Taming His Wild Girl (Wild Whip Ranch Book 2) Read online

  And now he was here and my body was electrified with newfound energy, like he’d flipped a switch and brought a Frankenstein creation to life.

  Without thinking, I’d taken fourth position in front of him. I relaxed, but still kept my front foot pointed.

  Joel looked me up and down, not like a regular john, but like a cowboy examining a prized filly. Taking in my rounded hips, my newfound curves stretching my leotard. The thick tights on my legs. His hand hovered just over the scar on my leg—his gaze unerringly finding the most physical manifestation of my deepest pain.

  “Isabelle,” he murmured. “I heard about the accident. It just about broke my heart.”

  He sounded so good, so sincere, I wanted to sob. And then I wanted to slap him. How dare he offer me comfort? I was past all hope. All help.

  I cocked a hip, transitioning from ballerina at rest to cocky waitress. “Don’t pity me, Joel. I won’t tolerate it.”

  “I’m not.” His gaze held the color and potency of bourbon.

  “Liar,” I snapped. If I couldn’t get him to go by begging, I’d drive him away. “You did then, and you do now.”

  “Isabelle.”

  He reached for me, and the practiced ease of the gesture made the barbed wire in my chest tighten. Not because I resented his familiarity. Because I craved it.

  “It’s not pity. It’s regret.” His touch was tender, a butterfly light stroke on my arm. “I'm sorry, tiny dancer. So sorry.”

  It wouldn’t be the accident, losing my family or my career, surviving foster care and homelessness that broke me. It wouldn’t even be the mob making me dance again, scavenging the last scraps of my pride. No, the one who’d break me would be Joel. His kindness. His care. I couldn’t stand it, so I’d do what I always did. I would make him mad.

  It had always been so easy to prod his temper. I’d watched my mother test Joel’s patience all the time. On the ranch, he’d had to rein it in. He’d press his lips together, his nostrils flaring, and the polite cowboy drawl would come out. But no matter how much control he had over his moods, I could always tell.

  “Fuck off, Joel.” Not especially clever, but it made his jaw clench and his nostrils flare. Like old times. “I know why you’re really here.” I raised my chin. “Did you come to gloat? See how the high and mighty have fallen?”

  “Of course not. You know I’m not like that.”

  “You couldn’t pass up a chance to get a lap dance from a former ballerina.” I called up the ghost of the spoiled girl I’d once been. The girl I was that day at the rodeo. I’d been upset with him treating me like a kid. He’d been just like my parents—he thought I was pretty to look at, and if he gave me a few crumbs and pats on the head, I’d perform for him.

  He wanted me to dance for him? I’d give him everything he wanted, and more.

  “Let me make sure you get your money's worth,” I snapped. “You want a whore? I'll be a whore.”

  “Isabelle, stop.” He caught my arm in a gentle but firm grip. His fingertips were rough but his touch sent heat flooding through me. “Don't talk about yourself that way.”

  ‘What way?”

  “You’re not a whore.”

  “Are you so sure? Isn’t that why you’re here? I didn’t ask you to come. But maybe this is your sort of place.”

  “You’ll show respect. To me, and to yourself. Or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or I'll teach it to you.”

  Cowboy correction, he’d said all those years ago.

  “Something like that,” he said, and I realized I’d spoken the words aloud. His eyes were twinkling now, crinkled with humor, and all his handsomeness up close made warning lights flash in my head.

  “Let go of me,” I whispered. “You’re not supposed to touch. I can dance, but you can’t touch.”

  “All right then.” He let go of my arm. “Dance.”

  “Now?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. Commanding me to perform. “Go on then, tiny dancer.”

  His nickname for me rankled but it fit. Compared to Joel, I was tiny. He’d only gotten bigger over the years. His face, harder. His shoulders, broader. The edge of his tattoo peeked out under his shirt sleeve. I'd always loved his tattoos. Once he’d swept the barn shirtless, and it was my turn to lurk in the corners behind a hay bale. A voyeur in truth. I’d watched him work, my nipples tight in my leotard.

