Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (19 page)

His mouth went dry when she removed her shoes, and then jerked her jeans and panties down over her hips and ass at once. He’d forgotten how lovely she was. He recalled the first time he’d seen her naked—the willowy waist and curving hips, the pale, smooth erotic harbor of her stomach, the soft, reddish-gold hair between firm white thighs. He longed to press his face to her belly now, absorb her softness and heat, inhale the subtle perfume of her sex. She’d asked him once if he wanted her to shave her genitals as he did, and he’d answered with an absolute negative. He knew better than to alter perfection.

“Come here and turn around,” he said.

She followed his instructions, walking toward him, naked. The ends of her hair swished next to her waist when she turned. Her ass was firm, but very feminine, curving deliciously. His hand itched to palm the plump buttocks, to slap them playfully . . . then not so playfully. He stroked her from waist to hip to buttock, amazed anew at the softness of her skin. He gently squeezed a taut cheek.

“Face me,” he instructed when he realized he was becoming fixated on the delightful sensation of her flesh in his palm. She did so and he lifted the hand that held his bow tie. His already throbbing cock lurched against his pants when without prompting, she put her wrists together to be bound in front of her mons.

Oh God. She was so exquisite. So rare. So much more than he deserved.

He tied her wrists together, and then studied her face closely, looking for signs of her state of being, clues as to what she needed. Her chin was held high, but he saw the wildness in her eyes, calling to mind a gentle creature turned feral . . . a rabid doe.

He stood and went to the walk-in closet. When he returned to her, he carried a leather belt.

* * *

Francesca took care to keep her face impassive when she saw the black leather belt looped in Ian’s right hand. He approached, pinning her with his stare, and began to roll back his sleeves. Her sex clenched tight and her nipples pinched at the vision of his strong, veined forearms sprinkled with dark hair. He always rolled back his sleeves before he punished her. She’d been conditioned to become aroused at the sight, but acute anxiety mixed with her lust tonight.

“I know I’ve never used a belt before,” he said.

“You used to say it was too harsh.”

“I don’t have much to work with here,” he said, and she knew he meant that he didn’t have his room full of sexual equipment at his disposal. He opened his hand at the side of her neck and gently stroked her throat with his thumb in a soothing gesture, as if he’d known she was having difficulty drawing breath as desire and anxiety warred in her chest. “You can trust me to attenuate, Francesca. You know I’d never harm you.” Her heart jumped. He closed his eyes briefly and she sensed his regret. “Not in this way, at least. Never. Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” she said, holding his stare. That much, she did believe.

He nodded slowly, still studying her face so intently, she wondered what he read there. He’d said once that women were a mystery even to themselves. She couldn’t have agreed more at that moment. She also knew he’d been given the gift of decoding her, though . . . and that’s why she stood here, naked and bound before a man who had forsaken her.

“Then come over here,” he said quietly, pointing at the bottom post on the grand bed. The four carved posts were seven feet tall. “Put your hands above your head and rest them on the post. No, don’t bend over all the way,” he instructed, using his hand to prompt her into the position he desired. When he’d settled her, she was mostly upright, but bent slightly at the waist, her weight braced by her bound hands. He put the looped belt strap between her thighs and gently flicked his wrist. She immediately parted her legs more at the silent prompt, liquid heat surging at her sex.

“That’s right,” he said gruffly. He swept her long hair around the shoulder furthest from him, fully exposing her backside. Her clit throbbed dully as he stroked her from flank to hip with his hand, pausing to squeeze a buttock in his palm. Then he did the same with the folded belt, running the sleek leather over her spine and caressing her ass and the back of her thighs. She moaned softly.

“I’ll prepare you with my hand,” she heard him say. She bit her lip when he spanked her bottom, that quick, expert slap achingly familiar. He spanked her again. It stung, but it aroused her almost unbearably. The flash of sensation as her nerves were awakened, the erotic sound of flesh against flesh, the sharp knowledge that she was allowing it . . . that she
wanted
it. He continued to enliven her flesh, spanking her by hand, escalating her arousal. At one point, she turned to look at him, hungry for the image of him standing there, his eyes hot and possessive as he watched his hand striking her ass with a tight focus. He glanced up and made a rough sound in his throat.

