Give In To Me (19 page)

She’d sent him a goodnight text in return, and then he’d said:
GONNA THINK ABOUT ME WHEN YOU GO TO BED? ; )

She’d been more than a little surprised to see that Rogan Wolfe used emoticons. But
she’d liked that he was flirting with her.

And so she’d let her answer be bolder than usual.
I’M SURE I WILL. I USUALLY DO.

He said:
REALLY NOW. I DIDN’T KNOW THAT.

WELL, NOW YOU DO
, she’d typed.

I LIKE IT
, he told her.

GOOD.

I THINK ABOUT YOU, TOO, GINGER.

She’d simply sent back an emoticon smile and another goodnight, and that was all,
the end of the conversation. But nearly twenty-four hours later she was still pondering
it, still liking it.

Given that it was Friday night, she wasn’t sure if she’d waited too late for this,
but she had an idea, something she wanted to do—at least if Amber didn’t have plans.
Which was why she was sitting in the living room with nothing better to do than ruminate
about last night’s texts—she was also waiting for Amber to get home from her brand-new
job at a local boutique. It was still part-time, but it somehow felt more substantial
to April than Amber’s usual temporary stints at mini marts and ice cream shops.

When her youngest sister walked in a few minutes later, April asked her, “Any chance
you’re free tonight? I could use your help with a project if you don’t mind.”

Amber looked understandably surprised—it wasn’t often that April needed help from
her or Allison; life had arranged things so that it was usually the other way around.
“What kind of project?”

“Well, you know that guy I’m seeing?”

Amber shrugged. “Sort of. You’ve never even told me his name.”

Hmm, she supposed she hadn’t. But things had still seemed so . . . well, dark and
forbidden then. Now the relationship felt just as intense, but much less dark. “His
name is Rogan. He’s a cop. He recently moved here from Michigan.”

Amber looked generally pleased as she said, “Cool.”

“Anyway, I noticed that the walls of his apartment are completely bare, and I was
thinking it would be nice to give him something to hang over his couch. And . . .
I don’t know if this is even possible, but I was thinking it would be nice if I actually
made him something to hang—like painted it myself. And this is insanely short notice,
but is there anything simple you could help me paint, like, tonight?”

It surprised her to see how brightly Amber’s eyes lit up—and it occurred to her that
maybe she should ask for her sister’s help with things she was good at more often.
“Oh, totally. There are a million easy things you could paint. And I have plenty of
spare canvases. Come on—let’s get you in a smock. This will be fun!”

Amber’s enthusiasm increased April’s—suddenly, it did sound fun, which was an unexpected
perk of the idea. They soon got everything set up in the small spare bedroom April
had allowed Amber to use as her art studio—and they’d decided April would do a large
painting of a warmly hued sunset over the ocean, complete with a silhouette of a small
sailboat that Amber assured her she could create with ease.

In one way, April was a little nervous that the painting would turn out looking childish
or silly, but on the other hand, she trusted Amber’s artistic senses, and if Amber
believed she could do this, then maybe she could. “And trust me, a sunset will be
supereasy with me guiding you. It’s mostly about blending colors, which I’ll teach
you how to do.”

They were choosing shades of paint—April reminding Amber that she wanted to keep them
warm and not too pastel-like given what a masculine guy Rogan was—when Allison showed
up, bearing cupcakes. “I had to make some for the play group tomorrow, but ended up
with way too many. I thought you guys might like them.”

Given that Allison was usually less thoughtful, even in small ways, than Amber, the
gesture surprised and pleased April enormously. “Thanks, Allie—they look great,” she
said, taking the plate of them from her sister and setting them on the kitchen table.

“We’ll dig in to them later, as soon as we’re done painting,” Amber added, seeming
in a rush to get back to what they were doing.

Which made Allison ask what was going on and why on earth April was wearing one of
Amber’s painting smocks. She, too, had been told April was dating someone, and now
April explained the gift she wanted to give Rogan.

In response to April’s plan, Allison gave her head a thoughtful tilt. “I never thought
about trying to do something like that,” she said, “but . . . do you think I could
try to paint something, too? Maybe for Tiffany’s room?”

Amber just shrugged. “Sure. Let me get another smock and canvas. Sheesh, if I’d ever
known you guys wanted to learn to paint, we could have done this a long time ago.”
Then she looked toward the kitchen. “Do we have any wine? We should open a bottle.
I may need it, trying to teach you both at the same time.”

