Let Me In (6 page)

What Mace did next might have seemed contrary to a casual observer, but he knew what his woman liked. He had as many intimate details about what she enjoyed catalogued in his encyclopedic mind as he could glean from her, most of which were added through his own observation rather than her coming out and telling him what it was that she found hot for him to do to her body. He squeezed his arms around her, completely eliminating her ability to move, while at the same time making sure that his right hand ended up hovering – almost threateningly – over her mound – not quite touching it, but with his fingers landing very lightly over the top of the very edge of her lips, his palm just below her belly button.

Then he made sure that his mouth was right next to her ear. He had found that he could use his voice to quite an advantage with her. He'd found that her responsiveness in that way to be not only one of the highest compliments any woman had ever given him, but also an incredible turn on. He loved saying out loud to her the things that he intended to do to her in the future, or talking about things he had done in the past while he held her helpless and inexorably stroked her into pure bliss.

As he let his fingertips feather their way down to almost tickle her outer lips, completely without forcing them between her legs, he whispered sternly, "Miranda, love, open yourself to me. You know you must when I ask." He added that last part for effect, feeling her body give a short spasm that he knew her body cut off because her mind didn't want her to comply with his orders. He liked watching her conflict, knowing he could end it at any moment and simply force her to obey, but delighting in her struggle to do as she knew she must.

When she finally began to separate her knees, he immediately insinuated a foot between them, catching it behind her knee and prying it apart as she tried to fight him, but, as always, to no avail. He held her open wide, draping her calf over his then carefully placing his other leg over her foot so that she had no hope of moving it.

"You are at my mercy, little one, and you know what a small reserve I have of that commodity. You'd best obey me or the belt – and you – will sing again tonight before I let you find your pleasure." She tried to throw herself against his arms, writhing and twisting and fighting, but he wouldn't allow her to move enough to make any headway at all. When he took her like this, he used that deep, hypnotic bass of his to say things like, "Surrender to me, Miranda."

She said an emphatic, "No!" but nothing came out. So she shook her head vehemently and Mace had to laugh. She would go down fighting, this one.

But it was his job to see that she did go down, that she acquiesced to him when he required it of her, and he delighted in doing so, every single time.

As he held her immobile, he let his fingers claim the area that his spreading her so wide had left completely undefended – the most vulnerable parts of herself laid bare for him. He didn't grab at her; he didn't rush to send fingers up inside her to claim her. Mace knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she already
was
his. This was more to prove that to her than to him. "I am going to make you cum so hard you get your voice back," he murmured against her ear, the threat no less stark for its gentle delivery.

And she knew that if anyone could achieve that particular miracle, it was him.

"This is one of my favorite ways to have you – besides beneath me. I know it's considered boring but I really do love settling myself between your legs, hearing your breath catch and watching those amazing eyes of yours go wide as I fill you all at once. I adore how tight you are for me, even now, as if every time it's hard for you to accept me, but you always do in the end, don't you, sweetheart?"

Because he didn't give her a choice! she thought, but couldn't say. His fingers became bolder against her most secret spot, and suddenly she couldn’t even think it – or anything else, for that matter. All of the fight went out of her, she was ashamed to say, when those knowing fingers began to claim her in ways she knew were designed to drive her to the edge of sanity as he proceeded to do just that, using all of his skill and everything he knew about her tastes and her body's reactions to what he was doing to hold her there, not yet allowing her to fall over the edge, into that abyss of bliss.

The tips of his fingers were rough. He might have been a captain of industry, but he worked his ranch like any other rancher, when time permitted, and he'd grown up on it doing just that. He had calluses on his calluses, and thus when he stroked three long, thick fingers down her seam, he set off many more fires than were already burning within her even though his touch was extremely light, as if he was afraid of injuring her.

She tried to moan, but nothing came out, so she moved her body restlessly as much as he would permit instead, which wasn't much. She hoped he would get the hint, and his throaty chuckle told her that he did, but also that he was unlikely to end her suffering any time soon.

How did he make his whole hand seem to vibrate against her? She'd wondered since the first time they'd gotten together, but it did. Two humming fingers presented themselves gently at the entrance to her body, as if he was asking for her permission, although she knew that that would be the furthest thing from his mind. He didn't need permission to touch her or take her anywhere at any time.

He was just biding his time, dipping his thumb inside her first and swirling it around to coat it completely with her juices before removing it and sliding it very slowly up to the spot on her body that had been awaiting his touch the longest – her clit. Only he didn't do anything but place it there, and only then did he begin to insert those big fingers into her. At her ear, he hissed, "Submit yourself to me completely, Miranda. There is no other way to get me to grant your pleasure."

Still she tried to strain and throw herself against the muscular bonds of his arms, but he had made her so much weaker now that it was a feeble attempt at best.