  He didn't know how I'd watched him. He didn't know that I wanted him. He’d looked at me like an older brother looks at a little sister, a ounce of fondness for a pint of annoyance.

  I went to bed dreaming of someone strong like him holding me safe as I fell asleep.

  And now he was here, and I was going to dance for him.

  This is part of your plan, I told myself as I sashayed away from him. Rile him up, drive him away.

  I unfastened the ridiculous tutu and dropped it on the floor. I swayed to the pole, and grasped it.

  One hand high, one low, and I swung around it in time with the crappy music. Usually on stage, I tried to lose myself in the simple movements, but with Joel watching me, I felt stiff, awkward. My muscles were tight, my clumsy movements a mockery of the limber grace I’d once had when I practiced seven to ten hours a day.

  I’d told Joel that dancing hurt. But that was a simple statement, the thin surface of a deep and complex truth. Dancing hurt, and it felt good. Through the pain, I earned beauty. Freedom. And effortlessness. How was my dancing different from a gymnast who falls over and over again, only to execute the perfect vault? Or a cowboy who rides a bucking bronco, his body fluid and one with the wild horse, even though each second increases the danger of his spine and neck snapping?

  But now my body had cobwebs in the corners. It was as dusty and dirty as that old barn. I felt big as a cow, nothing like the lithe beautiful young dancer I had been.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, willing this time to be over.

  “Stop,” Joel ordered.

  “Not good enough?” I turned back. He sat with his hands loose between his knees, his gaze darkening. He couldn’t save me. No one could. But I would give him something to remember me by.

  Blue balls, coming up.

  I brought my hands to my breasts. “How about this?” I stroked my curves while he watched.

  There was a pause while his eyes heated, but then he shook himself. “No,” he said, surprising me. “Go through your warm ups. Like you used to.”

  A dash of ice over my skin even as my core heated. My ballet warm ups used to be sacred. My daily meditation, where my mother and father’s criticisms finally fell away. At the ranch, my mother had fussed enough until Joel’s mother had put in a few mirrors and a barre. My parents paid for it, of course. Every day while my siblings rode horses and had fun, I was expected to go and practice. At first, I’d hated the barn and its rustic smells. But after a few days, I’d loved my time on the scarred wooden floor. I’d jeté through the air, through clouds of dust that rose from the hay and horses no matter how much Joel swept. It was dirty and rustic, and somehow satisfying, bringing beauty and control to the dark corner of an old barn. I savored the quiet, the solitude. I’d been alone… except for Joel.

  I enjoyed the moments when I knew he was watching most of all.

  And now he was here, watching me again. I didn’t have a barre, so I took hold of the pole.

  “No,” Joel said again, and pointed to a spot in front of him. “Here.”

  I stepped to the spot he commanded me to, right between his legs. Close enough to touch him. Close enough for him to touch me.

  “I can’t.” I waved to my feet. “My heels.”

  “Do your best.”

  I turned my feet out into a bastardized first position. Then I did the tiniest plié, keeping my core tight and my shoulders still.

  “That’s it.” He settled back to watch. It was the most surreal moment of my life, moving through the positions with his eyes on me in the dark room that smelled
of cheap vodka and cheaper cologne. The air thickened and heated between us.

  I no longer had the precision or control that came from long hours of practice, but I had the head knowledge. Even as my body trembled, I wrapped my hips, imagining the fluidity of my muscles, the strength.

  After a few pliés, Joel nodded. “More.”

  I hated being told what to do. At least, my brain did. But my body had the opposite response. My nipples were getting hard, and at each one of Joel’s orders, that spot between my thighs began to ache a little more.

  I did a tendu, moving into second position. Another tendu, and third position.

  “That’s right, tiny dancer.” His voice grew husky, and need pulsed between my legs. “Do that ballet pose with your knees bent.”