They laughed, opened a bottle of Chardonnay, and painted. And though April found it
challenging, she was happy with her creation by the time it was done. And not only
that, but she’d had a fun evening with her sisters. A much more fun evening than she
could remember having had with them in a very long time—maybe even since they were
all kids, before the accident.

No one mentioned her recent “neglect” of them, and she got the idea that they’d already
accepted it—that fast—and maybe they’d even begun to realize how many demands they
made on her and that the time had come for her to do more things for herself. She’d
never dreamed a transition like that could go so easily.

But she’d never dreamed she could paint a picture of a gorgeous sunset, either.

Or have such a pleasant, laughter-filled evening with her sisters.

It seemed that life was just teeming with good surprises lately.

* * *

R
ogan’s blood rushed a little faster through his veins when he heard the doorbell.
She was here. He felt like he’d been waiting all damn day for nine o’clock to arrive.
Why the hell hadn’t he told her to come earlier? Why hadn’t he thought to take her
out to dinner?

Though the last thing he expected when he opened the door was to find her standing
there holding a big painting of some kind.

He lifted his gaze to her pretty eyes to find her smiling. “Surprise,” she said, looking
more relaxed and vibrant than he thought he’d ever seen her. Then again, he’d definitely
started seeing more of those qualities in her lately—though he didn’t know for sure
why.

“I made this for you,” she said. “To hang above your sofa.”

Oh. Wow. Damn. He dropped his eyes back to the painting—it was a sunset of deep pinks,
purples, oranges, and golds, yet none of the colors felt girly. And a sailboat floated
along the horizon in the distance. “You made it? You painted this? Seriously?”

“Yes,” she said, looking a little sheepish. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s pretty fucking great, Ginger,” he told her, and he meant it. “I didn’t
know you did stuff like this.” He was truly impressed, and surprised to find yet another
new side of her.

A pretty blush climbed her cheeks as she said, “I don’t. I mean, this is the first
time I’ve painted anything. So I’m very glad you like it.”

He finally got over his shock long enough to carefully take the painting from her
grasp. “Here, let me get this. Come on in.” Once both she and the painting were inside,
he leaned it against the nearest wall, by the door, and stood back to admire it again.
“So this is really your first painting?”

She nodded, clearly flattered by his praise. “But it was fun, so I might do more.
My sister helped me—the artsy one.” She’d told him enough about her various family
members along the way that he knew she meant Amber, the youngest.

Though he remained taken aback, he flashed her a grin. “You have hidden talents, babe.”

She returned a playful smile. “Apparently I do.”

And then the other part of the equation hit him. “Are you sure you want to give it
to
me
? Sure you don’t want to keep it for yourself?”

But she only gave him another happy nod. “I made it for you. Your walls are too bare,”
she said with a teasing laugh he could only have imagined from her a few weeks ago.
“So I thought you needed something to fill them. Or at least one of them.”

The fact was, Rogan had seldom been so touched. And probably this was a result of
telling her that fairly embarrassing story about his old neighbor, Mrs. Denby, and
the afghan. But it was true—he hadn’t received many real gifts in his life, especially
ones that had come from the heart. And to know she’d taken the time to make this just
for him, that she’d created something to give him as a gift . . . hell, it touched
him. A lot.

“When did you get so sweet, April Pediston?” he asked, delivering another grin.

She tilted her head to one side, her ocean-blue eyes sparkling in the lamplight. “Good
question. I guess you just inspired me.”

“How’d I do that?” he asked, curious to hear her answer.

“You . . . make me happy,” she said, her voice going a little softer. And that answer
wasn’t what he’d expected. It even made his chest constrict, seeming to press inward
on his heart, lungs. Because he wasn’t sure he’d really ever made very many people
happy. Happy enough to make them want to paint him a picture.

And that inspired
him
to grab her and kiss her. It seemed the only thing to do in that moment.

Her arms twined around his neck instantly as her lithe little body—tonight clad in
dressy shorts and a silky multicolored top—pressed against his. Getting lost in the
kisses that came from somewhere deep inside him, he ran his hands over her curves,
exploring them, wanting more of them.

