Read Online Out of Control by Teresa Noelle Roberts - Free Book Online Page B

had commented that Drake had shown up seeming both unfocused and fierce, which Makoto described as a dangerous combination. Drake had wanted to spar, preferably with Makoto, who could still kick his ass most of the time. After Drake had earned his third dan , he swore the instructor channeled the spirit of some ancient samurai into his body to make sure Drake and the others on his level remained appropriately challenged. With half of Drake’s brain in his dick, Makoto would definitely defeat him, repeatedly, but Drake wanted the fight, the sweat, even the pain.
    Instead, Makoto shook his head. “Too scattered,” he’d said. “Your mind is somewhere else, with someone who isn’t here. Do kata until you are in this moment, in your body.”
    And the instructor had been right. The ritualized forms, the almost prayerful concentration of doing kata, drew Drake into himself, into order and focus, clearing his head of residual confusion and residual arousal. He hated to admit it when someone else knew him better than he knew himself, but after twenty years of teaching kendo—and observing his students—Makoto knew what he was talking about. Only after the kata, once his mind was focused, was Drake ready for the physical and mental effort of sparring—and the sheer exultation of swinging a shinai at someone, striking and blocking. The shouting helped too. He liked that aspect of kendo a lot, the combination of controlled grace and occasionally screaming at the top of your lungs.
    Now he was relaxed, centered, ready to carry on a sane conversation about limits and desires.
    Of course, he admitted to himself as he pulled into the driveway, he gave it about five minutes before Jen had his hormones in a whirl and his mind in a snarl again. She had the same effect on him as a red cape on a bull, goading him to madness—and though he didn’t think this particular brand of madness would lead to goring any matadors, he couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t get someone hurt.
    Possibly Jen. Definitely him.
    As long as Jen wasn’t around, though, he could see the situation clearly. Jen lived in the moment, on the surface of her skin and by the seat of her pants. You probably had to be that way to be an artist, needed to be open to all sorts of new experiences, even if they were a little risky. Hell, even if they were downright crazy in retrospect. And since she was lovely and he was horny, he’d let himself be pulled into the moment with her.
    But if he wanted to pursue anything with her—or, for that matter, if he wanted to share a house peacefully with her—it would have to be on his terms. Controlled. Negotiated. Passionate but within a framework of reason. Taking things step by step. Part of him wished they could continue with the spontaneity they’d shared earlier, but things couldn’t always be like that. Not for him. He could be in the moment as long as he was doing kendo, but the rest of life simply didn’t allow for it. His sex life certainly didn’t.
    Assault charges weren’t sexy. More to the point, harming someone wasn’t sexy. And when your idea of sexual pleasure involved pain and bondage, you had a responsibility to be damn sure you and your partner were on the same page.
    He’d talk with Jen, make sure she understood where he was coming from. With luck, she’d be intrigued and aroused enough by the idea of domination and submission, pain and pleasure—by him —to try things on his terms.
    If not, his cock—no, all of him—thought it would be a damn shame.
    Lost in thought, he headed to the front door and tucked his shinai under his arm to unlock it. He stepped into the front hallway, started to toe off his sneakers—and heard his name on a low moan.
    It echoed through the big house, the primal sound of a woman so caught in the throes of orgasm that she didn’t care who heard her.
    The bag holding his kendo armor thunked to the floor, unheeded. Inside his jeans, his cock sprang to attention, his balls