Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (8 page)

She retrieved a book from her purse, determined to escape her ruminations about the business deal, not to mention her evocative memories that sprang up being in Ian’s bed.

She reread the same paragraph four times, unable to absorb what the words meant. The sheets felt cool and sensual against her shower-heated skin. She vividly recalled how divine they felt when Ian had carried her from their private room on several different occasions after a round of challenging, intense lovemaking. She glanced at the closed paneled door at the left side of the room. Gerard had stayed in this suite. Had he tried to enter that locked refuge? she wondered uncomfortably. Did he suspect what was on the other side?

Once—even a year ago—she would have dismissed such thoughts as ridiculous. Why would a man suspect such intimate, sexual things when coming upon a locked door? Ian had broadened her horizons, however.

She remembered one evening last March when Ian had tried to explain things to her.

They were scheduled to meet Lin and a new man she was dating for dinner at Lucien’s fashionable restaurant, Fusion. Ian had led her into the private room beforehand. She’d followed him with a familiar sense of mounting excitement spiced with just a hint of trepidation. He’d instructed her to strip naked, and then restrained her wrists to the straps that hung from hooks on the wall.

She’d waited in anxious excitement after he’d positioned her, standing with her back slightly bent forward, her knees straight, her spine arched slightly, her feet planted about a foot and a half apart, her bottom protruding, the wrist restraints stretched tight. He’d used a black leather flogger on her—not cruelly, never that—but using the leather straps to awaken and fire the nerves on the surface of her ass, hips and thighs, his dominance over her carefully controlled and deliberate, designed to arouse, not harm. His occasional gentle reminders to maintain her rather awkward position with her breasts thrust forward and her ass made conspicuous for the flogger had not offended, only aroused her.

As always, he’d frequently pause to rub her prickling, stinging skin soothingly with his open palm. Sometimes he’d use a finger vibrator on her clit or massage the tiny bundle of burning nerves with a bare finger in a bull’s-eye fashion while he plunged another into her pussy. Closing her eyes in the present, she could still hear his low, raspy voice through her whimpers and cries, telling her how beautiful she was . . . how desirable.

That’s right. You’re never more beautiful than when you trust me and let go. Come again, lovely. Come against my hand.

Toward the end, after he’d allowed her to climax several times, he’d told her to straighten completely. He’d come beside her and she’d seen for the first time that his cock protruded from his open pants. She’d kept her eyes glued to it as he stroked his heavy, swollen erection and gently used the flogger on her breasts. She could still hear how rough his voice had gotten as he stimulated them, turning the pale globes a pale pink, pausing to occasionally caress and pinch the tips until they were almost painfully erect and sensitive. When she’d been unable to stop herself from coming from the precise nipple stimulation, his need had overtaken him. He’d taken her from behind, his scalding, forceful possession thrilling her.

She loved it when he finally lost control.

Afterward, he’d carried her out to the bed. She could recall how good the cool sheets had felt next to her overheated, sensitive body, so delicious sliding against the hot, prickly skin of her ass, hips, and breasts. It’d felt wonderful to sink into the mattress, even more so when he came down next to her on his side and took her into his arms.

He’d touched her heated cheeks with a fingertip.

“You need a moment to cool down before we get ready,” he’d said with a small smile. “You still wear your passion.”

“It will fade by the time I shower and dress,” she’d murmured, stroking dense, swelling biceps.

“Not as easily as you might imagine. A woman always shows telltale signs of good sex. For you, it’s far more blatant. You radiate like a beacon. I don’t like strangers to see you this way,” he’d said thoughtfully, still brushing her cheek and brow. “The vision of you after lovemaking is mine, and mine alone.”

She’d laughed softly, not fully understanding him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. People aren’t mind readers. They can’t know what we were doing before we go out in public.”

One raven-dark brow had risen. “You’re mistaken. Men know. Many of them anyway.”

She’d opened her mouth to argue, but sensed he wasn’t engaging in his typical dry teasing. “How?” she’d asked, mesmerized by his touch on her face and his somber expression. “
How
do men know?”

“By the amplified color here and here and here,” he said slowly, touching her chest, cheeks, and lips in turn. “Even after it fades, it still leaves a telltale glow. By your muscles, your overall level of relaxation, and seeming satisfaction with life. By some indefinable sense of comfort in your body, the way you move and carry yourself . . . your sensual awareness, I guess you’d call it. You show it most here,” he said huskily, brushing a fingertip over her eyelid gently. “Your eyes slay me always,” he’d said, his mouth tilted in wry self-amusement at his poetic turn of phrase. “But during and after lovemaking, your soul shines out of them,” he finished, his small smile fading.

She’d swallowed thickly, moved by his gruff, unrehearsed anthem.

“I can’t believe men can really see all those subtleties. Are you sure it’s not just you?”

His abrupt smile awakened her body with a jolt. “No. Most men can immediately spot a sexually satisfied woman, whether they put it in concrete, conscious terms or not. We’re much more practical than women. We lack finesse as a whole, but in matters that are crucial, we’re forced to learn early on the meanings of the subtle signs on the trail.”

“The trail of sexual conquest, you mean,” she said, rolling her eyes.

His mouth twitched. “Men’s goals are simple and blatant enough when it comes to sex, even if the means of pursuing them isn’t. Women, now,” he mused thoughtfully, still stroking her. “Aren’t always so aware of their goals. They’re a mystery to themselves, so men have little hope in figuring them out. You’re very inward. Secretive. A real conundrum.”

