“Yeah, right.”
“Please don't tell me you're getting all prissy on me.”
“Never,” I assure her. “By the way, I miss you.”
Diana sighs. “Me too. Life isn’t the same without you here. Anyway, back to the issue at hand. This is the way I see it. You as a surrogate is one thing, but you as Renata is another. Since André believed Grant needed a sexual surrogate, I guess your hero is working through some issues. I’m not keen on labels, but what makes you think he’s a dominant?”
“He bosses me around in bed. When it comes to sex, he has to be in charge. Honestly? It’s seriously hot.”
“So you like it?”
“Diana, I love everything he does.” I sigh in a love-struck, ‘I-don’t-need-to-sleep-or-eat-as-long-as-I’m-with-him,’ way.
“Mmm, you’ve got it bad. Sure sounds like some serious sexual chemistry. Lucky you.”
“You have no idea. If you caught us fucking each other in the dark, I swear, you’d see sparks flying.” This vivid mental image cracks us both up.
“I’ve always thought you were submissive,” Diana says conversationally. “I also suspected that your air-thief, prick of a father destroyed your natural submissive inclination.”
“Air-thief?” I ask.
“Yeah. You know, someone who doesn’t deserve oxygen, but steals it anyway.”
I laugh hysterically, certainly a bit louder than the joke deserved. Probably because I agree. My bastard father, who is doing hard time for murder, is definitely an oxygen-thief.
“Your father’s behavior was unpredictable and irrational. How could you trust being under anyone’s control after him? Because of his random violence, submission probably symbolizes abuse to your mind. You need to find what’s right for you. I hate it when the screwed up actions and behaviors of an abuser prevents an individual from enjoying a person’s natural desires.”
“Oh,” I say, uncertainly.
I never thought of it that way before.
Am I submissive by nature? Is that what Grant does for me, makes it safe for me to be myself? Do I long to surrender? To trust someone enough to let go?
Yet, it isn’t only about trust. I trust André with my life, but I never felt comfortable submitting to him.
“Renata, you have an instinctive desire to please. From what I can tell, you experience your greatest pleasure by pleasing others.”
“That’s true, but I don’t like the idea of giving in so easily,” I tell her. “I want to be strong and stand up for myself. I never stood up for myself as a child. I vowed never to let anyone make me feel so helpless again.”
Diana laughs. “Giving in to a violent, abusive asshole is completely different from sexual submission. A good Dom isn’t a bully, and submission has nothing to do with weakness. Some of the strongest people I know prefer to bottom.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. By the way, I wasn’t the only one who saw this inclination in you. I’m pretty sure André recognized your submissive nature right from the start.”
I cringe with the memory. “Diana, being dominated by André freaked me out,” I tell her. “I felt trapped. I panicked at the thought. I don’t like anyone having power over me.”
“Except for Grant,” she says with certainty.
“Except for Grant,” I agree.
We’re both silent for a few heartbeats while I think this over.
Diana adds, “And your relationship is built on honesty, respect and good two-way communication?”
“Oh, yes.”
“So what’s the problem?” Diana asks. “I think the question is not whether he’s a sexual dominant, but whether you are a sexual submissive. Perhaps you’re submissive because you care for him and that’s what Grant needs. You obtain fulfillment by supplying him the sexual control he craves. Maybe you are submissive, but only to him.”
Chapter 7.
“We cannot change anything until we accept it. Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses.”
— Carl Jung
~~~
Renata Koreman
I’m dressed in only a bathrobe and a sexy, silk nightie. The nightie is new, although I doubt Grant will get a chance to notice it. I don’t expect to be wearing it long.
I haven’t seen him for over ten hours. It feels like an eternity. We talked on the phone three times today, and we’ve texted each other volumes, but it’s not enough. I'm suffering withdrawals, itching for my Grant-fix.
Grant ended up going out to dinner with his AA sponsor, so Briley, Mitten and I all ate dinner without him. I have so much to say to him when he gets home.
