Authors: Mari Carr
Rough Cut (4 page)
How many times had she dreamed of a moment just like this? How many nights had she lain alone in her
bed praying for a man to take over for her? Take all her fears and worries and insecurities and simply claim her.
He reached over to the desk by her bed and pulled out the chair, dragging it to where they stood. Then he gripped her thigh firmly, lifting it. “Place your foot on the chair.”
She did as he said, gasping when he gripped her knee and spread her legs farther apart. “Stay there
and don’t take your leg down,” he ordered.
She obeyed, slightly embarrassed by the fact she was so wet her juices were practically running down
her leg.
“What a pretty pussy you have.” He brushed a finger through the curls surrounding her clit.
“I don’t want you to touch me and I
don’t
like the way you’re talking to me.” She gasped for the breath to tell her lie.
He laughed at her comment and she saw red.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” he taunted. “Or should I say pussy on fire? There’s a pool of juices here that tell me you love the way I’m talking to you.”
She cursed her body’s betrayal and lowered her leg. “I want you to leave. I want you to get out of this guest house.”
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Rough Cut
He studied her face as she spoke, and she could feel the unbearable heat in her cheeks. No doubt she
was blushing as red as a beet. One of the curses of being a natural redhead.
“Put your foot back on the chair,” he demanded, his voice soft, but firm.
“Are you listening to me?” She was aware how shrill and panicked her voice sounded. She was a
modern woman. She wasn’t supposed to be turned on by his demands, encouraging his caveman behavior.
“I’m listening to your body, not your words. I’m not going to punish you for disobeying me, Gwen,
but if your foot isn’t on that chair in five seconds, I can assure you, you won’t like the result.”
Fear and curiosity warred inside her. Fear of loving what he was about to do. Curiosity over what his
punishment would be.
Shit. Her thinking was screwed up. She should be afraid of the damn punishment, not curious.
Her thoughts were in such a jumble she didn’t realize he was lifting her leg for her until her foot hit the seat of the chair. Then he bent down and retrieved her pajama pants. Grasping her hands, he pulled them behind her back, quickly and efficiently using her pants to tie her hands. Her heart raced with
excitement and desire when she realized she was bound tightly enough that escape was impossible. “We’re definitely going to have to work on your inability to follow simple commands.”
Her pussy clenched at his words and she leaned her head against the wall, closing her eyes tightly,
praying it would help her shut out the overwhelming needs coursing through her. Why did she like—no,
love
the way he was talking to her?
“Open your eyes, Gwen. Look at me.”
She slowly dragged her eyes open and he smiled at her so sweetly, so kindly, she felt her heart begin
to ache at the beauty of it.
His fingers lightly grazed her clit and she sucked in a breath, while keeping her gaze locked firmly on his.
“So responsive, so beautiful.” His fingers delved through her mons before swirling around playfully
in her juices. “God, you have no idea how hot you feel. Your cunt is burning my hand.”
She trembled at the dirty compliment, moving her hips toward his questing fingers, trying to bring
him inside.
“Hold still,” he barked and she felt a fresh gush of moisture escape at the rough sound of his voice.
“Jesus,” he muttered as if awestruck. “You’re too perfect for words.”
He pushed one finger inside of her and she fought to remain motionless, fought against every fiber of
her body that was demanding she thrust toward him. “Please,” she whimpered when it appeared he was
satisfied with tormenting her with one finger.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me exactly what you want.”
“Please, Ty.” The words fell from her lips without thought. “I want your fingers inside me. More than
one.”
21
Mari Carr
He pulled out at her request and thrust in with two. “Like that?” he asked. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific if you hope to get what you want, what you need.”
“Another finger,” she whispered. “Please.”
He complied with her pleading, but it still wasn’t enough.
“Harder,” she added, realizing he was serious about making her ask for what she wanted. “Push inside
me harder, faster.”
At her words, he gave in to the strength he’d obviously been holding back as her legs threatened to
give way under the glorious assault of his hand. His fingers fucked her roughly, pounding inside her in the way she often did for herself. No one had ever dared to take her so strongly. She felt the scream building in her throat just before it reached her lips.
“Come for me.” The speed and power of his thrusts increased even more, and she succumbed to his
words, his fingers. Her vision went black and she felt as if she were on the verge of fainting.
Ty must have thought the same thing as he reached out with his free hand to steady her against the
wall. She shuddered uncontrollably for several moments, the aftershocks of her orgasm shaking her body.
His lips lightly caressed her cheek and she felt his tongue dab at the stream of tears he found there. Was she crying? She hadn’t realized.
“Shhh.” He removed his hand from her quivering body despite her anguished cry. He reached around
her to untie her arms, then bent down and picked her up, turning and placing her gently on the bed. He crawled in beside her and enveloped her in his large embrace. She felt more tears gathering in her eyes, but she was too weak to attempt to stem the flow. She felt overwhelmed, confused.
“Why are you crying?”
She shrugged. How could she tell him? How could she explain? He’d just brought her deepest,
darkest desires to light and she struggled with the unexpected exposure. “I just let you tie me up and take me against the wall. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He leaned up on his elbow and looked down at her. “Shouldn’t have done what? You enjoy a rough
touch, Gwen. So what?”
“I don’t want to talk about this,” she said quickly, desperate to shut down the topic of her need for
pain in sex.
Ty narrowed his eyes and she knew he was displeased with her comment. “Fine,” he said at last and
she breathed a sigh of relief. “But this isn’t over, Gwen.”
She knew the second he spoke the words, he was right. She didn’t have a doubt, she would let him do
much, much more to her. No matter how forbidden, how wrong.
He kissed her gently as she fought against the fresh onslaught of tears building in her chest. “It’s
okay, Gwen. Your secret is safe with me.”
