Private Practice

chapter Thirteen


Ellie knelt on her bed and watched, heart pounding, as Tyler dug into the Slap & Tickle bag on her nightstand and withdrew the handcuffs, but when she reached for them, he raised an eyebrow and lifted them out of her grasp. “You’ve got the scenario turned around, Doc. You’re the helpless hostage. I’m your merciless captor.”

For a moment, all she could do was stare at him. Was he serious? Every fantasy she’d hatched about chapter 6 involved tying him up and taking advantage of him. The opposite scenario never entered her mind.

“No, no.” She grabbed the Wild Woman guide from her nightstand. “According to the book, you’re the one who wears the cuffs and the blindfold.”

“I don’t think so.” Intercepting, he opened the book to chapter 6, turned it around so she could see, and tapped the illustration. “This figure here, with the long hair and the breasts, blindfolded and tied to the bed? That’s you. The one straddling her, with the penis? That would be me.”

“You can’t just go by the picture.” She took the book from him. “If you’d read the chapter, you’d know the illustration is just that, an example. You have to determine which person in the couple is the dominant and which the submissive, in terms of sexual personality.”

Instead of conceding to her superior research, he shrugged and started working her plum-colored satin panties down her legs. “Right. So let’s get rid of these, and then you reach on up there and grab the rails. I’ll cuff you and—”

“I’m not the submissive one in our duo.”

“Honey,” he said, half-indulgent, half-amused, as if she’d just insisted she could beat him arm-wrestling.

“Don’t ‘honey’ me. I’m serious.”

“Not three days ago you accused me of always having to be in control, and now I’m the submissive?”

“You’re a textbook case. Look,” she ran a finger across the page until she found the paragraph she sought. “It says right here, ‘Don’t pigeonhole your alpha stud as the dominant in your sexual scenarios.’” She slapped her free hand against his chest to hold him back when he closed in with the cuffs. “‘Though perhaps counterintuitive, a physically powerful man may find more pleasure in the submissive role, precisely because he perceives the alternative dynamic—dominating a smaller, weaker woman—inequitable.’”

“You saying I’m too much of a gentleman to tie you up?”

“Not me. The experts.”

“Here’s what I think of your experts.” In a domineering move that might have melted her panties had she been wearing any, he clasped her wrists in one big hand. Before she could even think about protesting, her arms were stretched above her head, secured in handcuffs wrapped around the center rail of her brass headboard.

He leaned back and admired his handiwork. “I defy all your experts.”

Lying nearly naked before him, wearing only a lacy bra and handcuffs, she wondered if he had a point. Then she tested the cuffs. “You did it wrong, Longfoot. These are way too loose. If I wanted to, I could slide right out.”

“I’m not holding you against your will.” He tugged his T-shirt over his head, subjecting her to a fascinating play of light over the muscled terrain of his torso. “If I’m doing my job right”—he tossed the shirt aside—“you won’t want to slide out.”

Not want her hands free to tear his jeans off? Not want to touch him all over? Not likely. And this was exactly why he wasn’t the dominant. He’d happily charm her pants off, didn’t mind the occasional show of strength, but he’d never overpower and take. Such antics violated his personal code, even as a game.

She didn’t suffer the same compunction. “Kiss me,” she ordered, then bided her time as he leaned in and delivered on her request. When his mouth fused to hers and their tongues embarked on a slippery duel for supremacy, she slithered out of the cuffs. Taking full advantage of the element of surprise, she reared up, twisted, and rolled until he lay flat on his back and she straddled his chest. Then she cuffed his wrists around the headboard.

“You out to prove something, Sparky?” His teasing smile dimmed only slightly when he tried to pull his hands free and found them secured snugly. No sliding out for him.

“That’s Mistress Ellie to you.” She reached for the blindfold he’d placed on the nightstand, bringing her lace-covered breasts enticingly close to his mouth in the process.

“Hmm. Come here, Mistress Ellie.”

She tortured them both by dangling one breast close enough that he could, and did, run his tongue over the nipple visibly straining against the wispy barrier.

“Closer,” he demanded, flicking his tongue over her again.

“Closer, please, Mistress Ellie,” she corrected, unable to stifle a smirk, even as her nipple tightened and ached to feel his lips.

Predictably, he read her body’s reaction. Instead of giving her what she craved, he relaxed against the pillow with a slow, confident smile. “Take off these handcuffs, and I’ll lick a hell of a lot more than one nipple.”

