Page 49 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

THIRTY-EIGHT

ADALENE

I’m barely past the threshold of the glamorous hotel room, when Mateo’s giant hands grip my hips. He yanks my back to his front, his breath—tinged with whiskey—fans hotly against the column of my throat.

I groan, leaning into him. I don’t have it in me to even pretend I don’t want this, want him.

“What do you want, Dale?” His voice is all husk and fire, and I want its heat to devour me. I want him to say all those filthy things I know he keeps buried beneath his perfectly pressed shirts and professional masks. I want to hear him go wild.

For me.

Because of me.

“I want you to use your words,” I say, trying to remain focused, while also rubbing my thighs together desperate for friction.

He tuts at me, and I grind my teeth together in frustration.

“Why do you always want me in charge, Mateo? Is that how you always are?”

“No,” he admits without a hint of reservation, and I instantly stiffen. “I’ve always been the one in charge, the one controlling everything that happens, when it happens.” The image of him with anyone else, as irrational as it might be, sends venomous rage through me.

I try to step away from him, but one hand stays firmly on my hip, his fingers pinching into my skin, and the other snakes up my front, lightly gripping around my throat.

“Why does that upset you?” he asks, his voice borderline teasing.

“Is there something wrong with me that you don’t want to do it like that?”

He pauses as if contemplating, and then his fingers squeeze tighter around my throat, a rumble filling his chest as he presses his lips to the shell of my ear.

I groan, my eyes fluttering as I grind back into him. Fuck, I want him to take me like this.

“You don’t understand do you? I’ve never cared about anyone before this.

Before you. I’ve always been in control because it was mechanical, it was routine—a means to an end.

But with you”—he sucks in a ragged breath, and I’d be fucking lying if I said I wasn’t having a hard time breathing too—“I want you to take control because I feel safe with you. Because I want you to use me, take from me, mold and make me, whatever you want. Whatever you need. I want to crawl at your feet, bowing and scraping up whatever scraps I can get of you and your attention. I want you to be in control because I’m no longer myself when I’m with you; you own me mind, body, and soul, and I cannot think when I’m with you.

I’m at your mercy, and I need you to take me out of my misery. ”

His words hang between us, and if he wasn’t holding me up I know I would fall over. His confession terrifies me.

But it also lights me on fire, and the power it shoots through my veins is enough to make me feel utterly invincible. I want to be the woman he needs me to be—the one he so plainly thinks I can be.

Taking a shuddering breath, willing every cell of power I possess to rise to the surface, I whisper, “On your knees for me then.” I can do this—I fucking want to do this. I deserve to do this.

His hands leave my body a second before I hear a heavy thud, the weight of his body hitting the floor as he falls to his knees. I swear the hotel tremors with the force of it.

I step several paces away, sucking in breath after breath in an effort to calm the burning flush already racing over my skin, before I turn around.

“Look at that,” I start, my voice far more steady than I feel.

The sight of him, still perfectly composed, but heaving like he can barely keep the beast contained, is almost enough to break me.

“The king bowing before the cowgirl. What a very desperate, dirty boy you are. Do you think you’ve been good enough to deserve seeing me without my dress on? ”

He doesn’t look up, but I hear him growl, and I know it’s more of a pleading sound than anything. His shoulders quiver, and a potent need to dominate courses through me. Getting him like this is like a hit to a drug addict, and now all I want is more . I’d kill for more.

“You will answer me when I’m talking to you, Mateo.”

His eyes race to meet mine, a pained expression contorting his beautiful face.

“Yes, cowgirl,” he groans, his voice strangled and breathy.

I smirk. “You did buy me a good dinner and this necklace”—I trace the turquoise, his eyes following the path of my fingers over the swells of my breasts—“but you were naughty for buying me everything else.”

He bites his lip, and I know it’s to keep himself from making some smart ass comment, or smirking himself. He looks like a kitten who got into the cream— naughty, but not the least bit sorry.

I reach behind my back, pulling on the zipper torturously slow, and his arms begin to match his shoulders—the muscles taut beneath his shirt quivering with restraint.

When I get to the base of the zipper, I slowly pull each strap over my shoulder, my fingers teasing the skin into a wave of goosebumps.

And then sucking in a final breath, the entire piece falls to the ground, exposing my naked body to his hungry eyes.