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Rough Cut
She wondered about his words and then she considered her response to them. God help her if she was
right about his intentions, because she had no doubt he wouldn’t rest until he’d uncovered and physically exploited every damn imperfection in her character. Until he’d dragged every cursed, unspeakable desire to the forefront.
And then what? He was an actor. Hell, he was fucking Ty Ransome, the movie star every man wanted
to be like and every woman wanted to sleep with. How would he feel when he learned just how dark and
deep her needs ran? How would he react when he discovered pain wasn’t just her fantasy, but a need? What would he say when he realized bondage wasn’t a sex game for her, but a necessity?
For years, she’d managed to suppress the dark and dirty secret because she knew society wouldn’t
approve, wouldn’t understand. The whole reason she’d created Michael Haynes was so she could write the story of her heart, so she could put her surreptitious longings on the pages of “The Darkest Night”. Just as he’d discovered her pen name, Ty had pulled off the veil she’d been hiding beneath. She shivered at the thought and felt his arms tighten around her. He would open up the vault she’d kept securely locked inside her soul. She’d protected her secrets for a lifetime, but Ty had the power to uncover and exploit all of it.
God help her, she’d be a willing victim, if the past few minutes were any indication of his power over her.
“Trust me,” he whispered.
Trust. If only she could.
23
Chapter Three
Getting into character
“I don’t understand why you’re wasting your time on this film, Ty,” Bernie Rather said on the other
end of the line. The man was one of the top agents in Hollywood, but that was only because he played by Tinsel Town rules. It was his consistency that kept him afloat, not his creativity. Ty was amazed the man had managed to walk down the aisle four times, as marriage certainly held a level of risk he’d never seen Bernie take on a professional level. Of course—considering the fact he’d ended up in divorce court four times—perhaps it was best Bernie stuck to the tried and true on the business front.
“We’ve been through this a thousand times, Bernie. I want to do something different, something of
substance. I’m getting too damn old for the action hero shit.”
“The only problem with you is pride. Break down and start using the stunt double and you could keep
doing action movies until you’re eighty. Look at Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis.”
Depression overwhelmed Ty at the thought of chasing bad character actors through various cities
while the special effects people blew up everything in sight. There was no way he could continue to play those roles until he retired.
“No thanks. I’m ready to try a more serious role and
Evening Songs
is the perfect story. Oscar material for sure.” He didn’t dare admit to Bernie that his desire to make the film was two-fold. While he hoped it would break him out of his stereotypical roles, he also wanted to see the stories told and shared with a broader audience because they spoke to his heart.
“You realize it will be both of our asses if this thing flops. Your star power will only take you so far, Ty. Add in your rather volatile public persona and you’re a ticking time bomb facing complete
annihilation.”
He sighed and closed his eyes. He’d heard that line a thousand times from Bernie and he knew exactly
how much was riding on this project and his plans for the future and his career.
“I know that. It won’t fail.” He delivered the line with as much conviction as he could muster, praying his agent couldn’t hear the underlying anxiety in his voice. Gwen had signed the contracts. She was now legally bound to work on the screenplay with him, but he’d failed to tell her exactly how much was riding on this movie. He needed her talent, her writing skills, far more than he’d let on. He was betting the entire future of his career on her ability to tell a great story.
“Talk to you later,” he heard Bernie say as he closed the cell and put the phone in his pocket.
Rough Cut
He paced the floor, glancing out the window every few moments, waiting for Bob to return from the
airport with Gwen. He’d wanted to pick her up personally, but his morning meeting had run long, lasting well into the afternoon. He’d only arrived home half an hour earlier.
He stifled a yawn and grimaced. He was exhausted from tossing and turning all night. Hell, every
night since she’d left. The past two weeks had moved in slow motion, and every time he replayed her
reaction to his kisses, his touches, he felt like the memories had been burned onto his brain and soul.
She was perfect for him and that concept obliterated all of his common sense. He’d never met a
woman like her. He’d never let himself
imagine
a woman like her existed. It was as if he’d written his ideal character, described her, shaped and molded her and Gwen had fallen into the part—his ultimate leading lady.
He was a dominant in every aspect of his life, but in the bedroom, those tendencies seemed to be
amplified to outlandish proportions. His entire life was spent in the limelight, so he’d learned how to temper his needs, his desires. He could just imagine the field day the tabloids would have printing the news of his sexual escapades. In his world, long-term committed relationships didn’t happen, and there was no way he would open himself up for the ugly gossip that would surround him if he dared to venture into the type of sexual relationship he truly wanted.
“Fuck.” He couldn’t even think the words in his own mind. BDSM. He wanted a slave in the
bedroom, a woman he could command and control. He wanted to place a collar around Gwen’s neck and
chain her to his bed forever. He wanted to take care of her, give her anything and everything she’d ever dreamed of.
No doubt he could keep an entire army of psychiatrists busy with his psyche if he was so inclined, but he’d come to realize that his need for dominance was simply an innate part of his personality. He was who he was and since meeting Gwen he knew the years of hiding, of restraining that need for ultimate control, were over.
Until now, preserving his career, his reputation, had always come before those desires. One week in
Gwen’s presence had changed that. Never once in all of his forty years had he met a woman he wanted to utterly possess. Whether the idea of controlling her in the bedroom was right or wrong, it continued to gnaw at his conscience while eating away at his willpower. He knew he should resist her—for the success of the screenplay, if nothing else—but he also knew he never would, never could.
He now understood the reason he’d been drawn to her story, “The Darkest Night”. Clearly she had
similar desires. Every move she had made the morning she left proved it. She was a born submissive. She would obey his commands. She would place herself completely in his hands and she would be marvelous.