Arching her brows at him, she picked up the blindfold, ran it leisurely through her hand, and then pulled it taut. “Don’t tell Mistress Ellie what to do.”

“If Mistress Ellie puts that blindfold on me, it’s going to be a damn long time before those pretty little breasts get the attention they’re begging for.”

“Mistress Ellie doesn’t appreciate threats,” she replied in her strictest voice, and attempted to tie the blindfold on him even as he made a move to evade.

“Ow! Jesus, why not yank all the hair out of my scalp?”

Oops. She untied the knot and started again. “If you’d be still for one lousy second—”

A long-suffering sigh signaled his capitulation. “Doc, I can’t tell you what a turn-on this is.”

With the blindfold in place, she unceremoniously pressed the heel of her hand against his forehead and shoved him back against the pillow. Then she scooted down until she straddled his hips. That’s when she discovered, despite his complaints, he wasn’t completely turned off.

Pausing a moment, she sat back to appreciate the sight of him all bound and shirtless and annoyed. He expelled a breath.

She rolled her eyes and released the front clasp of her bra. The small noise filled the room, as did the rustle of fabric when she slid the garment down her arms.

“Okay,” he muttered, “that might have been slightly hot.” The surge of his erection between her thighs suggested he found it more than just slightly arousing.

Empowered, she leaned forward until the very tips of her breasts made contact with his chest. He sucked in a breath and groaned.

“Shh. No talking.” To enforce the rule, she planted a kiss on his unsuspecting mouth. Excitement caused her to slam her lips down on his harder than she’d meant to. He angled his head up and returned the kiss with equal fervor, using his teeth and tongue to turn captor into slave.

Determined to exploit her advantage, she trailed her mouth over his chin and jaw, taking tiny bites as she went. When she moved to his throat, a cautionary “Ellie” rumbled against her lips. Undaunted, she kissed a line from his Adam’s apple all the way down to the waistband of his Levi’s. He shivered, probably as much from the sensation of her hair tickling his skin as anything she did with her mouth.

Time to bring her hands into play. Again, giving him no tip-off as to her next move— gotta love the blindfold—she cupped him through his jeans.

“Oh, f*ck,” burst from his lips in a breathless protest, but he dug his heels into the mattress and lifted his hips so he could push himself deeper into her hand. Continuing to cup and rub him with one hand, she undid his fly with the other. The corded muscles in his arms flexed as he gripped the rails of her headboard. His jaw tensed on a groan.

“Enough,” he panted. “You’ve proven your point. I’m turned on. Untie me now.”

…

Mistress Ellie merely laughed—a low, unrepentant sound—and continued to fondle him while he jumped and twitched in her hand like a puppy eager to be petted. Then his jeans were moving south, her hot mouth closing around him, and clear thought became impossible.

The inability to think didn’t stop his mouth from running while she amused herself between his legs. He knew that much, because he could hear his own conflicting words—God, don’t stop, don’t ever stop… Christ, stop. You’re killing me. She pretty much ignored what he said and handled him as she saw fit, continuing the sweet torture until he broke his own etiquette rules and indiscriminately thrust his hips in an effort to go deeper.

Again, with no warning whatsoever—Mistress Ellie apparently wasn’t a big fan of advance notice—she slid away. “Patience, Tyler,” she whispered, then burned a path from his navel to his earlobe with her tongue while a noise he could only describe as a helpless plea emanated from the back of his tight, dry throat.

She caught his earlobe between her teeth and bit. He inhaled sharply and her sweet, evocative scent assailed him. “We’ve got one more piece of wardrobe to deal with.”

God help him, what kind of insanity had her book recommended now? A moment later her got his answer. He didn’t know whether to thank her or curse her when she gripped his shaft and rolled a condom on, moving leisurely down his throbbing length, turning the small chore into sweet agony. Before he could recover, she shifted and eased down on him.

A lightning bolt of pleasure singed a path straight from his dick to his brain stem. Light exploded behind his closed eyelids. “Jesus, Ellie,” tore from his lips. He was a big guy. She was small and tight. Delicate. He’d never entered her without first ensuring she was good and ready—so ready he could touch and taste it. Tonight he could do neither, but here she was, jumping on without any caution. “Go slow,” he directed between clenched teeth, trying to hold himself in check while her body quivered and clenched around him.