A thrill of anticipation rolls through me. Mitten is outside and Briley’s asleep, so I’m going to have Grant all to myself. Woo hoo!
I hear the sound of the automatic garage door opening, then closing, and I know he’s finally home. Excitement makes my breath catch. My stomach flutters, tightens.
I move to greet him, but when he opens the internal door and steps inside—my brain short-circuits. Grant’s dressed in a casual suit, his shirt open at the neck, but nothing can hide his powerful, muscular body. The man looks divine.
His sad eyes are gone. He no longer has the lined, furrowed face of someone with insurmountable problems, a man who can find no peace.
For one breathless moment, I freeze, just drinking him in.
His face lights up when he sees me, his intent gaze sweeping over me like a caress. I feel as though it’s Christmas morning and I’m a gift he’s astonished and delighted to find under his tree. He unwraps—or in this case, undresses me with his eyes.
“Renata.” My name on his lips sounds like poetry. I can’t get over how much I crave the low rumbling sound of his voice.
“Grant,” I murmur, while my heart melts and my chest aches.
I suddenly remember the first time I saw him at André’s house. Angry and frightened of his past, his face scarred, I’d immediately recognized the loneliness and vulnerability behind his slate-blue eyes. I could see him so clearly, right through his defenses.
It had been like looking at myself.
André’s words echo in my mind, ‘I have chosen to place two damaged people together, in the hope they may heal each other.’ My mentor was dead-on accurate, as usual.
Now, as he stands before me, Grant’s molten gaze reflects hope, love and lust.
It’s exactly what I feel.
Our actions are instantaneous. In two strides, he reaches me, sweeping me into a crushing embrace. I push up, leaping into him, throwing my arms around his neck. I shudder as the feel of him floods my body with liquid heat.
Already aroused, his thick shaft presses hard against me. I melt into him, sighing with pleasure, inhaling his masculine scent—breathing him in.
His large palms cup my face, his lips capture mine. His possessive, open-mouthed kiss thrills me. Holy hell, the man is a fast learner. Dominant and demanding, his tongue presses inside.
A soft moan escapes from somewhere deep in my throat. So intimate, so personal—holy hell, I love his kisses. We merge together, devouring each other hungrily.
Still kissing me, his hands travel from my jaw, my neck and down my back. His fingers slide up under my bathrobe and nightie where his heated palm grips the curve of my ass. I revel in the sensation.
When he clutches my thighs and lifts me, I wrap my legs around him.
Fiery arousal blasts through my veins. I buck as the iron heat of his cock presses between my legs.
“God, I need you,” he growls, his warm breath gusting over my ear.
“Yes,” I gasp, matching his need.
Primal urges take over.
Like a match set to gasoline, our passion explodes—scorching us to ashes.
In a heartbeat, Grant pushes me against the wall, his mouth ravages mine. Demanding. Plundering. Hands, fingers, skin and mouth; we wrestle into each other’s bodies, as raw need claws and stabs. Like a real fire, we blaze to life, consuming each other
.
Overwhelming pleasure sweeps me away.
I’m mindless already. My fingers tighten into the solid muscles of his back. I’m weak with desire. If the man wasn’t holding me, I’d probably slide onto the floor.
His all-encompassing strength, his potent scent and taste fills my senses. I dig my heels into his back and buttocks.
I long for his hard male thickness to push into me.
Urgent and hungry, I feed on his heat. His teeth scrape behind my ear, nipping my earlobe and traveling down my neck. A rush of erotic sensation tears through me, all the way down to my curling toes.
Panting, I whimper, “Oh God.”
My spine arches, my body bows. I want his hands, his mouth—his cock. I long to draw him inside me. He’s so strong, he holds me with ease while his solid arousal teases me.
When he unexpectedly pulls away, I yelp a half-cry, half-sob at the loss.
Eyes shut, Grant rests his forehead against my own. His lungs heave, his breath tickles my ear. My heart pounds, my skin flushes pink with arousal.
“What?” I ask breathlessly, once I’m able to form words. “Why did you stop?”