And it would have been easy to just start undressing her right then and there—God
knew that was what everything in him suffered the urge to do. But he’d invited her
here tonight for a specific reason. And even as much as he wanted to fuck her right
now—on the couch, on the floor, wherever—there was a very big part of him that knew
he had to draw back, slow down, and do exactly what he’d planned with her tonight.

As he released her and backed away, she was reaching for the button on his blue jeans—but
he caught her hands in his and said, “Wait.”

She sounded beautifully breathless asking, “Why?”

And it was almost hard for him to tell her right now—because at this moment he already
felt so in sync with her in so many other ways that maybe this part really wasn’t
necessary tonight. Except that . . . it was. And not just for her needs—but for his,
too. “Because you’re not the one calling the shots here, Ginger,” he told her, his
tone deepening.

“Oh,” she said, her voice still gentle, breathy—and beautifully acceptant.

Was she disappointed? He couldn’t tell. And though he didn’t know enough about this
sort of lifestyle to be sure, it struck him that this was very likely the mark of
a perfect submissive. An idea that made his heart beat even faster.

So now he pointed down the hall toward his bedroom. “As luck would have it, I have
a present for you, too. On my bed. Go put it on and wait for me there.”

Chapter 16

A
pril had no idea what to expect when she entered Rogan’s bedroom. It would have struck
her as odd that she’d never been there before if anything about this relationship
had seemed ordinary. Dimly lit, it was equally as stark and plain as the rest of his
place, complete with beige walls and simple furniture.

Well, simple except for the bed, which had both a headboard and footboard of wrought
iron that created sharp angles in an interesting design.

And that was when her eyes fell on what lay on the dark brown comforter.

A black leather corset and black, strappy platform heels. In the recent past, the
heels would be what most people thought of as stripper shoes, but she supposed current
styles dictated otherwise. Though she’d personally never worn a pair of shoes that
felt so . . . openly sexual.

And that was it—nothing else there.
So I’m supposed to wear only a corset and shoes.

Truthfully, the notion made her uncomfortable. She appreciated nice lingerie and had
had occasion to feel sexy in it in the past, yet this went beyond lingerie.

But you have willingly become his submissive plaything. Almost technically his . . .
sex slave. And this is what people who indulge in that sort of thing wear.
And the fact was, she truly did enjoy her now-mindless surrenders to him, so it never
even occurred to her to do anything but what he’d told her to, whether she was comfortable
with such apparel or not.

It felt strange to shed her clothes the same as if she were at home and she soon found
herself standing before his dresser mirror, fully naked. The sight of her body brought
back to mind how aroused she remained after their kisses by the door. The sight of
the black leather had perhaps squelched that for a moment, but no more.

Though it felt even more bizarre to close her body into the black corset, tightening
the black ribbon lacings that zigzagged up the center in front, and to discover that
while it shoved her breasts up high, it didn’t even cover her nipples. Not that it
mattered, she supposed, since it certainly left her pussy on display, too.

She stood before the mirror, studying herself—it was like seeing some version of herself
she didn’t know. And yet . . . maybe that was the point? Rogan had indeed introduced
her to sides of herself she’d never encountered; perhaps this was just one more. And
if she was really honest with herself—even as odd as it felt to see herself this way—under
the surface, there also existed a certain level of excitement, some added arousal.
I never thought I could look this sexual, this much like a man’s sexual plaything.
Willingly.
And she didn’t dislike the sensation.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she put on the tall shoes, strapping her feet
into them. Then she carefully stood up and realized how much
more
sexual she felt just by virtue of adding them.

And then a turn toward the closed bedroom door revealed a floor-length mirror she
hadn’t noticed before, and she took herself in from head to toe. And felt oddly . . .
powerful. To be so bold as to wear something like this. To be a woman that confident
in her sexuality. Not that she really
had
been—it was Rogan who was this confident in it—but maybe the reflection she studied
now was
making
her that confident.

Just then the door opened.

She stayed where she was, met his gaze.

Though it didn’t linger on her eyes for long—he took a lengthy, sweeping glance down
her body and back up again. And then he murmured, “Jesus.”

That same fresh, new power she’d just experienced ran through her veins. “You like?”

“Hell yeah, baby. I fucking
love
.”

She knew what he meant—that he loved the way she looked right now. But she also heard
that, unexpectedly, it had sounded almost like he’d said he loved
her
.