Francesca turned her head and closed her eyes, overwhelmed with a potent mixture of shame and desire.

Chapter Seven

H
e dropped his hand. Her bottom prickled and tingled, not unpleasantly. Her pussy felt hot and wet. She kept her eyes clamped closed, her ears pitched for signs of what he was doing in the silence. Then the folded leather strap touched her ass. He ran it over the smarting flesh in circles. Her clit pinched in anticipation. She clamped her teeth.

It was going to hurt. She dreaded it. She needed it.

“Hold steady,” Ian said. He lifted the leather and struck gently several times. She knew from having done this with him before they were just test strokes as he got the feel for the instrument he used. He lifted the belt. Her muscles tensed. Then it came, that quick, bright flash of pain, more concentrated than what came from the paddle or the flogger. She whimpered. Her hips moved, but not to escape another blow. From arousal.

“Shhh,”
he murmured, and his hand was there, soothing the stinging flesh, caressing her bottom. “Okay?” he asked after a moment of rubbing her.

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. She waited, her anticipation so sharp it cut at her.
Whoosh.
He landed the belt again and she gasped. Immediately, his hand was there, easing the pain, mounting her need until all she craved was another strike of the belt. It was unbearable. It was exquisite . . . and just what she needed.

After five strikes, she was moaning uncontrollably in rabid arousal. He paused after landing a blow on the tender area of her buttocks just above her thighs. He palmed her from below tautly, and then abruptly released the stinging flesh, jiggling it, making her moan harder.

“Stand up straight,” Ian said, his voice sounding strained. She backed away from the post. “Put your hands behind your head, elbows out, and face me.”

She did what he said, her breathing erratic. When she turned toward him, the vision of him undid her. She shut her eyes defensively. He looked unbearably beautiful to her in his tuxedo pants with his dress shirt open at the collar, his sleeves rolled back displaying his strong forearms, his masculine hand gripping the belt. He stepped toward her and ran the folded strap of leather along her waist, her ribs, and the outer curve of a breast.

“Open your eyes, Francesca,” he demanded quietly.

“No,” she said shakily, determined to keep some tiny part of herself inviolate. Safe. She’d given all of herself once, and felt the consequence every second of her life. The caressing leather stilled on her breast, and then fell away. She sensed him crossing in front of her. He placed his hand on her shoulder.

“Bend over and spread your thighs. Present your bottom. Keep your hands on your head,” he said sharply when she started to lower them as she bent. “I’ll steady you with my hand.”

The belt struck her ass. She whimpered. Her thighs quivered. She felt very exposed and vulnerable in this position.

“It’s okay,” she heard Ian say roughly, his hand rubbing her stinging ass. “Just two more strokes like that, and then you’ll feel relief.” His hand lowered between her thighs. She cried out in acute pleasure when he burrowed a thick finger between her labia and stimulated her clit. The burn didn’t amplify slowly, it was suddenly full-blown at coming into contact with his rigid finger. She lurched forward at the unexpected, sharp sensation, but he caught her with his hand at her shoulder.

“That’s right,” she heard him say as he rubbed her clit, his voice that familiar rough-gentle paradox. “You’re going to come for me and let it all go. Give all the responsibility to me.”

“Oh,” she moaned uncontrollably, the sting of her ass somehow amplifying the sizzle of her clit. It was delicious. Untenable. Then his hand was gone from her sex and the belt bit again at her ass. She cried out at the jolt of pain, the thrill of peaking ecstasy. He lowered the hand from her shoulder and used it to part her burning buttocks, further exposing her to him. She trembled when he ran the leather over her damp outer sex, and then along the cleft between the cheeks, teasing her asshole. The anticipation was killing her.

He once again put his hand on her shoulder. She heard the leather whooshing in the air. The belt struck her ass, cracking in her ears like a gunshot. She was keening uncontrollably, on the very edge of orgasm. She felt the leather fall past the back of her thighs to the floor and he was pulling her against him, the front of his pants pressing tightly against her, grinding her hip and buttock against his furious erection, his hand plunging between her thighs.

“Come . . . and keep it coming.”