“Jesus Christ.” He inhales a deep breath, opening his eyes and angling his head to meet my gaze. “I’m an animal with you. I’m sorry,” he apologizes, his voice gritty and low.
“Don’t be,” I blurt out, intentionally scraping up a hint of playfulness in my tone, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. Leave it to Grant to take sex so seriously. “The desire you have for me is seriously hot. Don’t hold back. Be what you’d like. Do what you like. I love it all.”
“But it feels… disrespectful.”
Wow. Talk about banking the embers of the fire! I lick my lips, trying to gather my thoughts. Half-drunk with the need to come, I try to switch gears.
“Trust me, it isn’t disrespectful. Sometimes rough, no-holds-barred, ‘gotta get in me,’ ‘pound me hard or die’ sex is exactly what a woman wants—maybe even what she needs. I was every bit as frenzied as you were.”
Our ragged breaths sound loud in the silence, while his guarded features demonstrate uncertainty.
What he doesn’t say in answer to my remark, speaks volumes. He’s not impulsive—Grant’s a thinker. Acting like an ‘animal’ in the bedroom feels wrong to him. In his mind, women should be protected and treated with respect.
His own sexuality is an emotionally charged topic he's had trouble accepting throughout his life. He's viewed sex as a slavish loss of control, submitting to it periodically, only when he gave in to his 'weakness.'
He never wanted to be like his father, so he felt guilty for every climax. His decision as a teen went something like this: My dad is bad and my dad enjoys sex. I don’t want to be like my dad, so I can’t let myself enjoy sex.
I completely understand this conflict of emotions, but humans are animals, and sexuality is one of our most primitive drives. It's who we are deep down, at least a part of us.
I want Grant to be true to himself, to accept who he is and to fully let go. In that way, he can allow himself the ultimate pleasures that uninhibited sex can offer. He deserves it.
I don’t want him to hold himself back, stifling and denying his inner nature.
He's done that for far too many years.
On a selfish level, I crave that part of him. It's exciting and sexy, feeding my own primal needs which I whole-heartedly embrace. Unfortunately, the wild male animal won’t become liberated overnight. It’s a process, but there will come a day when he sets himself free.
I study the conflict on his beautiful features. I know Grant so well. I told him the animal in him is OK by me. Later, he’ll think about that. Much later, when he’s ready, we’ll talk it through.
Much, much later, when he begins to accept his instincts and himself more fully, maybe he’ll set them free.
I sure as hell look forward to that.
Chapter 8.
“Ma belle, be at the mercy of someone you trust, someone who you know will only give you pleasure. Then your fear of such powerlessness will be banished.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Renata Koreman
“I missed you, darlin’,” he murmurs, nuzzling into my neck, intentionally changing the subject. “I thought about you all day.”
His declaration is heartfelt. Grant needs me. The sense of fulfillment I get from knowing this thrills me, spreading warmth through my already heated body.
“I missed you, too,” I tell him.
When he looks at me, the smile in his eyes squeezes my heart. “I’m a man, not an animal,” he says with conviction.
With me still wrapped around him, straddling his hips, he spins on his heel. He moves with a purposeful stride, easily carrying me.
“I can restrain myself,” he says in a low, husky voice. “Right now, I’m going to take you up to my bed. Then I’m going to make you come again and again, because I like that.” He kisses my forehead. “And you like that, too.”
I curl into him, nuzzling into his neck. He automatically snags the baby monitor on the kitchen counter, while he carries me up the stairs toward his bedroom. It charms me to realize no matter what happens, Grant never forgets his responsibilities toward Briley.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask.
“Of course.”
My eyes lift to meet his. I’m blinded by the familiar, hungry intensity in his gaze. “Just between you and me?” I grin and murmur, “I absolutely adore the animal part of you.”
He snorts his disbelief and places me on my feet near the arm of the sofa in his bedroom. I regard him expectantly while he takes my bathrobe off.
He grins. “Nice nightgown.”
“You noticed,” I say. With one hand on his shoulder, I purse my lips and strike a sultry pose. “It’s new. I got it for you. Do you like it?”
