt as if she was falling into an abyss from which she would never escape, and yet she couldn't seem to feel in the least bit alarmed about that very real possibility, either. She didn't know if it was because it was Mace and she had a higher level of trust for him than she did for any other male in her life, or whether it was just what he was saying to her and doing to her body that had robbed her of her ability to form coherent sentences or communicate in any way with him except in the crudest, most basic sounds.

  As he let those long, thick fingers delve slowly past those moist curls and into the extremely wet folds beneath, Mace rasped, "Look at me, Miranda."

  He knew her breath had caught at his words, that her body had gone taut as a bow at where his hand was and what it had the potential to do to her, but she didn't immediately respond to his command. He knew he had a decision to make. He could let her disobedience go in favor of making a more favorable impression on her and continue his fingers' little adventure between her legs, or he could let her know from the get go that he wasn't going to tolerate being ignored when he'd just told her to do something.

  The latter idea won out easily. He was very much in favor of being harder on her; perhaps consistently, but at the very least at first, to establish within her the tenet that he expected her to do as he asked the first time, not when she decided she wanted to comply.

  Before she – in the almost trance-like state that she was in – had a chance to register what was happening, he had stripped both her shorts and her panties down to her ankles, leaving them there instead of removing them entirely. In case she decided to bolt, they would hamper her enough, hopefully, for him to get to her quickly. Then he flipped her around so that she was bent over the counter, which was high enough on her that it didn't really make her bend as much as he would have preferred, but he made do by placing a big palm on her lower belly, just above the curls his other hand had just been exploring, and guiding her back, away from the counter, so that she was at almost a forty-five degree angle. "You hold onto that counter, little girl, and don't let go or I'll spank you like this every night for a week."

  Then he let that hand drift further south, so that it was cupping her intimately, possessively, and without any further preparation, he let her have it with the broad, flat palm of his strong right hand, applied vigorously to that luscious derriere of hers.

  She cried out from the first swat and he had to admit he loved how vocal she was – about the punishments he gave her as well as when he brought her to a helplessly shaking, shuddering orgasm. Sometimes his ears fairly rang with the sounds of the journey he was guiding her through. He had been surprised to realize just how closely her moans when he was fucking her matched those she emitted when he was taking a paddle to her backside.

  Although he had used other implements on her, he much preferred using his hand. It was so much more intimate to actually impart the punishment to her himself, without any kind of intermediary. And he certainly had absolutely no problems conveying his displeasure with her via his palm cracking down on her naked backside. He didn't believe in spanking her when she was still wearing anything that might interfere with that delivery. She was always bare – at least from the waist down – whenever he felt she needed to be corrected.

  As he spanked her, he let his fingers move slowly downwards, seeking out even more intimate territory in which to stake his claim, his middle finger finding its way between those folds to lie over her clit, the very tip of it landing just outside that sweet entrance to her body, which had him crooking his finger just the slightest bit, curving it to fit the contours of her body, so that when her hips jerked from the force and discomfort of a swat – which was with every single one of them, he made damned sure – his finger automatically rubbed over her most sensitive area and forcibly entered her body, if only slightly.

  Miranda thought she was going to die from the volatile combination of sensations he was subjecting her to. He was swatting her so powerfully and steadily that she couldn't catch her breath, and whatever breath she had left was being robbed by the imposing presence of that big finger between her legs. She tried not to move when a smack landed, but quickly found it absolutely impossible not to. His hand was much too big and her behind – as humongous as she would have sworn it was – was just not large enough to provide him with a different area on which to land each of his considerable efforts. And so he ended up spanking the same places multiple times, which was what was drove her to tears so quickly.

  Not that any leniency had ever resulted from the fact that she was bawling her eyes out and she had given up the hope that it ever would. It was as if he fully expected her to cry. It had surprised her at first, considering just how concerned he always was about her health, to say nothing about how he used to worry about the stark differences in their sizes when he made love to her.

  She guessed that he compartmentalized punishments as some kind of entirely different aspect of their relationship, not that he wasn't extremely careful to make sure that no swat he delivered ever landed anywhere except her well rounded backside, or the occasional backs of her thighs, which was just unbearable.

  This spanking ended much more abruptly than she was used to when he spun her back around, rearranging her – as well as himself – into the same exact tableau they had been in when he'd told her to look at him and she hadn't complied, only th
is time, when the cool finger of his right hand split her lips apart, her head snapped up and her eyes found his immediately.

  Her reward, such as it was, was the gleaming slash of his rakish smile across his face. "Keep your eyes on me, Miranda. If you move them from mine again without permission, I'm going to take off my belt." He felt her go stiff in his arms at that pronouncement, as if she wanted to protest his edict, but she relaxed just as quickly, too, especially when he began to move that particular finger within and without her, stroking slowly, deliberately, building the heat he knew she was already feeling to epic proportions.

  She was much wetter now than she had been before and he had expected no less. It didn't seem to matter to her body just how stringent he was with her. The longer and harder the spanking, the wetter she got, even though he knew that the cries and sobs he drew out of her were completely genuine and that she experienced true distress as a result of the punishments he meted out to her. Her body betrayed her every time, and this was no different.

  Whereas when he had been spanking her she had been forced to lean against the counter, she was now reaching back to clutch at it for dear life as one of the few stable things within her universe. Mace leaned over her, putting his face inches away from hers, staring back into her eyes intently, purposefully, in a way she wished she could match, but at this moment, she knew she'd fail woefully at. She had no intent, no purpose. She was living only from the agonizing pleasure of his finger stroking over the very tip of her clit to the unbelievable sensation of the first knuckle of that digit – and soon much more – plunging powerfully into her, and very deliberately curving and crooking so that it hit that excruciatingly sensitive spot within her, only to withdraw slowly and abrade that helpless, vulnerable bud again on the down stroke. Repeating relentlessly until the very breath was robbed from her lungs.