Tamed Read online

  own raging desire. Slightly recovered from her come-coma, Delores sits on the edge of the bed and beckons me forward with entreating amber eyes. Holding my gaze, she unbuckles my pants—the hiss of the zipper and our labored breathing making the only sounds. She pushes the clothing down, and I step out of them. She eyes me eagerly, like a treasure hunter seeking a fervently sought bounty.

  My cock is at his best—long, thick, painfully willing. Delores licks her palm.

  And it’s the sexiest fucking thing I have ever seen. Bold and brazen.

  Then she encases my dick in her slippery, searing hand, gripping it firmly, jerking tenderly. I move closer, without really thinking, and Dee takes it as a sign to bring her mouth into play. I watch as she licks me from base to tip, swirling around the foreskin, before taking me fully into her mouth—so deep I feel the back of her throat.

  My eyes roll closed. I grunt and I curse and I beg for more. Dee doesn’t disappoint—plunging me in and out of her heavenly fucking mouth over and over. But when she takes my balls in her hand—rolling, rubbing them, tugging in the most delectable way—I have to put the brakes on. I’m afraid I may blow my load—and I’ve got way too many ideas for that to happen now.

  I grasp a handful of her hair and ease her off. Then I lean down and kiss her as blood pounds in my eardrums. She lays back and takes me with her until we’re stomach-to-stomach, thigh-to-thigh. I rip at the remaining fabric of her tube top and yank it down, revealing two plump, gorgeously full tits.

  And on one, is a winking diamond piercing.

  Holy mother of fuck.

  My cock grows harder, weeping at the sight. I attack her breasts like a gluttonous animal—sucking and biting, grasping and tugging with my hands. My mouth covers her pierced nipple, tasting cold metal and warm flesh. I pull at it with my teeth and lap it with my tongue. Dee writhes and whimpers below me, scratching my back with her nails, leaving scalding, sensuous gouges in their wake.

  “Fuck me, Matthew,” Dee wails. “I need you to fuck me, now.”

  In a flash, I retrieve a condom from my wallet and roll it on in record time. Holding her ankles, I pull her to me, so her ass is at the edge of the bed. I drag the head of my dick over her needy pussy, teasing at the opening.

  Then I look her in the eyes and ask, “How . . . how do you want it?”

  “Hard,” she moans. “Hard and deep. I want to feel every fucking inch of you inside me.”

  I thrust inside harshly, as deep as I can. Dee’s back bows off the bed and she screams, “Yes! Please . . . yes.”

  I pull out slowly, until just the head remains in her, then I push back in, circling my hips, rubbing against her clit when I’m buried balls-deep.

  This is lust at its finest—primal passion, visceral hunger.

  I keep the pace Dee craves, fucking the breath out of her with every thrust. Until she’s reaching for me, begging for faster. I cover her with my body, and she wraps her arms around my neck, tasting my mouth as I drive into her furiously.

  Her cheek is pressed against mine when she comes—eyes closed, crying my name over and over, a phenomenal sound that I’ll never forget. And as her orgasm clenches my cock, I come too—so exquisitely long and hard, I’m pretty sure I blacked the hell out.

  It’s amazing. Groundbreaking. Easily the greatest sex of my life. And while I’m still inside her, before my heartbeat is able to relax, I know that Dee Warren is like no other woman who has ever come before.

  After we get our breaths back, Delores gets up and disappears into the bathroom then exits a few minutes later wearing a multicolored, paisley, silk robe. I grab my pants off the floor, fish out the pack of cigarettes from my pocket, and ask her, “Do you mind?”

  She opens a window, then retrieves a half-smoked joint from the wooden jewelry box on her dresser. She holds it up. “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

  I lay my head back on one bent arm and light up. Dee slides into the bed beside me, putting an ashtray on my chest as she tokes up. Her robe falls open, exposing her magnificently pierced breast. I blow out a line of smoke and run my finger around the ring.

  “What’s the story behind this?”

  She inhales deeply, smoke escaping her lips as she tells me, “Remember how I told you Billy, Kate, and I grew up together?”

  I nod.

  “Billy’s the youngest, only by a few months. When he turned twenty-one, we all got trashed celebrating. Kate and Billy had tattoos done. I got pierced.”

  I tug gently on the ring, touching and testing it out like a kid with a new toy on Christmas morning. “It’s sexy as hell. But I’m curious, why didn’t you get a tattoo?”

  She snuffs out the dead bud in the ashtray. “Tattoos are too much of a commitment. I don’t like having anything on—or in—my body that I can’t get rid of.”

  I put out my smoke and move the ashtray to the bedside table. Then I turn on my side to face Dee.