His pupils dilate, the black consuming the color around them, and he licks his lips.

I step out of the dress, but make no move to remove the cowboy boots or the jewelry.

His eyes feast on the sight of me, and I revel in the utter awe that plays over his face.

He traces the heavy swells of my tits, traveling down the curve of my rounded waist, pausing at the apex of my thighs where a small, trimmed line of hair points directly to what he wants.

To where I want him. He’s coiled so tight, I can all but hear the seams of his perfect clothes, and perfect facade, ripping.

I allow him to drink me in, unashamed and unobstructed. With anyone else, I’d feel the heat of embarrassment. But with Mateo, all I feel is power. And it sends a fresh wave of desire to pulse low in my belly.

Slowly, I walk until I’m only inches from his face, and his nostrils flare.

Reaching out a hand, I run it through his perfectly styled hair, tossing it until he looks as disheveled as I feel.

His eyelashes flutter at the contact, and I’ve half a mind to grab the back of his head and grind it into my aching pussy. But then I get a better idea.

I’ve never had someone taste me; I’ve never been brave enough to expose myself in that way. But right now, it doesn’t feel like bravery. It feels like offering a gift to a man who’s done nothing but make me feel special and powerful.

His eyes snap open when I sling my leg over his shoulder, boot and all.

“Do you want a taste, Mateo?” I’m bared to him, slick with the proof of how badly I want him to say yes.

He groans, his eyes never wavering from my center.

“Yes. Fuck yes.” Instead of responding with words, I tilt my hips forward a fraction, and he doesn’t wait a second before his tongue makes its first pass through my folds.

My stomach instantly constricts at the contact, and I have to grip his hair to keep from toppling over.

He hums his approval, his hands sliding up my bare thighs before gripping firmly on the globes of my ass.

His flattens, passing a second time from entrance to clit, and I cry out in surprise.

“That feels so much better than I expected,” I pant. Stars burst behind my eyes, and I curse myself for not ever doing this before. Why did I spend so many years hiding my body?

He picks up pace, his hands pulling me closer to his face and I shamelessly grind against him—his nose, his chin, his tongue—they all press deliciously against different parts of my pussy, making my skin burn.

His tongue traces hungry lines and circles through my folds and around my clit, making my legs get closer to resembling Jell-O than anything else.

It’s incredible—too fucking incredible, and I’m going to die from it.

“Take me to the bed,” I beg, somewhere between a cry and a scream.

He does exactly as I ask, his mouth never leaving my pussy, as he stands.

His hands hold me tightly to him, and I sling my other leg over his shoulder as he walks blindly to the bed.

I grip his head tighter, my fingers ripping at his hair.

This is fucking madness.

And I hope it never ends.

His legs connect with the mattress, and he drops me with a groan, my body bouncing on impact. Mateo begins to move, as if to stretch out over me, but I extend my leg, the heel of my boot pressing to his chest, and he eyes me angrily.

He looks like a crazed beast, eyes blown black, my cum clinging to his lips and chin, nose pink from rubbing against me. It’s fucking incredible. He’s fucking incredible.

“Take your clothes off,” I demand breathlessly. His eyes drop to my exposed center, my legs splayed open wide, like he can’t think of anything beyond getting back to it—to devouring me. He shifts slightly, pushing against my foot, like he’s going to ignore my demand and do just that.

But that wasn’t our agreement. He wants me to be in control, so that’s exactly what I’m going to be.

“No,” I growl, and he freezes. “Take off your clothes or be punished. Now.” One dark eyebrow quirks, like the sound of punishment might be more intriguing than doing what I demand. Fuck, I need to do some research on good punishments for submissive men.

Is that what he is? Is he being my submissive? Am I being a dominant? Who am I?

He concedes, the desperate boy wanting to please his mistress, and says, “Yes, cowgirl.” I whimper at his words, my pussy pulsing with the need to be filled.

With quick fingers, he takes off his shirt and pants, slinging his boots across the room to slam against the wall.

The picture above the bed rattles and a zing of excitement races through me at his show of desperation.

I watch in wonder as inch after inch of incredibly hard, tanned, and tattooed skin becomes exposed to my hungry gaze.

My own private show. Once he’s in his boxers, he looks at me expectantly.