But he would not allow her to cum until he knew that she had lost the battle against herself and was his, with no reservations of any kind in her body
or
her mind.

He hadn't bothered to cross his fingers, and side by side they were about as wide as his cock was, perhaps just a little smaller, but they scraped against every inch of her delicate tissues as they lay claim to her. She tried, with mixed results, to keen as it was happening, to register her complaint at being handled like this, her brain tried to convince her. When ninety-nine percent of her knew the truth of it – that it was to let him know just how close she was, how much she ached and throbbed and nearly wept with just the pleasure of having any part of him at all inside her.

"That's it, darlin'," he encouraged as his deep, low voice washed over her. "Let me have you. There's nothing you can do to prevent it from happening anyway. You might as well enjoy it."

Her last energy was expended at that, still trying to escape, but soon she had exhausted her meager reserves and felt herself slipping, slowly, into submission, right where he wanted her to be.

Mace felt her delicate sigh of acquiescence, felt the muscles beneath his arms relax completely as she melted back against him, and both his heart and his cock swelled at the sight and feel of it. He wished it could be easier for her to do, as it was for some women, but he had no problems at all helping her get there, in whatever way would heighten her pleasure the most.

As a reward for her capitulation, he began to move his thumb very, very lightly, very slowly against that fleshy bud, up and down, then around and repeated at an excruciatingly slow pace.

Miranda could only drum one heel against the mattress in protest of how long he was taking, and when she did it, all she got from him was a chuckle. "Someone is impatient, I see, but impatience isn't a very submissive trait, now, is it?"

He heard her impatient sigh.

Suddenly he asked a question against her ear. "Can you speak at all, honey?" he asked, just curious.

She opened her mouth and tried to tell him to get the fuck on with it, but nothing but a whisper came out.

Mace threw back his head and laughed. "Well, you usually scream when you cum. It'll be interesting to hear what it is you do in this case, because I'm going to make you do that right... now."

The fingers inside her began to plunge roughly in and out of her, raking his thumb over her clit merely by dint of their motions. It only took about five strong thrusts before he felt her stiffen and spasm around and beneath his demanding hand. She amazed him with the strength of her contractions that barely seemed to diminish over time as her ruined voice tried to scream but couldn't, but she continued to try –
had
to try, apparently as helpless against that impulse as she was against him. Eventually she found a very high range and began to squeal rhythmically as he relentlessly molested her into another violent peak only seconds after the first, then a third that took quite a bit longer but was, if her ragged vocalizations were anything to judge it on, much more satisfying than the last.

He held her there, helpless, until he'd wrung seven orgasms from her, not relenting in the least until he felt he'd truly exhausted her.

Mace couldn't keep from touching her as she floated down from on high – not demandingly, because, although he was hard, he knew it was false advertising, that he was too wiped to do her justice, and she was too exhausted to live through another bout of him. But it was his deepest need, when they'd been intimate like this, to simply touch her, to be in contact with her, everywhere at once if he could manage to do it. It seemed to soothe her, too, although he noticed sometimes, when he'd used her particularly hard, that there was moisture on the arm beneath her head, and he knew that he'd driven her to tears.

He wasn't at all sure how he felt about that – whether it was a good thing for her or a bad one. It didn't happen all the time, and he hadn't addressed it with her at all because she seemed to prefer to ignore it, so he allowed her to, at least for now.

Whereas he had relaxed the arms that had held her so close while he was fondling her, he contracted them around her as she began to wilt, encouraging her to fall asleep with their safety, and, minutes later, she did.

They had originally met through mutual friends. She was having a small show at a tiny gallery he supported in their nearest larger town. He came to the opening and took one look at her, feeling as if he'd been struck by a bolt of lightening. She obviously hadn't felt the same way, in fact she did her level best to avoid him the entire evening, even though he'd seen a painting he wanted to buy from her. But somehow, when he had set his sights on meeting her, either someone came up to him that he felt obligated to talk to out of courtesy or she managed to slip away, into the surprisingly large, enthusiastic crowd that attended.

So he decided to simply bide his time, having secreted himself into a bit of an alcove, and made damned sure that he was the only person there after she'd said goodbye to what she thought were the last two people in there. But then he appeared – the man she'd been dodging all night.

When she'd realized that every time her eyes glided past his, he was looking at her as if he wanted to devour her whole, Miranda had asked her best friend, Penny, who had helped her book this show, who the hell he was.

"Oh, God, that's Mace Kennedy."

"Of
the
Kennedys?" she asked, her eyes wide.