  Her hand trails down my stomach and wraps around my cock, brushing her thumb across the foreskin. “What’s the story behind this? I thought all Catholics had to be cut?”

  “I think that’s Judaism.” Then I explain, “I was a sickly newborn—nothing major, but enough for my mother to be wary of anything that might’ve caused an unnecessary complication.”

  For some insane reason, my parents assumed I’d have a circumcision performed when I was a strong, healthy adult. Like I would ever—ever—let a scalpel anywhere near my dick unless my life depended on it.

  And maybe not even then.

  Yes, in case you’re wondering, there were a few girls in high school who were slightly . . . unsure about how to proceed with a non–cookie cutter cock. But once they took it for a test ride and realized it works the same as all the other models, it was in high demand.

  She continues to stroke me until I’m hard and hot in her hand. Then she looks down and says, “I like it. It’s pretty.”

  I grip Delores’s hips, roll onto my back, and lift her over me so she’s straddling my waist. “Okay, you officially suck with adjectives. Pussies are pretty, not dicks.”

  Her robe falls fully open and I lick my thumb then press it to her clit to show her just how pretty I think her pussy is. Fucking gorgeous.

  Dee starts with a giggle but ends with a breathy moan. “Enlighten me. What adjective is suitably masculine for a mighty dick?”

  Her hips mimic my thumb’s movements, rotating in tight circles.

  “Mighty is a good start. Scary works. Powerful, impressive are always winners.”

  I rub with more pressure. Her hips move faster and in ever-widening circles. She pants. “I’ll keep those in mind for next time.” Then she bites her lip and looks me in the eyes. “I love to fuck when I’m high.”

  She rises higher on her knees, lining us up.

  “I have a feeling I’m going to love it too.”

  “Shit, that was awesome,” Dee exclaims into the pillow, where she’s just planted her face.

  On my knees behind her, I remove condom number two with a tissue and collapse next to her. “It really fucking was.”

  Doggy style never disappoints.

  She lifts her head and looks at the bedside clock. “Damn. I have to get up for work in four hours.”

  Just to clarify—this is my cue to leave. It’s the nice way of saying, Thanks for the sex. Good-bye. Most of my one-night stands aren’t sleepovers. Unless I’m completely wiped out, I prefer to sleep in my own bed.

  I stand up and start to get dressed. I zip my pants, but still shirtless, I tell Dee, “I had a great time tonight.”

  She rolls over to her back, making no attempt to hide her naked glory. “Me too.”

  My eyes trail over her lustrous, after-sex-sheen-covered skin, settling on the nipple piercing that begs for more playtime. “I want to see you again.”

  Dee smirks. “You mean you want to screw me again.”

  I slip my arms into the sleeves of my shirt and admit, “Baby, that goes without saying.” I pick
my pack of cigarettes off the floor and put them in my pocket. “I’ll call you.”

  She responds with a short bark of laughter and an eye roll. She grabs the silk robe and stands beside me.

  “What?” I ask, slightly confused.

  She shakes her head condescendingly. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not the kind of woman you have to make promises to, that you have no intention of keeping. It was fun, let’s just leave it at that. If I never hear from you again, that’s okay too.”

  This isn’t the reaction I expect from a chick I spent the last hours giving multiple orgasms to. Most of the time, they’re asking to check my phone to make sure their digits are in my contact list. Demanding specifics—dates and times when their phone will be ringing.

  Dee’s attitude is refreshing. And intriguing. And definitely challenging.

  As we walk down her hallway, I insist, “That’d be terrific . . . except, you will be hearing from me again.”

  She pats my shoulder. “Sure I will. But, if it’s all the same to you, I won’t hold my breath.”

  I take her hand from my shoulder and kiss her knuckles. She watches. And the smirk falls from her face and is replaced with . . . surprise. Yearning.

  “Don’t hold your breath”—I wink—“just make sure you’re waiting by the phone.”

  Then she’s smiling again. She holds the door open, but before I step through it, I lean in close and kiss her cheek. “Good night Dee.”

  Her hand covers the spot my lips just touched. And her honey-colored eyes meet mine. With a trace of sadness in her voice she says, “Good-bye Matthew.”

  When she closes the door behind me, I stick around until I hear all the locks click into place. Then I head home for some well-deserved shut-eye.

  Chapter 5

  On Thursday night, there’s a Columbia University fundraising dinner at the Waldorf Astoria hotel. Normally, I’d send a check and skip the dinner. But Alexandra is one of the organizers, so attendance is mandatory. Although raising Mackenzie is a full-time job, Alexandra’s always been an overachiever and a multitasker. Like many of the women in her station—stay-at-home Manhattanite moms with money to spare—she wants to give back to the community. Plus, I think philanthropic activities help her feel connected to the outside world when her everyday life has fallen into a black hole of Barney episodes, macaroni necklaces, and playdates that could easily turn her brilliant brain to mush. Steven says she’s a lot more agreeable when she’s planning an event—but, when D-Day actually arrives, she has a tendency to get stressed out. Bitchy . . . if you will.