She ignited at his touch, exploding in orgasm. His harsh words echoed distantly in her ears as pleasure shook her in intense waves.
Come and keep it coming
. His hand moved between her thighs, the tension snapping back into her muscles each time after she shuddered in release. Why wasn’t it stopping? Oh God, it’d never felt so good. So awful. So divine.

By the time her orgasm finally did begin to wane, he had to hold her tightly against his body, still supporting her at the shoulder in order to keep her from slithering to the floor. Her legs had gone weak; her flesh transformed to quivering mush. She panted for air as he encouraged her to straighten, then he was lifting her feet off the floor. The front of her body pressed against him, her belly heaving against his abdomen, her pussy quivering against his erection. His hand opened at the side of her face, cupping her cheek and jaw.

“I’m sorry. It was necessary. But I’m still sorry.”

She blinked and brought his handsome face into focus. He looked rigid with need.

“I’m not. It was why I came,” she rasped, her tongue and lips moving with extreme effort.

His jaw tightened; his gaze grew wild. “Come here,” he said, even though he was carrying her and she really had no other choice to go wherever he took her.

He set her down before an upholstered, cushiony chair and immediately went to retrieve the sleek, padded armchair that sat before his desk. He placed it just behind her, so that she was between the two chairs. Francesca stood there panting, still a little dazed from her intense orgasm. The next thing she knew, Ian was sitting in the cushiony chair, long legs bent and thighs slightly spread, and reaching for her. He turned her before he pulled her into his lap, so that her bottom faced him.

“Put your knees in the cushion next to my legs and your hands on the seat of the desk chair in front of you,” he said, his voice sounding rough. “I can’t take it a second longer. I have to taste you.”

His tense command penetrated her disorientation. She took the position he desired, guided by his touch. When she’d settled, she was on her hands and knees, her lower half on the cushioned chair where Ian sat, her hands bracing her upper body on the wooden chair. He put his hands on her ass, which was just inches from his face. She sensed his need when he immediately parted her cheeks, opening her molten sex to him.

“Send up your tailbone,” he said gruffly, swatting a buttock.

She moaned, fresh arousal spiking through her, and arched her back, sending up her ass to give him better access to her pussy. She cried out when he slid his tongue between her labia and began to agitate her clit. He lapped at her from the top tip of her clit to her slit. She shook when he pushed his tongue into her pussy and fucked her with it for an electrical moment, massaging her buttocks in his hands while he ladled her juices into his mouth and groaned in harsh appreciation.

After he’d gotten his fill, he sent his tongue back between her labia, lashing at her clit until she bit off a scream. It was sublime. So intense, it was unbearable. She writhed and keened brokenly. His fingers bit into her sore bottom, holding her in place for his marauding mouth. He leaned forward, pushing closer, burying his lower face in her wet, aroused sex. His hold was absolute . . . unwavering. She had to take every bit of the massive pleasure he conferred as he drank his fill of her. When he sucked firmly while he twisted his head back and forth and whipped her clit with his tongue, she broke in orgasm. The pleasure was so intense, her elbows gave way and she grazed her forehead on the hard wood of the seat before she caught herself. He responded by grabbing her waist and ribs firmly and leaning back in the chair, pulling her back against him. She slid onto his thighs, so that her breasts pressed against his knees and her head fell over the edge of them. He continued to eat her relentlessly the whole time, pressing his mouth tightly to her climaxing pussy, squeezing her buttocks and occasionally slapping one, ramping up her orgasm.

His lashing tongue slowed with her shudders of release, but he continued to lick and suck her juices greedily even when she sagged into his lap, satiated and half-senseless.

“No one tastes like you. No one comes like you.”

Her eyelids blinked open at his hoarse voice. He kissed her wet, overly sensitive outer sex once before he lifted his head.

“Can you stand up?” he asked, stroking the sensitive sides of her body.

“Yes,” she said thickly. When she came off him, he stood and took her into his arms. She moaned softly when she saw how slick his lower face was with her juices. She tasted them on his kiss, closing her eyes in quiet bliss at their intermingled flavor.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed like he might a baby. She was glad. She wasn’t sure if her legs would work properly. He sat her on the edge of the mattress, for a moment just staring down at her as she panted. He began stroking her with his hand, caressing her back and hip and thigh, soothing her. As she recovered, his touch turned demanding versus reassuring.