And yet somehow in the intensity of this particular moment, that hardly mattered and
she wasn’t sure why. Maybe what she felt for him, right now, was just . . . enough.
Without bringing questions of love into the mix. She felt special. She felt amazing.
She felt empowered. Maybe nothing else mattered.

And the empowered part of her wanted to demand that he fuck her right now, hard and
fast.

But then she remembered—he was the dominant one. And they both liked it that way.
And a good little submissive didn’t rock the boat. So she spoke quietly, asking, “What
would you like me to do?”

“Lie down on the bed. And spread your legs as wide apart as you can.”

She tensed slightly at the request—mainly the last part—but then complied, still surprised
at how closely being submissive and being powerful could mirror each other. Because
as she parted her legs at his command, she felt as if she were truly exhibiting both
traits at the same time.

Rogan came to stand at the foot of the bed, in the center. “God, baby, your pussy’s
so fucking wet and wide open.”

“Just for you,” she whispered, and felt the words warm them both.

He leaned over the bed, ran his palms slowly up the insides of both her legs, stopping
them high on her inner thighs. Then he leaned over and blew a cool stream of air over
her exposed clit.

A shiver ran through her in response, and it made Rogan say, “You never fight me anymore.”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to. I thought I was supposed to be your good girl.”

A gentle grin turned up the corners of his mouth. “You are. But there were times when
it felt good . . . to hold you down, to know I was giving what you needed whether
you knew it or not. I guess the rules to this can get a little tricky.”

She nodded against the pillow because that was so true. Then said, “I’ll do whatever
you want me to, Rogan.” And realized just how complete her transformation had become.

“Is there anything that would make you fight now? Anything you really wouldn’t want
me to do to you?”

“Nothing,” she said instantly, without even weighing it. Because she trusted him that
much. And she saw in his eyes how deeply he understood that. Like so much between
them, it didn’t need to be said.

Slowly then, Rogan placed one knee up on the foot of the mattress between her legs
and eased his way onto the bed. He hovered over her, making her hotly anticipate the
contact of their bodies, then finally lowered himself onto her. As his hands closed
on her waist overtop the corset, then one palm rose to roughly massage her exposed
breast, his breath came warm on her ear. “Fight me, Ginger. Just a little.”

And so she did. She began to struggle beneath him, to twist and writhe in his grasp.
His grip on her breast tightened, making her let out a small cry as she attempted
to push him away. When he pinned her parted thighs with his knees, her pussy wept
with the harsh pleasure of it, and they continued that way, both clearly swept back
to what it felt like to have him hold her down, make her accept his affections.

When his teeth closed over one beaded nipple, she moaned, “Oh God,” overcome by thick
delights that spread through her whole body, making her even wetter between her legs.
His erection pressed against her there, though denim separated them, and as she continued
to fight him she loved the friction created in that spot most of all.

When he pinned her arms above her head, she gave it little attention—until she felt
the bite of cold steel against her wrist, then heard a sharp click.

She leaned her head back with the instant urge to see what was happening, though it
was only after the same sensation and subsequent click came at her other wrist that
she caught a glimpse of the handcuffs that now held her. She felt both trapped and
excited beneath him, realizing he’d cuffed her to the wrought iron bed.

The impulse to try to pull her wrists free was automatic, and their eyes met, only
a couple of inches between them, as she continued her struggle, now more against the
steel bindings than the man on top of her.

Never before had anything felt at once so restrictive and thrilling. Her breasts heaved
against the boning within the leather that cupped their undersides, and in response,
Rogan resumed sucking and biting at them, turning her on all the more. She continued
to twist and turn beneath him, feeling it all: his hands and mouth, the leather that
bound the center of her body and the hot friction her every move within it created,
the hard handcuffs that bit at her tender flesh. Each and every sensation added to
her overall arousal, which had already far surpassed what she had even been able to
imagine upon coming into this room.

And when he suddenly backed off, rising back up on his knees, it practically killed
her to have him go. It took everything within her not to protest, but she managed
to emit only a small whimper of distress at his departure.

The next thing she knew, he was back on his feet, standing at the foot of the bed
again. Only—oh God—there were more handcuffs. And he was hooking one cuff around the
wrought iron of the bed and the other around her ankle! She gasped at the sight. These
cuffs were larger, perhaps made for a bigger person, but still held her ankle tight.
And then, just as quickly, her other leg was being stretched a little farther than
it already was in order to be cuffed to the other corner of the bed. So that now her
legs were
forcibly
spread.