  You’ve been warned.

  I’m standing with Drew and Lexi, overlooking the elegantly decorated room filled with tuxedo- and cocktail-dress wearing Columbia alums. Seems like a success to me—hors d’oeuvres are being passed, drinks are flowing, chatter and laughter abound. Though her expression is serene, Alexandra’s eyes dart around the room with the exactitude of a long-range sniper, scanning for potential targets.

  “Can I leave yet?” Drew asks his sister.

  “No,” Alexandra spits out in a way that tells me this isn’t the first time Drew’s submitted this request. “It’s a party—eat, drink, mingle.”

  Drew scowls. “You’ve obviously been away from the party scene for far too long. This isn’t a party. This is an excuse for old biddies to whip out their beaded dresses and compare the carats in their diamond rings.” He takes a sip of wine. “Although, the wine is excellent. Good choice.”

  Lexi takes a drink from her own glass. “Wine loosens lips . . . and wallets.”

  “And tequila makes the clothes fall off,” I offer with an eyebrow wiggle.

  Just then an extra-large woman with dark, beehive-styled hair and heavy makeup, wearing a pool-table-green gown, approaches us.

  Under his breath, Drew quips, “Let’s hope the tequila is locked up nice and tight.”

  “Alexandra, my dear,” she cackles. “You’ve outdone yourself! This soiree will be the talk of the town for days to come.”

  Lexi’s hand presses humbly against the chest of her white gown. “You’re too kind, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  Sinclair. I know that name. She’s old money—her grandfather made a fortune in steel during the turn of the century construction boon. And her nephew, the heir apparent, is a piss-poor CEO with a legendary coke habit. Here’s a lesson for you: Money can’t buy class, but it can buy a boatload of calamity.

  Alexandra turns Mrs. Sinclair’s attention to me. “You’re acquainted with our dear friend Matthew Fisher?”

  New York society is a lot like the mob—if you’re not a friend of ours or part of our thing, they want nothing to do with you.

  “Ah, yes,” she says, “you’re Estelle’s boy.”

  I nod my head respectfully. “Lovely to see you, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  Alexandra continues with, “And have you met my brother, Andrew?”

  Drew, ever the gentleman, greets her with a smile. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Mrs. Sinclair’s eyes sparkle as she regards him. And she fans herself with one pudgy hand. “No, we haven’t met . . . but I’ve heard such stories about you.”

  “Vicious rumors.” Drew winks. “That just happen to be true.”

  Judging by her quick breaths and the flush of her cheeks, I’d say there’s a high probability Mrs. Sinclair may actually pass out. It’d certainly add some excitement to the evening. But—she doesn’t. An old friend that hasn’t seen her in years hobbles by and drags Mrs. Sinclair away.

  Alone once more, Drew tries again. “Now, can I leave?”

  “Stop asking me that. We haven’t even sat down to dinner yet,” Alexandra hisses.

  Drew doesn’t whine . . . but he’s close. And he speaks for both of us as he says, “But I don’t want to be here. I came, I smiled, I wrote you a check. Unlike some people, I actually have better things to do with my time.”

  Before the squabble gets too heated, someone across the room catches Alexandra’s attention. Her eyes widen, but her face falls . . . with disappointment. She ignores her brother and gawks. Drew and I follow her line of vision.

  And that’s when I see her.

  Almost every guy has a woman like her in his past. For some sad sons of bitches, there’s more than one. The girl who fucked him over, broke his heart, shattered his self respect. They say the first cut is the deepest . . . and she cut me straight to the bone.

  Shakespeare wrote, “O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face . . .” And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear he composed it with Rosaline Nicolette Du Bois Carrington in mind.

  We met during our second year at Columbia, and we dated seriously for two years. Rosaline is intelligent, charming, an expert equestrian. She wasn’t interested in frat parties or the bar scene, preferring instead to spend her time engaging in highbrow discussions about art and travel. I thought she was perfect: the woman I’d marry, have children with—the girl I’d love when she was wrinkled and gray, and who would love me in return.

  Sally Jansen may have been the first girl I ever loved, but Rosaline . . . she was the last.

  I haven’t seen her since graduation. Six years. But she looks exactly the same—a heart-shaped face; classic but full cheekbones that make her appear both sophisticated and innocent; crystal blue eyes with an exotic slant; plump, smiling lips; thick, dark-brown tresses; and a long, lean body that would bring any man straight to his knees. I watch her move across the room, her cotton-candy-pink dress swaying with every step.

