Good Girl Page 26

I take advantage of his stunned outrage to quickly maneuver his left hand to match his right.

And just like that, Noah Maxwell is zip-tied to his bed, glaring up at me, first in shock and then in anger.

He jerks his arms, hard, and though the headboard rattles, the ties stay firm.

I can’t help it—I gloat. I’m feeling very victorious and maybe a tad dominatrix.

“What the fuck, princess?”

I reach out a hand and pat his cheek. “You know, I just got to thinking. Remember how we chitchatted that day in Home Depot about whether I had kinky fantasies about being tied up? Well, we never talked about you.”

He glares, and I grin. “What’s the verdict? You like?”

His nostrils flare, and I bite my lip, flirty-like. “Hmm, I wonder if this might change your mind.”

I reach down to the hem of my tank top and—slowly, teasingly—pull it up and over my head, tossing it aside so there’s just me straddling him in a tiny black lace bra and tight-fitting pants.

I feel him harden between my thighs, and smile in victory.

“What are you doing, princess?” he asks, his voice a little rougher than usual.

I rest a hand on his chest, my fingers toying with the top button of his shirt. “Turnabout’s fair play and all that.”

His eyes narrow as I flick open a button. Then another.


I ignore him, undoing every last button before spreading his shirt to the side. “Have I mentioned I like your chest hair?” I say, raking my nails lightly across his pecs.

He sucks in a breath, his hips shifting slightly beneath mine.

I bend forward slowly, giving him a good look at my cleavage before my lips find a spot just below his jawline, and I suck in a bit of skin before biting, hard.

His arms pull at the ties, and I sit back up with a smug smile. “Something you want, princess?”

My hands go to his belt buckle, watching his eyes go shadowy as I slowly undo it.

“Wait,” he says quietly.

I do, just for a moment, and although I’ve been envisioning this moment all day, intent on keeping this impersonal and a little bit cold, I slip.

My chest fills with hurt and I stare down at him. “You slut-shamed me, Noah. You made me want you, and then you degraded me for wanting you.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

I look away, and his arms jerk again, as though trying to reach for me. “Hey. Jenny. Look at me.”

I do, and he holds my gaze patiently. “I’m sorry. I’m damn sorry.”

The simple words rip through me. They’re less than I deserve, but also more than I expected.

“You were beautiful last night,” he says gruffly. “And hot as fuck when I fingered you, but I suspect you know that. And you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

I feel a pool of moisture between my legs, and I have to remind myself that I’m in control, that this is my game.

I occupy myself with his belt buckle before I start on the zipper of his jeans, pulling it down slowly to reveal the plain navy boxers beneath.

I trail a finger over his erection. “I don’t know that sorry’s enough, Noah.”

“Tell me this wasn’t what you were doing all day,” he says, “buying…” Noah glances up at his wrists. “Pink zip ties.”

I give him a happy smile. “See, I knew you’d like the pink.”

He glares at me. “Stop this now, princess. You’re in way over your head.”

“Seems to me you’re the one in way over your head, big guy.”

I wrap my hand around his cock and his hips buck.

“You like this?” I ask, stroking him through the fabric of his boxers.

His breathing is harsh and he says nothing.

I give a little pout. “No? What about this?”

I carefully ease both jeans and boxers down over his hips so that he springs free. I’ll admit to not having a ton of sexual experience—not good sexual experience, anyway—but even I know that Noah Maxwell’s body is extraordinary.

He’s all man, and the way he’s looking at me is all heat.

Well, heat and a bit of anger.

I touch my palm to his skin and he swears.

“You like this,” I say again. Not a question this time.


I remove my hand and sit back slightly, trying for coyness even though the first traces of panic are setting in. My plan was to torture him the way he tortured me. Making him say it the way he made me say it.

But what if he doesn’t want it like I wanted it?

What if this doesn’t work?

“I can leave,” I say with a shrug.

His eyes lock on my breasts as they bounce, and hope reignites.

My finger traces along his pubic bone. “Or I can stay. Up to you.”

His eyes are practically black now as they glare into me, and I know he’s fighting the good fight, torn between pride, common sense, and the lust that’s got him tied up in knots.

“Untie me,” he says gruffly. “Now.”

My stomach sinks. It’s not going to work. He doesn’t want me enough.

I swallow my disappointment as I start to scoot off the bed. “No, I don’t think I will,” I say tartly. “You treated me like garbage last night, and there’s something you should know by now about us country girls—we can be slow to forgive.”

Noah’s hands pull at the restraints as I slowly bend to retrieve my tank top, giving him one last look at what he’s turning down.

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