  I sank into a grand plié, as carefully as I could teetering on the high heels. Joel’s eyes hooded. I’d never thought of this pose as sexual, but in this moment, his gaze cupped between my legs like a physical touch. My core became a coiled spring, unbearable tension spiraling as the seconds stretched between us. I held my breath, looking to him for more instruction.

  “Raise your leg up high.”

  I did as I was told, and my breathing got faster, and I found myself longing for the next command. I didn’t know why, but I loved putting myself under his control. Giving in to him.

  “Lower it down. Do a twirl.”

  Then I saw, in a flash as I pirouetted, that the bulge in his crotch was getting bigger. My breath caught in my throat, and a flame of pure need heated me.

  “Stop right there,” Joel ordered me.

  I stood in front of him arms up above my head. How did I look to him, dressed up in that slutty outfit, so changed from the shy girl he’d once known?

  I risked another glance at the zipper of his pants. It looked like it was straining to contain him. Another shameful dart of desire burned through me.

  “I guess you are a voyeur.”

  His eyes turned to dark coals. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” I repeated. I was riling him up, like I planned. Except the words came out of my mouth without thought—arousal and the heat of the moment making me spin out of control. “I should’ve known. You used to watch, even when I was a young girl—”

  Before I knew what was happening, he’d grabbed me by the arms, dragged me back to the bench, and I was… upside down?

  At least, my head was upside down, while the rest of me was lying across his lap, ass up.

  “Joel?” I grabbed his leg. What the hell are you doing—” I wailed.

  I didn’t get to finish my sentence because his hand landed on my ass, hard.

  Slap! The leotard barely covered me, and he’d hit me right on my bare flesh.

  “Joel!” I shrieked.

  “Shush,” he murmured, stroking my skin. “You want that meathead bursting in here?”

  “Nope,” I managed to say. “But I also don’t want—”

  Slap! His hand came down on my other cheek.

  Yowch! Now both sides of my ass throbbed. The shocking sting stole my breath.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Language,” he muttered, and spanked me again. The heat between my legs turned to lightning, sizzling through me.

  “You know why I’m punishing you.”

  “No.”

  Another smack.

  “Fuck. Yes, I know. I disrespected you.”

  Slap! Another one landed, twice as hard as the others, and I yelped between gritted teeth.

  “And?” Joel asked, his voice patient.

  “And what?” I knew a fifth one was coming and I squirmed, trying to shift my ass out of reach of his hand. But the more I wriggled, the more I realized I was getting wet between my thighs. What the hell?

  Slap. The fire that burned my ass cheek somehow spread to my clit.

  Slap. “And you disrespected yourself. You know I wasn’t looking at you that way, not back then.”

  “I know, I know.” I scrambled to get away, but one of his big arms was wrapped around my waist, and I couldn’t move. Joel’s voice was low, almost crooning, and it sent waves of yearning through me. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m so sorry,” I gasped.

  “No?” He paused, and I could actually feel the heat of his hand as it hovered above my bare ass.

  “I’m sorry. I was being a brat,” I muttered toward the carpet.

  “You’re forgiven. But I’m not done punishing you.”

  Slap!

  Left-right, up-down, six more stinging slaps rained down on my poor flesh, each one harder than the last. But the hurt felt good.

  At last, he stilled. His hand came down on my ass again, but softly this time. He caressed one side and then the other with light strokes, making little circles all across my ass and down onto my thighs. It was soothing, easing the burn from my sore skin, and my body went liquid.

  Then his fingertips began to skate in closer, along the edges of my leotard, then lower, to my inner thigh where my skin was most sensitive.

  “You liked taking your punishment, tiny dancer?”

  “No,” I blurted, even as I willed his fingers to keep going.

  “Then why are you so wet?”

  I stifled a gasp and clamped my legs together. Shame burned through me again. I hadn’t been aware of my actions. I’d just lost myself in the weird, deeply arousing sensation of him punishing me.

  “It’s okay, Isabelle. It’s okay if you liked it.”

  “But I don’t…” I rushed to deny it even as my body ached in the most delicious way.

