Read Tamed for Free Online

leaving with someone else. It’s par for the course.
    But at the moment, my fists are clenching, ready to shovethe first fucker who tries to approach Delores through the wall and out to the street. It pisses me off that they’re even looking at her—that she’s fodder for their wishful thinking and deviant desires.
    Maybe I feel like this because I haven’t screwed her yet. Maybe I don’t want to share a dessert I haven’t gotten to taste.
    Or maybe, it’s because Delores Warren is just . . . different . . . in a way I can’t yet explain. What I know about her, I like—a lot—and there’s a part of me I haven’t consciously acknowledged with a deep craving to know more.
    The music changes as I stand. “Wake Me Up” by Avicii pours out of the speakers and washes over the room. The crowd hums their approval. I walk onto the dance floor, straight to Delores.
    The beginning of the song is slow, heavy with acoustic guitar. Dee’s body sways side to side in time, her long hair swinging out behind her, baring her neck. I step up behind her and wrap one arm around her waist, resting my palm on her stomach, over her jacket—pulling her gently back against me.
    She tenses for a split second, opens her eyes and turns her head to the side. Then she sees that it’s me. And she smiles.
    She relaxes against me, her back to my chest, and I lean forward, pressing us together. Her ass nestles perfectly against my dick, which hardened the moment she started dancing.
    I think she feels it—she must.
    She leans forward, bending a little at her waist, and moves her hips in tight circles, rubbing right against where my body is screaming for contact.
    If feels fan-fucking-tastic.
    I bend my knees and move with the music, even though my focus is solely on Dee.
    I don’t mean to brag . . . well, okay . . . I’ll brag. I’m a gooddancer. It’s a lot like screwing, finding the right rhythm, staying attuned to your partner’s moves and responding accordingly.
    I’ll rip the tongue out of anyone who’d let this get out, but when I was a kid, my mother made me take lessons. Drew, Steven, and I all did. Not the flashy, sequined costume kind— thank Christ —but the ballroom kind. It was a year or two before Alexandra’s cotillion. Yes—in our social circle, girls have cotillions, and knowing how to dance like a gentleman is a must. We all hated it. Drew and I had a detailed plan to run away and live in the Museum of Natural History until the danger passed, but it didn’t work out.
    Still, as miserable as I was, I’m grateful for those lessons now. Because a kid who can dance is a fucking pansy, but a man who can dance is smooth—sophisticated.
    For hip-hop club dancing, you need some natural rhythm, something that poor son of a bitch Steven is sorely lacking. But for a guy like me, with some inherent ability and former training? I kill it on the dance floor.
    The synthesized portion of the song takes over—faster, more primal, with a strong bass. Dee straightens up and wraps her arms around my neck, behind her. I have one hand on her hip, holding her steady as I thrust against her. My other hand creeps under her jacket, to the taught, warm skin of her stomach.
    I feel the vibration of her moan as my hand strokes and climbs higher.
    When the music slows down once more, Dee turns in my arms, facing me. With her heels, we’re almost nose-to-nose. I’m caught in the dark gaze of her eyes as the singer croons about traveling around the world, staying young, and winning love.
    The beat picks up again, but our eyes hold. Our bodies moveagainst each other, hot and needy. My fingers dig into the flesh of Dee’s ass, pushing her harder against me.
    To the lyrics of a man not knowing how lost he was until he found what was missing, Dee’s palm caresses my face. And it feels tender and intimate.
    Meaningful.
    I lower my head and press my lips to hers. And she’s right there with me, opening for me—warm and wet—taking everything