The words provoked more laughter, breathless but triumphant. She began to move—up and down, back and forth, deep and fast—and concern for her comfort disappeared, along with everything else except the feel of her. “We’ve been over this, Tyler,” she said. “You don’t tell Mistress Ellie what to do. Now I’m going to have to punish you.”

Okay, he got advanced warning, but it hardly mattered, because he had no way of knowing her “punishment” would involve cupping his balls and squeezing. Hard. Hard enough to strand him on a thin, sharp precipice halfway between heaven and hell.

“I swear to God, you do that again I’m going to—”

“What?” she challenged, and damn her, squeezed again.

Come, as it turned out. Helplessly, endlessly, in an avalanche of sensation that left him wrung out and shuddering.

“Jesus, Ellie…that was…” She’d drained him so thoroughly, he couldn’t finish a sentence. Amazing? Paralyzing? Somewhere between the best and most annihilating experience of his life?

Ellie whisked the blindfold off and smiled down at him with sly, feline superiority. Leaning forward until her mouth brushed his ear, she whispered, “Told you you’re the submissive.”

He wanted to call bullshit, but when she levered herself up to uncuff him, his exhausted penis slipped out of its favorite place, making him feel even less dominating. Definitely not something he could live with. As soon as his wrists were free, a quick flex of his hips toppled her, and a fast flip put him back on top. Pinning her hands by her head, he inquired, “Now who’s the submissive?”

“Brute strength proves nothing.”

“Don’t you worry, Doc, there’s more to me than brute strength.”

She raised her eyebrows and ground her hips against his. “Right now? I don’t think so. Male sexual recovery time being what it is, I’d say my dominant status is safe for at least another ten minutes.”

He smiled a slow, deliberate smile. “Don’t be too sure. I brought a friend.”

Those arched brows of hers furrowed into an adorably crinkled line. “A friend?”

“That’s right.” He reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a neon-pink Bunny. “Say hello to my little friend. I like to call him…Thumper.” A quick flick of the power button, and he waved the humming, gyrating vibrator in front of her.

She shrieked and tried to squirm away. Luckily, fast reflexes ran in his blood. She didn’t get far, and when he finally introduced Thumper properly, her protests turned to the sweet, breathless cries he knew so well.

“Love that sound,” he said and teased the head of the phallus directly over the spot he knew would increase the volume and frequency. “I could listen all night.” With that, he moved Thumper to less sensitive territory. Her cries subsided into a low, edgy moan. “All night,” he repeated, and retraced the path, delighted to discover she could, when correctly motivated, intersperse those “I’m about to come” cries with some very effective begging.

An hour later, they lay tangled across her bed, limp and panting, and for his part at least, satisfyingly sore in a few key muscle groups. “You can put an A+ next to chapter 6,” he mumbled, enjoying the sensation of her fingernails running lightly over his shoulders.

“Thanks. Speaking of my list, I hoped next time we could cover chapter—”

A fist pounding on her front door cut her off. Then a slurred voice yelled, “Ellie! Open the damn door or I’ll kick it in. I’ve had enough of you badmouthing me ’round town.” The fist pounded again. “Open! This! Door!”

Ellie groaned and crossed her arms over her eyes, effectively covering her face. “Go away, Frank,” she whispered.

She couldn’t possibly know how utterly alone and adrift she looked. Historically, such a look would have served as his cue to get the hell out—and sweep Frank off her doorstep while he was at it—because God knew he didn’t have the first clue how to stick around and be somebody’s anchor. Have some laughs? Sure. Take on a problem that couldn’t be fixed with power tools or sex or both? Not within his skill set. But for some crazy reason, with Ellie, he wanted to dig in and try. Not just because the situation between her and her father brought out every protective instinct he possessed, but because, for once, he wanted to anchor someone…and he wanted someone anchored to him. Another realization rushed up and slapped him in the face on the heels of the first. He’d fallen for her—for her sometimes amusing, sometimes confounding combination of strength, brains, drive, vulnerability, and mile-wide stubborn streak. He’d fallen for the whole complicated package, screwed-up father included.

Frank banged on the door again.

“I’ll go have a chat with him,” he said, reaching for his jeans. He didn’t know how Frank would react to him answering Ellie’s door, and he really didn’t give a flying f*ck. Father or not, the guy was out of line showing up in the middle of the night, yelling and cursing.

“No, don’t.” She got up and retrieved her robe from the hook on the bathroom door. “Nothing personal, but you going out there will only make things worse. Do me a huge favor and just stay here.”