"Hell no. Of the Bar K Ranch, not far outside of town. His family – read: he – owns most of the land around here, and he started and owns a lot of companies himself. He's rich as Croesus." Penny licked her lips. "Not to mention hot as hell – look at the way his suit coat strains across the muscles of his back. And how the material – that's got to be Armani, do you think? Or D & G? – hugs his ass and – daayum – that package of his in the front... mmm-mmm-mmmmmm."

None of which intrigued Miranda in the least. She'd had a man that sounded very like Mr. Kennedy and she hadn't come out of it well at all – that's why she'd moved down to Podunk, Texas, to get away from someone that sounded alarmingly like this man. She knew his type – self-involved, self-important, privileged, spoiled, heartless, demanding, cruel... She could go on all day.

Penny had given her all the information she needed to make up her mind about the illustrious Mr. Kennedy, so every time she saw him coming towards her, she did her best to make herself disappear until she thought the coast was clear. It was damned inconvenient. An artist needed to circulate amongst the buyers if she was going to hope to sell anything, and yet there she was – because of him – having to duck into the stock room or the bathroom every fucking five minutes because he was damned near to stalking her, the pervert.

She would have sworn that he'd left already – or maybe that was wishful thinking – when he'd appeared out of nowhere after she'd already locked the door and she was the only one in the gallery besides him. In reaction and not a little alarm, her body began to shake, although she clamped down on that immediately. She could not let him know that she was afraid of him. She had learned the hard way that it was never a good thing to let a man who was at least twice your size sense your fear.

The moment she saw him, her nipples went hard, and she refused to confront the fact that it wasn't because she was afraid of him. She began to back away, as casually as she could as if she didn't want to trigger his instinct to chase prey, heading for the door to open it for him and hopefully usher him out of it without any further incident. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that anyone else was still here. The show is over and the gallery is closed. I'd be glad to let you out, though."

But he wasn't taking the hint. His hands were in his pockets and he was looking at her expectantly. Mace cleared his throat and came to stand within a foot or so of her – much, much too close for her comfort, not that she was going to let him know that. "I'm sorry. I know it's late and I should do the polite thing and let you go, but I saw a painting that I wanted to purchase from you." He didn't mention that he'd decided to purchase it only a few minutes after her show opened, and yet he hadn't been able to catch a hold of her to do so until now.

He wanted to buy something? She stopped in her tracks on the way to the door. She didn't know why she was so amazed, perhaps because Zach – the man he reminded her so much of – had spent all of his time denigrating her talent, and here this stranger was wanting to buy something of hers. "Oh, what piece was it that caught your eye?" she asked, feeling a bit more relaxed now that they were talking about her art.

"I believe it's called
Reclining Randa
."

She colored violently. That particular painting was a self-portrait, a very nude self-portrait and one that she had only just barely allowed Penny to talk her into including in the show. But she'd deliberately put a truly exorbitant price on it so that no one in their right mind would be interested in it.

"Oh?" She took what she hoped was a casual step back from him, and as soon as her eyes found his again – reluctantly – he let her know silently that he had noticed her retreat. "Well, I'm afraid that that one isn't really for sale."

"It's not?" He smiled, taking a small step – one almost exactly the size of the one she took – towards her, thus recovering the ground she'd gained. "I was under the impression that if a painting was in the show, that it was for sale."

Miranda frowned, deciding she did not like his manner in the least. "Well—"

"I believe the asking price was three hundred thousand?"

"Yes, it was, but—"

"Why don't we round that up to an even five? Would that help make the painting salable to me?" he asked, reaching into the inside pocket of his suit coat to retrieve his checkbook and pen.

Miranda was dumbstruck at the sums of money he was throwing around as if they were talking about nickels and dimes. "Fi-five hundred thousand? Dollars?"

His wolfish smile dissolved into what looked like a real one. "To whom should I make it out?" he asked, pen poised over his check.

She shook her head, trying to clear it. Five hundred thousand dollars would keep her in painting supplies for years to come – hell, if she lived frugally, she might even be able to quit the bank and paint full time, which had always been her dream.

But she couldn't see selling herself – and she would literally be doing just exactly that – to a man like him. She just... couldn't. She didn't care if she had to eat ramen noodles every night for the rest of her life. She didn't want him to carry such an intimate portrait of her home so that he could jerk off to it every night.

So she shook her head and mentally prepared herself for a fight that could have the potential to be come physical. It almost always had with Zach. She tried to ignore the way her body had begun to shake again at the mere thought of having a physical confrontation with anyone, much less a man like this who was bigger and broader than Zach had ever thought of being. "No, I'm afraid it's not for sale at any price. I've decided to keep it."

He could see – despite how well he knew she thought she was concealing it from him – that she was quaking with fear. He didn't know what he'd done that had inspired that in her – since it was the exact opposite of what he had been aiming for, but he could see the stark truth of it in her eyes. She was almost paralyzed with it, and yet she was obviously forcing herself to tell him not what he wanted to hear – what would get him out of her hair the fastest – but rather what she wanted him to hear.