He cupped her breast, molding it to his palm. Her eyelids flickered open and she met his stare.

“Better?” he murmured, still massaging her breast.

She nodded.

“Then stand up,” he said.

He helped her, since her wrists were bound. When she stood before him, he pulled her between his legs and clamped her hips between his strong thighs. He immediately began to play with her breasts, his manner deliberate, his blazing stare making her whimper in helpless arousal. She was bound and could go nowhere, do nothing but be the target of his need. Ian’s desire was always monumentally focused and precise, but it seemed to have grown exponentially since they’d been apart. He gently squeezed her breasts, making the nipples protrude between his thumb and forefinger.

“I can’t tell you how much I missed your lovely breasts,” he said, plucking at her achy nipples, making them stiffer. He lifted the globes with both hands and let them fall, then lightly slapped at the outer curves, seeming to enjoy the shiver in firm flesh. Arousal stabbed at her clit—yes, even though she was half-insensate from her previous orgasms. She experienced a nearly overwhelming urge to shove her hands between her thighs to alleviate the pinch of lust. She sensed his hunger growing, saw the greedy gleam in his blue eyes. He gathered both breasts in his hands, pushing the flesh together.

She cried out raggedly when he leaned forward and tongued both nipples at once. She watched him with a tight focus, absorbing the image of his red tongue running over the beaded flesh, stimulating and sensitizing the nerves. Pleasure tore through her when he slipped one of her nipples between his lips and sucked strong enough to hollow out his cheeks.

“Oh . . . Ian,” she moaned shakily after he’d sucked on her for a minute or so, her muscles tensing again with renewed arousal. He drew on her nipple, but she felt the tug in her womb. He continued to massage her breasts in his large hands, holding the flesh captive while he consumed her, sucking first one nipple, then the other, until the crests were unbearably sensitive, rosy, and glistening and Francesca was crying out once again in stark arousal.

He lifted his head and looked at her face, his nostrils flared. A flush had grown on his cheeks. He placed one hand on her inner thigh. She shuddered and clamped her eyes shut. She’d grown so wet her juices were wetting her thighs. The subtle evidence of her rampant need both shamed and aroused her, the mixed emotions creating a sharp friction inside her.

“Open your eyes,” he demanded, his fingers still moving on her slick skin, amplifying the burn in her clit.

“No,” she whispered.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, lovely.”

She twisted her chin, keeping her eyelids clamped shut. She disagreed.

His fingers paused and she restrained a moan.

“Very well,” she heard him say, his voice rough with desire and frustration. “I can see you want this done and over with. Come onto the bed. I’ll take my pleasure of you and put us both out of our misery.”

Lust rushed through her at his words along with a fresh surge of shame. Damn him. No other man could say something so singularly selfish and make her so aroused. He knew she loved it when he finally let go and sought bliss in her flesh with a single-minded focus. He knew saying that would turn her on.

Standing, he released her from the grip of his thighs. She cracked open her eyelids cautiously. “Get on the bed, belly down, hands above your head. You won’t have to look at me in that position,” he said, his mouth pressed into a grim line.

“Fine,” she replied, equally edgy with anger and arousal. Why should she protest? It was true. She didn’t want to gawp at his savage beauty as he gave himself. It was all an illusion anyway, wasn’t it? He wasn’t giving anything. Not really.

He helped her onto the bed. She lay prone, her bound hands above her head. He gently extricated the pillows from under her forearms. She bit her lip to stifle a moan when he shoved them under her hips, elevating her ass. He parted her legs. She felt the air lick and kiss at her wet sex and thighs.

When he didn’t immediately get on the bed with her, she twisted her face around to peer at him. She wished she hadn’t. He was undressing. Completely. Forget about the fact that they’d been apart for a half a year, the vision of him naked was always compelling. Addictive. Ian usually only removed all of his clothes during the most intimate moments of lovemaking. She often wondered if he did that to make her crave the vision of his naked male glory all that much more.

If he did it for that reason, it worked. In spades.