Free Out of Control by Teresa Noelle Roberts

tightening in anticipation of something he wasn’t going to give them.
    Not with Jen, not now, no matter how much they both wanted it. They needed to talk first, and they needed to be clearheaded and clothed when they did it. If he followed the directives of his body, let the lust guide his feet up the back stairs to Jen’s door, “clearheaded and clothed” would be the last thing he’d be. He’d definitely let himself pull her into his bedroom, find the ropes and the crop and the Wartenberg wheel and the rest of his bag of tricks, and the attitudes that went with them. And Jen would let him, he suspected. She was sensual and adventurous and wouldn’t know what kind of Pandora’s box she was opening.
    Some of the less evolved parts of his brain offered images of opening Jen’s box, and the more evolved parts of his brain quite enjoyed it.
    No, he told himself, taking his shoes off as if that moan didn’t echo through every cell of his body. He would not take those stairs, would not take that risk, would not drag Jen unknowing into his world.
    If she wanted it once he’d laid it out, he’d drag her there—and if all went well, some primitive bit of him proclaimed, he wouldn’t let her go.
    But he wasn’t going to do it unprepared, no matter how much his aching balls screamed for release. And he wasn’t going to give himself release either. Not yet. That would give Jen, and more importantly, the out-of-control, hungry part of himself, too much power.
    He headed into his study, shut the door and switched on the computer. He didn’t even take the time to unpack his armor and air it out. He’d do that later.
    He didn’t often use headphones—he liked the effect of his music filling the space, surrounding him as he worked. But today it seemed like a good idea, just in case Jen got going again.
    He needed Bach and numbers. The combination would help him get back to the calm he’d felt after leaving the dojo.
    If he was lucky. If he wasn’t lucky, he’d still be horny and unsettled, but at least he’d get some work done.
     
     
    Jen froze as the door slammed, not in embarrassment but in expectation. Drake must have heard her. Even if their earlier adventures had ended awkwardly, Drake wouldn’t be able to resist running up the stairs—she pictured those long, muscular legs taking two steps at a time in his eagerness, eating up the ground between them—bursting in the apartment door and finding her like this. Half-naked. Restrained by the jeans crumpled around her ankles. Face flushed a mottled red, fingers glistening with her own juices and moisture slicking her thighs from her drenched pussy.
    Once he saw her like this, he’d have to take up where they left off. No, not exactly where they left off. It would be fast this time, no preliminaries, no foreplay. He’d tell her to step out of her jeans, bend over against the claw-foot tub and spread her legs. Then he’d enter her from behind, not even bothering to get his pants off, just unzip them. As he slammed into her, she’d feel the cool zipper and the rough texture of dark denim against her ass as well as the slap of his balls, the drip of her own moisture as he moved in and out. His hands would be hard on her hips, almost bruising but in a good way, and at the moment he came, he’d bite down hard on her shoulder…
    An interior door shut downstairs, jarring Jen from the fantasy. Her clit throbbed gently, but the moisture on her thighs and fingers suddenly felt cold.
    God, what a ridiculous position she was in: pants around her ankles, hand between her legs, mind in a tizzy, and all over a guy who ran hot and cold like running water.
    She almost wished he’d run just cold, like the water at the studio. If Drake had squeezed her awkwardly and let her go when she’d hugged him that first time, she’d know where she stood. It would make sense. Everything would be one color, the cool pale blue-green of detached acquaintances, with the potential for