The woman had balls, more
cajones
than a lot of men he knew. He would bet his bottom dollar that someone, somewhere along the line had managed to cow her into submission – probably using his fists, which made Mace see red to the point that he wanted desperately to put his fist through the nearest wall at the thought of anyone manhandling her delicacy.

But foremost in his mind was trying to put her at ease as best he could. "Well then, my mistake. I hope you've had a profitable evening. You're very talented, and I'll look forward to seeing even bigger and better things from you in the future." He walked over to the door and stood there expectantly for her to let him out.

When she approached the door and undid it, all the while looking at him with an unnatural wariness that he longed to wipe from those extraordinary eyes of hers, he held his hand out to her, but not too close. "By the way, my name is Mace Kennedy. I'm very pleased to meet such a lovely and talented woman as yourself."

She blushed hotly at his words and forced herself to shake his hand politely, knowing hers was terribly cold and clammy and what that would reveal to him about her that she didn't necessarily want him to know. "It's very nice to meet you, Mr. Kennedy—"

"Mace, please."

Her smile was small, but genuine, he felt and he counted that as a small victory.

"And I'm Miranda LaVoie."

He bowed to her in an unusual impulse. "You're even more beautiful in person than you are in your painting, Ms. LaVoie."

Her color rose again and she allowed, "Miranda, please."

He smiled pleasantly down at her. "Miranda – your name means 'worthy of admiration', and I'm thinking it's quite apt. You have a nice evening, Miranda."

Belatedly, after she'd seen him disappear into the night, she said, "You, too, Mace."

Randa had figured that that would be the last she'd see of him, but she was wrong. She worked as a teller in the biggest bank downtown, and she would have sworn she had never seen him in the bank before, and yet he seemed to pop up in her line occasionally, always striking up a friendly, casual conversation, careful not to take up too much of her time if there was anyone else in line behind him, although Miranda thought that Mr. Taylor, who was her supervisor, would have been just as happy to have him stand there all day if it meant that he might get the chance to try to talk him into moving his accounts into their institution.

But it was at a lunch that was supposed to be with Penny one Saturday afternoon that she found herself neatly trapped into spending time with him, and for days later she wondered if he'd worked it out that way on purpose.

She'd been waiting for her friend for almost a half an hour when she got a text from her saying that something important was going on at the gallery and she was going to have to miss lunch. Miranda was disappointed – Penny was her closest friend down here and now she'd probably just end up either eating alone here or alone in her miniscule apartment. She wasn't sure which one sounded more pathetic.

Deciding to eat at home and save the money, she looked down to where her pocketbook lay next to her left leg and when she looked back up, he was standing at the seat across from her, his hand on the back.

"Is this seat taken?" he asked almost too smoothly. Mace saw that wary look again and the impulse to banish it took hold with a vengeance.

"Uh, no, my friend just cancelled and I was going to go home to eat."

"Well, I find myself free for lunch. May I join you instead, Miranda?"

Unable to find a reason that he shouldn't, that sounded the least bit valid inside her own head, she found herself saying, "Certainly."

A waitress appeared at his elbow as if by magic. "I'll have my usual, Sandy," he said, smiling up at the young girl.

"Sure thing, Mr. Kennedy. And you, ma'am?"

She was too nervous to even mentally upbraid the girl for calling her ma'am. "Uh, I'd just like a salad and a warm up of my coffee," she said.

He tsked. "Too much coffee will stunt your growth," he teased with a grin.

It was on the tip of Miranda's tongue to tell him she would damned well drink whatever she damned well pleased, but she reined herself in – barely. He might seem like Zach, but he wasn't actually Zach, and she did her best to try to convince herself that she was in no danger from him. It was in the middle of the day and they were in a busy diner where everyone probably knew him.

The food arrived in record time. In her relatively short time here, she had observed that, although the food was good, it took a while to get, although apparently that wasn't so when one was a Kennedy of Bar K Ranch. Only peons had to wait.

The waitress brought him an enormous amount of food – a huge hamburger, the size of which she'd never seen before, that shared the big platter with piles of fresh fries, a bowl of chili and a plate of onion strings.

Then she put Miranda's lowly salad and Italian dressing down in front of her and left.

"Is that all you're going to eat?" he asked, not meaning to sound quite so disparaging, watching her back go up immediately.

"Yes, it is. Not all of us are mountains."

He laughed at her characterization of him and it was almost a too pleasant sound, making her want to hear him do it again. "Well, I guess that's not a bad description of me, especially from where you're sitting, and I do work off what I eat."