Free Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) by Daryl Banner Page B

or to keep warm, I’m not sure—then glances around one last time before crawling up onto the display, assuming the all-fours position.
    I can’t believe I’m doing this.
    He looks up at me, quivering with excitement. Apparently, neither can he.
    “Makin’ me your object, huh?” He licks his lips, then lets his eyes go on a thorough stroll down my body, and it might as well be his hands doing the strolling, for the way they seem to touch my every curve. All his wet dreams and expectations are painted on his lively face.
    In this moment, I almost lose my nerve, second-guessing myself. That is, until I hear the sound of the cuff clicking around his left wrist.
    “ Fuck, this is hot ,” he whispers—to himself, I think.
    I circle around the display to his left ankle. Even from behind, he’s a work of art—a sculpture of muscle, of man, of beauty. Click! His right ankle is next— click! —and then I’m back in front of him, securing the final cuff to his right wrist. Each cuff is tight and unforgiving, lending him no ability to move his limbs whatsoever; he’s secured in place and not going anywhere.
    “This sucks a bit for my knees,” he tells me casually, “but I’ll live. Maybe now that you’ve made me your … object … you might consider showing me a little … somethin’-somethin’ of you?”
    I crouch down in front of him, nearly nose to nose. “Oh, yeah?” I smile, squeezing my breasts together invitingly. His eyes go straight to them. So predictable. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
    “Yep.”
    “Throw the dog a bone, huh?”
    He sticks out his tongue and pants like a puppy.
    “You know, Brant …” I shake my head ruefully. “I still think women are objectified far more than men. But maybe this little display of yours might … sway my mind.” I pat his smooth, flushed cheek.
    This close to his face, I find myself in a predicament of my own, warring between a desire to just ditch him here and stalk home, or to kiss those full, sexy lips of his … lips that I know will send a fire rushing through me that no cold shower could dream of putting out. Wetness gathers between my thighs as they squeeze together, nearly squirming as I crouch before him with my face so close to his. A hundred ideas of what else I can do to him tumble through my conflicted mind.
    What’s the harm in giving in, anyway? Wouldn’t I get something out of it too, even if it’s just for one night? How long has it been since a man touched me and sent electricity down every nerve in my body?
    Why, when something nice actually enters my life, do I feel the need to sabotage any possible chance of something good coming from it?
    “You look gorgeous,” he murmurs.
    My face softens at his words.
    “And,” he goes on, “I bet you’d look prettier with my dick between your legs.”
    He, however, is not that “something nice” who’s entered my life. He embodies everything I can’t stand about men. Unspeakably arrogant. Thinks he’s the tissue for my every tear. Thinks he’s the supply to my every lack. Sure, Brant’s talented, and his talent is spoiling every mood and taking what little hope I had and wiping up the floor with it.
    I rip the gag off my sculpture, then bring it around his head.
    “Whoa,” he blurts as I wrap the thing behind his head. “You’re so damn kinky and twisted. Fuck, I’m so haaa— ”
    He doesn’t quite finish the word “ hard ” as the ball-gag slips past his lips, trapping the rest of his words within him and converting any sound he makes into vowels and moans.
    “I’m not kinky,” I assure him with a gentle pat to his cheek, “and I’m definitely not twisted.”
    He says something through the gag as drool gathers at the corners of his mouth, turning the ball slick. I love what I’ve reduced him to.
    “I’m Nell.”
    He blinks a few times, confused. It doesn’t take long for realization to dawn on his adorable, trapped little face.
    “I’m the artist, camera