  “Liar.” He pinched my ass. “Don’t lie to me, girl. Tell me the truth.”

  He knows my secret. And I remembered the rest of our conversation, that fateful ride to the rodeo.

  “Yes,” I’d answered his question about my ballet practice once he insisted, and asked the second time. “It hurts.”

  But that wasn’t enough for Joel. He was determined, for some reason, to be my savior. A literal white hat.

  “It hurts,” he’d asked, “but you still love it?”

  “Maybe I love it because it hurts,” I’d retorted.

  “So you're a masochist,” he’d blurted, then realized what he’d said. His eyes widened and he tugged on his hat as if he’d pull it over his eyes. I’d sat back in the truck passenger seat, enjoying the red creeping up his tanned neck.

  “I think all dancers are, a little bit.” I’d chuckled. “Gives you a whole new view of ballet, doesn’t it?” I was proud of myself for using such adult words. Masochist. Voyeur. The taboo-ness of it thrilled me.

  “Maybe I should go see a show.” He’d sounded thoughtful, as if he was talking to himself.

  “You like masochists, Joel Hudson?”

  Maybe my voice had gone huskier than necessary. I knew I was beautiful. At sixteen, I shouldn’t enjoy flirting with a grown man, but Joel was twenty to my sixteen. A mere four years. If I was just two years older...

  His jaw clenched. And his body was responding. I could tell despite the thick fabric of his faded Wranglers.

  “Maybe I just want to see the dance,” he’d mumbled, and then cleared his throat in a way to let me know this subject was now off limits. “We’re almost there.”

  I let him keep his peace the rest of the way.

  “It’s okay, Isabelle,” Joel repeated. “Come here.” With gentle hands, he lifted me up, off his thighs, and drew me onto his lap.

  He guided my shaky legs so I was kneeling on the bench, one leg on either side of his thighs. When my crotch made contact with that big, hard bulge of his, a lightning bolt of desire sizzled through me.

  “Isabelle,” he murmured, and wrapped his big arms around my body. I was pressed against his broad chest, my hands resting on his shoulders, looking down, into his eyes.

  And I couldn’t hold back anymore. I pushed myself against him, closing my eyes and leaning in. He lifted a hand to my face and suddenly, those firm, lush lips were on mine for the second time in my life. We
were kissing. He was pushing my mouth open, his tongue sliding in, going deeper and deeper.

  I moaned, wrapping my arms around his neck. I forgot where we were. I forgot everything, and lost myself in the sensation of being kissed by Joel Hudson.

  I didn’t realize I was grinding on him, until his hand snaked down between us and caressed between my thighs.

  “You’re soaking wet,” he said against my mouth. Desire spun me to dizziness and my vision blurred. My midriff tightened as he stroked me through the flimsy fabric of my panties.

  When his fingers slid underneath it, I didn’t stop him. He pushed my tiny thong aside and a long, thick finger slid inside me. I stifled a cry. It was like liquid fire, and I clenched around him in ripples of pleasure. Everything was happening so quickly, but it felt so right.

  “Ride it,” he whispered, his breath warm on my ear.

  Without a second thought, I obeyed. I lifted my hips up and down on his finger, pushing him in and out of me. Every little movement was ecstasy. The pad of his thumb pressed on my clit, and one, two, fingers slipped inside me, gliding on my wetness.

  My hips bumped faster and faster, a sensation beginning to rush deep in my core.

  “That’s right. Come for me, little one,” he murmured. “Come for me,” he said, over and over. I began to pant and tremble, ripples building and building, until a climax burst right out of me. I spasmed hard around his big, thick fingers, and waves of pleasure spread all over my body.

  I gazed at him, stunned.

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” I said.

  “It was. Trust me.” His eyes were full of fire, and I could feel him harder than ever beneath me. I longed for him to take his cock out and claim me at last—

  A knock sounded at the door.

  I clambered off him guiltily, and spun around.

  “What is it?” Joel said in a pissed-off tone.