Page 36 of Bared

Holy heavens, how she wanted more.

“Under any other circumstances, I’d be swatting you for the deliberation, girl,” he growled. “But we can’t go there yet. Fuck.” The rebuke was muttered, as if to himself more than her. “We can’t go there at all.”

“Why?” Again, a blurt she did not anticipate but could not control. She wrested free from his hand and pushed on. “Brickham? Why not?”

A new dig of fingers into her bottom. A more ruthless clamp over her mouth. “Goddammit,” he snarled against her neck. “I’ll have your obedience, even if I don’t have to ask nicely.”

Another zap of fresh fear—though again, this was the good version of the feeling. The tingles that reached for more. The naughty need that scratched at her veins, craving to pry open the scary fortress of Max Brickham.

Craving Max Brickham, period.

What was happening here?

What was happening to her?

“And what if I do not want…nice?”

There was the answer to one question. None of this was happening to her because this could not be her. In the space of a few minutes, she had transformed into a completely different creature. A woman separate from the Cimarrons’ little sister and the dutiful royal daughter. She was not even Jagger’s bold Ripley or Emme’s loyal friend.

She was simply a woman. Seen as such and desired as much. She knew that more clearly than the ire in Brickham’s growl and the new tension in his massive form. She knew it with the sparkling awareness she had of both and the pleasure of knowing she was the cause.

And oh yes, she even knew it from the second that Brickham started rolling her T-shirt up from the bottom. She embraced the surety in full as he made a cotton roll out of the fabric and then worked the soft tube up, gently stuffing it between her lips. She rejoiced in it as he made sure her shoulders stayed bound by the part of the shirt she was still wearing, ensuring her new gag remained in place.

“Ask and you shall receive, little Pixie.”

“Unnnhhh,” she replied right away, the sound full of a frustrating ache. But not because of how he muffled her. It was because of all the new sensations he set free in her while doing it—and then, damn it, the sweet kiss he settled to her temple as he finished. Both were like fancy frosting on a decadent dessert he was preparing, only to simply stand there and gaze at his creation instead of taking a bite.

She hated it.

Hated being his showpiece. Being everyone’s pampered, protected little froth. An oddity with no life. A princess with no crown. A woman with no worth.

She needed to be reawakened. But a magical kiss would not accomplish that.

She needed more. Like bites. And scratches. And punishments.

Right. The hell. Now.

She did not just think it. She put the intention into action, letting her instincts guide her. Another long moan into her makeshift gag. A new thrust of her chest, acknowledging the hardening points of her nipples against the basic cotton of her bra. Another shift of her weight down low, recognizing the need there, as well.

Oh, holy Creator. The need.

She wanted to stroke herself there. To circle and press the way she did when alone at night, fantasizing about being this bare and vulnerable for a man…

“Damn it.” Brickham’s guttural burst seemed spun from the core of those erotic visions, down to the coarse hunger in his tone. “You need to keep it down, kitten. Just for a few minutes longer.”

Jayd replied by writhing with more force. She groaned again, louder than before, as the man sank his teeth into the top of her shoulder. It was brutal. And beautiful. And freeing. And fantastic…

“Christ on fucking toast.” A long moment that made no sense because he moved a few inches away from her. Why would he do that if she was pleasing him? “You’re…really liking this…aren’t you, gorgeous? Oh hell yes,” he commented, swiping his hand from her backside to her front. “You do like this.”

Jayd gnashed into the rolled cotton between her lips. Hard. A sound erupted from the depths of her throat, beyond a moan but more strident than a scream, as Brickham began to explore her sensitive center. His responding grunt, as if he were being wheeled into surgery without painkillers, had her writhing against him with more need.

Yes. Writhing.

She was doing this. Her. Moving like this with such wanton need, with a person she barely knew. No. Not even barely. First name, last name, trusted by Jagger Fox, might come from Seattle. That was the extent of her knowledge about Max Brickham.

Except for the fact that he had already fought predators for her.

And was still doing everything he could to protect her, to take care of her. In ways he could have never imagined.