She waited for him to come back then, praying he would finally fuck her now—so it
surprised and disappointed her when he instead walked around the side of the bed to
a chest of drawers. He turned back to face her a few short seconds later, but now
he held a cop’s nightstick in his fist. Gripping the handle, he began drumming the
opposite end into his free hand in a slow, rhythmic way, same as bad cops in old movies
when they were threatening someone.

“Know what cops do to naughty little girls?” he asked her then.

Her stomach contracted within the leather. “No. What?” she breathed.

He walked back to the foot of the bed, still drumming the nightstick. “We fuck them
with this,” he said, indicating the weapon.

Now April sucked in her breath. The stick was no bigger in circumference than Rogan’s
cock, but it was much lengthier, looked scarier and potentially painful, and this
just sounded kinky. Kinkier than anything else they’d done.

She said nothing in reply, though. Because she still trusted him. And even if she
didn’t—well, she was literally chained to the bed, spread-eagle. So there was little
else to do but brace herself.

“I want to see what your pussy looks like taking my nightstick into it,” he told her,
his voice going more sultry now. “I want to see it moving in and out of your hungry,
soaking-wet little cunt.”

She simply drew in another breath, waiting, uncertain but excited—because everything
about being with Rogan excited her, always—until he went on. “And then, when I’m at
work, walking down the street or driving my cruiser, every time I glance down and
see it in my belt, I can remember fucking you with it.”

And with that, he positioned the knobby end where she could feel herself indeed drenched
and open for him, and he pushed it in.

She cried out, stunned by the intrusion even though she’d known it was coming, and
trying to get used to how it felt. Like his cock, but even harder, less forgiving.
And despite herself, it felt good to be filled. She would have preferred it to be
him, but it still felt good to have
something
inside her there.

After that, he began to move it—thrusting it in and out, in and out. Not too hard,
but not gently, either. A whimper left her with each plunge it took into her warmth.
And when she thought of how she must look to him, how helpless, how sexual, how at
his mercy, it filled her with a pleasure she hadn’t quite expected.

Rogan watched with rapt attention as his nightstick traveled in and out of her perfect
cunt. His cock got even harder when he realized he could hear it moving in her wetness.
He loved her tame obedience, the fact that she didn’t even question him now—he wasn’t
sure any woman had ever made him feel so trusted, so very . . . worthy, capable. He’d
also loved it when he’d told her to struggle, too, and he decided he should do that
more often.

And that’s when it hit him—perhaps oddly, or not—that it was sort of like she’d been
holding herself hostage in life, at least in certain ways, and that maybe he’d . . .
set her free. That perhaps his hostage ops training was suddenly serving him in a
much more profound personal manner than he’d ever even imagined before. After all,
if she could find a way to just surrender to what made her happy, what made her feel
good, even when it went against everything she believed about herself, wasn’t that
a pretty great form of freedom? He let that idea fuel him as he pleasured her.

Still fucking her with the nightstick, listening to the hot little mewling sounds
that echoed from her throat in response, he bent down to lick her clit as well. A
deep moan left her, and he felt it in his gut. He licked her harder then, wanting
to make her come while his nightstick was inside her—for some reason, the idea of
her pussy contracting around it added to his lust. Or maybe it was the idea of
making
it happen that way, furthering the concept of making her take it, making her feel
good in ways she never would if he didn’t force it on her.

God, why did he love that so much, being in such absolute control of her? He’d known
he had some dominant tendencies in bed before now, but with April—damn, he fucking
craved it. After all, it made sense that
she
needed this, for the reasons they’d discussed—she had too much responsibility in
her life and needed him to take all that away when it came to sex. But why did
he
need it? He’d never even stopped to ask himself before now.

Maybe it was the opposite of why it worked for her? Maybe he craved control because
he’d never had enough as a kid. Hell, for that matter, maybe
that
was why he’d become a cop—for the sense of control, authority, power. He knew he’d
grown into the role, into appreciating it for the right reasons, but he hadn’t spent
much time thinking about what had led him to it. Maybe he loved dominating her sexually—
and
being a police officer—because both gave him more of what he hadn’t gotten growing
up.