  “Why the fuck would you invite her?” Drew asks.

  “I didn’t invite her—Julian’s on the board. I didn’t think they’d show up.”

  Julian is Rosaline’s husband. He’s ten years older and about ten times wealthier than any of us.

  “I thought they were in Europe.”

  “They came back to the city last week.”

  As Rosaline reaches our trio, Drew and Alexandra move in front of me—like bodyguards. Rosaline flashes a captivating smile�
�one that I used to know well. “Alexandra, Drew, it’s so nice to see you. How long has it been?”

  “Not nearly long enough,” Alexandra replies with a deceptive smile.

  This is The Bitch, in full force. To the outside world, Alexandra is a refined lady—but simmering below the surface is a ferocious, protective person who’ll pull her hair back, take her earrings off, and open up a major can of whoop-ass on anyone she perceives as a threat to the people she loves. And she has a special kind of hate for my ex.

  I didn’t find out Rosaline was screwing around until after she dumped me. Getting kicked to the curb was rough, but discovering she’d been fucking someone else the entire time . . . that was utterly crushing. In the days that followed, Drew was the one who took me out, got me drunk, made sure I got laid. But Lexi . . . she was the one I cried to. It’s not pussy to admit I cried—shedding a few tears is perfectly acceptable after your chest is ripped open and your heart is peeled like a potato.

  Following in his sister’s footsteps, Drew says, “I read there was a Listeria outbreak in Europe. You seem to have escaped unscathed. Pity.”

  Rosaline’s smile stays in place as she ignores the barely veiled insults. “Yes, we enjoyed our European travels—the culture, the history. But Julian missed New York. We’ll be here until the spring.”

  Separately, the Evans siblings are capable of throwing some deadly verbal daggers—you’ve seen them in action. But together? They’re a tag team that would put professional wrestlers to shame.

  Alexandra’s voice lowers to a whisper. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, Rosaline . . . well, actually . . . I don’t mind telling you at all. I’ve heard your Julian is having a torrid affair with his secretary.” She touches a thoughtful finger to her lips. “Or was it the nanny?”

  Drew adds, “I’ve heard he’s screwing them both.”

  Again, Rosaline’s composure doesn’t waver. I used to think her poise was an asset—a sign of sophistication and maturity. But looking at her now, she just seems . . . unfeeling. Distant. Annoyingly passive.

  She sighs sweetly. “Men do so love their variety.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Alexandra counters.

  “I would,” Drew admits. “But, then again, I haven’t vowed to forsake all others.”

  She folds her hands demurely. “I’ve resigned myself to Julian’s dalliances. As long as I’m the woman he comes home to, it’s not a problem.”

  Drew was always annoyed by his inability to goad a reaction out of Rosaline, no matter how crude he was. He gets a sick sense of amusement out of being able to drive people to the brink of assault. Which is why he digs deep and says, “Until he realizes the icebox you call a twat just isn’t worth the price of admission anymore. That could be a problem.”

  Rosaline chuckles softly. “You always did have a colorful way with words, Drew.”

  And another round goes to the Stepford Wife.

  “It was nice to see you both again. If you’ll excuse me.” Just like that, they’ve been dismissed. Rosaline steps around Alexandra and Drew and approaches me from the rear.

  I run a hand through my hair and turn to face my heartbreaker. She looks at me kindly, sympathetically, the way a nurse would behold a patient who’s recovering from a life-threatening sickness. “Hello, Matthew.”

  I’m determined to show her that my recuperation is complete. “Rosaline.”

  “You look wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” I reply coolly. “And you . . . haven’t changed a bit.”

  It’s weird talking to her again, even after all these years—especially after all these years. There’s no attraction, no hatred, no strong emotion at all. There’s some regret—a part of me wishes I could reach back in time and beat the shit out of my younger self for being so stupid. And blind. But that’s more about me. As for Rosaline? She’s just someone who I used to know . . . that I never really knew at all. Even though I’m intimately acquainted with every swell and crevice of her body, she’s still a stranger.

  I clear my throat. “So . . . you have a son?”

  Did I forget to mention that? Yeah—Rosaline didn’t only screw around on me, she got knocked up. I’m fairly certain that was her plan all along. Like with the royal family, the heir and the spare? I was the spare, just in case things didn’t work out with Julian. Luckily for me, his dart hit the bull’s-eye first.

  She smiles. “Yes, Conrad.” Poor kid. “He’s at boarding school in Switzerland.”

  I do the math in my head. “Boarding school? Isn’t he, like, six years old?”

  “He’ll be six next month.” I must look dumbfounded, because she adds, “It’s