“I do.” Grinning, he captures my wrists and places them behind my back, holding them with one hand. “This part is nice,” he says, touching the soft silk as he purposely tickles me. I shriek, trying to escape his knowing fingers. “And this,” he adds, well aware of every one of my ticklish spots.
I struggle, giggling hysterically, while he torments me until I’m panting. Then he pulls me hard against him, my soft breasts crushed against his hard chest. Lifting my nightie from the back, his warm palm traces along my buttocks. I can feel his stare.
“Are you going to be good?” he asks, stroking my ass cheeks with feigned menace, his touch running through me like an electric current.
“Sir, yes, sir,” I tease, but not actually joking. Pretend or not, I still find the darkness in his tone intimidating.
His manner has changed—he’s finished playing and is back to being a man on a mission. He pulls me to my feet, grabs the hem of my nightie and pulls it over my head. I stand before him, utterly naked.
His heated stare holds me in place as he toes off his shoes. He unbuttons his crisp white shirt while he studies me intently, his mouth compressed. His eyes miss nothing as his gaze travels from my eyes to my lips, lingering on my breasts, and finally fixating between my legs.
In my experience, men typically love boobs and tend to center their attention on them and their own climax. Grant’s different. He fixates on my pussy, my ass and on making me come. I’m sure as hell not complaining. What woman would? Yet, whatever he wants, whatever he needs—I want to give it to him.
It’s thrilling, this all-consuming focus of his. Also, super exciting, yet completely unnerving.
He still hasn’t let me go down on him, but now at least he kisses me. Hot damn, he’s a fast learner. Man can he kiss!
Jaw clenched, he sweeps me up into his arms and throws me down on the bed, making the mattress bounce. It’s exhilarating, flying through the air.
Light-hearted, I laugh.
Firm-lipped, he doesn’t.
Grant’s eyes remain steadily focused on me. A frisson of apprehension and lust shoot through my body. No on
e has ever looked at me this way. His single-minded concentration is intense. Powerful. Absolute.
Still wearing his pants, he climbs on top of me, stretching his taut body out over mine. He balances his weight on his arms so he doesn’t crush me.
“Spread your legs nice and wide,” he murmurs.
“Yes, my liege,” I breathe, outwardly flippant, but instantly complying. Then, “Mmm,” when his hardness presses into my slick folds. His slacks are rough against my sensitive flesh, making my skin hum. It feels good, but damn. I wish he were naked.
“You’re so good,” he murmurs, pressing feather kisses across my forehead and cheeks. “I’m going to reward you.”
He pins my hands on either side of my head, our fingers interlaced, while his arousal deliciously rocks against my core. Pressure and heat begin to build, making me throb and ache. God, the weight and firmness of his muscular body, combined with the ridged thickness of his erection feels fantastic.
Once more, he thoroughly kisses me. Fierce. Possessive. I feel as though he owns me. These kisses are much more controlled than previously, but they’re still hot as hell.
He places my wrists together again, holding them above my head with one hand. This act makes me feel trapped, but somehow it’s OK when Grant does it. He inches down my neck, kissing and nibbling. With his free hand he traces along my rib cage, then palms my breast and thumbs my erect nipple.
“Oh, Jesus,” I moan.
He jumps on this reaction, responding instantly. With my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he twists, squeezes and tugs—dragging more cries of ecstasy out of me. Close to climax, I whimper, arch and make incoherent sounds of need. I’m already back to 100 on the 1 to 10 scale of arousal.
“I love you, Renata,” he growls. “I will never let you go.”
“Good,” I manage to pant, half out of my mind.
Squeezing my captured wrists, he draws my attention to them. “Keep your hands right here, over your head, darlin’,” he directs me, exuding a very dominant undercurrent of command.
I stiffen as anxiety inches up my spine, yet my body responds to his order. I can’t help it. His commands turn me on and terrify me at the same time. There’s harsh authority in his voice, although his low, gruff tone is clearly caused by arousal.