He yanked his jeans up and opened his mouth to tell her even a lap dog wasn’t that submissive, but then he saw her face—a heartbreaking blend of misery and mortification—and knew whatever he did to insert himself into the situation with Frank would add to her embarrassment. Maybe he shouldn’t have cared, because Ellie’s pride-saving preferences didn’t trump keeping her out of harm’s way, but he remembered too well the humiliation of having Big Joe show up somewhere, drunk and on a tear. About now she desperately wanted Frank to shut up and go home, with as few witnesses as possible. He understood.

Because he did, he waited until her big, reluctant eyes met his, and said as gently but firmly as he could manage, “Go tell him I’ll be out in a minute to drive him home.”

“Tyler, please…stay here.”

“Not a chance. I don’t know how he got here, but he’s not staying, and he sure as hell isn’t going anywhere under his own steam in his condition.”

“I’ll take him home.”

“Guess again. You think you can force him into your car if he doesn’t want to go?”

She parted her beautiful, kiss-swollen lips, clearly gearing up to argue. He didn’t intend to give her a chance. “Honey, you driving him home amounts to throwing kibble at the dog for pissing in the corner. He wants your attention right now. Give it to him and you train him to follow his worst instincts. None of it’s your fault,” he added, because he remembered spending too many hours of his life wondering why he couldn’t learn to stay the f*ck out of Big Joe’s crosshairs. “But if you want a couple of minutes to talk to him before I come out and put him in my truck, better take them right now.”

To soften the words, or maybe to distract himself from the defeated look in her eyes, he traced his finger along her jaw.

“Tyler,” she sighed, infusing his name with a universe of pent-up emotion.

“Ellie,” he replied calmly, keeping his tone matter-of-fact, but unwavering.

She stared at him for another moment while she analyzed her options, and then turned and strode out of the bedroom without a backward glance.

He dressed fast, one ear on the conversation out front. Frank started into a rant about her telling Rawley’s not to serve him. Ellie denied telling anyone not to serve him, and suggested perhaps they refused his business because they were sick of dealing with him at times like this, when he was drunk and belligerent. She told him he’d feel better if he went home, ate something, and got some sleep.

The lower and cooler Ellie’s voice went, the louder and more agitated Frank became. By the time Tyler approached the door, Frank had resorted to shouting grievances. He didn’t need her checking up on him and telling him what to do. She disrespected him, walked around like she was better than everyone just because she had a few letters after her name.

Tyler stepped onto the porch and let the screen door bang shut. In the copper glow of the porch light, he watched Frank’s head swivel around and his squinty, bloodshot eyes try to focus.

“Time to go, Frank.”

It took a minute, but awareness finally dawned across the older man’s features. Then his attention bounced back to his daughter. His gaze raked over her disheveled hair, bare feet, and bathrobe. “You’re not better than me,” he yelled. “You’re nothing but a—”

“Get in the truck,” Tyler interrupted, out of patience. Frank didn’t move, so Tyler gripped the man’s withered bicep and walked him down the porch steps.

“Take your hands off me,” Frank growled.

He tried to jerk free, but stumbled instead. Tyler quickly had his hands full keeping them both upright, and took a fist to his jaw for his efforts. His head snapped back. He heard his teeth click together a second before he tasted blood.

“Goddammit,” he cursed.

“Come on,” Frank challenged, jaw jutting while he staggered around on the tether of Tyler’s arm like a muleheaded prizefighter. “Take a shot.”

Ellie rushed over and stepped between them, proving muleheadedness ran in the family. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” she said, and angled his head down so she could examine his jaw.

“Stop.” He turned, forcing her to his other side, using his body to block her from Frank’s reach.

She stuck to him like a spider web, wincing as she eyed him. “You’re bleeding.”

And hoping like hell to be the only one, so for God’s sake, back the hell away from the punch-throwing drunk. Instead of barking the words at her, he took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then, in a pissy-sounding voice he couldn’t believe came from his own throat, he said, “Don’t doctor me.”

She opened her mouth to object, so he pointed a finger at her. “You, go inside. You”—he swung the finger Frank’s way—“in the truck.”

They both blinked at him.

“Now.”

That got them moving. Frank clambered up into the passenger seat of the truck. Ellie retreated to the porch. Satisfied things were going to resolve without further bloodshed, Tyler pulled his keys from the front pocket of his jeans and got behind the wheel.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said to Ellie, and slowly reversed out of her driveway.