She bit her lip to stifle a moan when he put his hand between her legs and gently probed between lubricated labia.

“We’re pretty much just like our sexes, don’t you think?” he asked, studying her face as he rubbed her slick, appreciative clit. “You’re delicate and tucked away. Deep and soft,” he muttered, pushing a thick finger into her pussy. “You’re an enigma—only giving your secrets away to the worthy.”

Her mouth had trembled in combined amusement and renewed arousal. “It’s no wonder I can’t keep any secrets from you then.”

He’d touched his small smile to hers and brushed his groin against her thigh. Despite his recent explosive orgasm, his cock was growing firm and full once again. “We men live much more on the surface.” He shifted his hips against her, making his re-arousal obvious. “No chance of hiding
that
, so why try? Can’t hide the single-minded, savage intent,” he said, his smile in his voice even though she couldn’t see it as he kissed her ear seductively and shivers coursed down her spine.

“Hmmm, hard to disguise the beast, no matter the finery,” she’d murmured with breathless humor as he kissed her cheeks and temple with increasing ardor. She squirmed beneath his hand, and as always, he firmly held her hips captive, stilling her. He slid another finger into her. She moaned and trembled as he took her mouth in a possessive kiss.

“You make disguising it a complete impossibility, Francesca,” he’d said against her lips a moment later. He’d rolled her onto her back and speared her with his cock in a movement that was both graceful and every bit as savage as he’d just suggested.

* * *

When she pulled herself out of the poignant, erotic memory, the book was spilled on the mattress, forgotten, her nightgown was up above her breasts and her hand was beneath her panties. She made a sound of ragged impatience and shoved the panties down her thighs.

It was no good. She burned, but her touch wasn’t adequate. It would make her come, but it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

Frustrated to the point of distraction, she rose from the now mussed bed and rushed to the dressing room, her cheeks hot and her nipples sensitive, the crests feeling abraded even by the soft silk of her gown. At the back of one of the drawers that Ian had designated as hers, she found what she wanted: a small, powerful vibrator. She’d hidden it amongst some of her lingerie before she’d vacated Ian’s residence.

Within a matter of seconds, she was back in bed, her thighs splayed wide, the vibrator humming as she pressed it to her clit.

Ian had used this very tool on her many times. Sometimes he used it on her while he spanked her over his knee, combining the sting of punishment with the pleasure of the vibrator to optimal effect. Oh God, she’d loved it when he bound her wrists and ordered her over his knee, how she was at his mercy as he caressed her naked body and swatted her ass until it burned. She could feel every nuance of the tension in his strong thighs and experience firsthand his arousal in that position—the leap of his cock when he landed a smack on the bottom curve of a buttock, the way he greedily squeezed her pinked ass and ground his erection against her.

And what he’d do to her when her punishment was finished and she was limp from wave after wave of orgasm . . .

He would make it clear she’d had more than her share of pleasure, and then it was time for his. He’d own her completely, fuck her until she had no choice but to explode again in the midst of his furious, white-hot possession.

It was too much to bear, this brutal, precise remembering, but she had to give in to it, just as she’d always eventually surrendered to him. She flipped the switch on the vibrator to a higher setting and felt the air licking at her wet pussy, her hips thrusting and circling greedily against the precise little instrument. She thrust a finger into her vagina and groaned wildly at the inadequacy of the penetration, wanting more, needing a thick, throbbing cock to fill her, agitate screaming nerves, force her soft flesh into total submission—

Needing Ian.

Damn him straight to hell.

She thrust another finger into the tight channel. Too long. It’d been too long since she’d been stretched and filled and possessed. She was so close . . . so close to relief. She withdrew her fingers to the tips and plunged back into the warm, clamping channel, rhythmically, imagining someone else pleasuring her.

You will come for me now, lovely.

So certain. So firm. She had no choice but to obey.

Knocking at the door shattered her fantasy.

She froze, gasping for air. Her pussy burned and throbbed with impending climax. Someone rapped firmly on the door to the suite once again. She arose from the bed rapidly, her legs feeling weak. She tossed the vibrator that glistened with her juices beneath the sheets and scurried toward the door.

“Who is it?” she asked, trying to disguise her breathless state. She pressed her hand against her pussy through the cloth of her gown and winced. She’d been on the very edge of climax. She ached for release.

“It’s Gerard. I’m sorry to bother you again. May I come in for a moment? I promise I won’t take long.”

She glanced down at her appearance in alarm.

“I’m sorry, I can’t right now, Gerard. I was getting ready for bed. I’m not dressed.”

“I can wait while you put something on,” he called through the door. “Please, Francesca. It’s important.”

She opened her mouth, but could think of no other protest. He’d shoved aside the only excuse her lust-impaired brain could supply.

“All right,” she said, flustered. “Give me a moment.”

A minute later, she opened the door and managed a weak smile.

“Come in,” she murmured, waving toward the seating area that took up half of the large main room of the suite.

“Thank you,” Gerard said, giving her an apologetic glance before he stepped over the threshold. Francesca closed the door, pausing to cinch the robe she wore tighter. She’d washed with soap and very cold water and waited for her breathing to even, but her skin still felt prickly and her cheeks warm. Was Gerard going to make interrupting her masturbation a habit?

It’s not his fault. It’s yours for being so stupid and relenting to your memories . . . to your need so easily.

She cleared her throat, banishing the thought, and followed Gerard to the seating area. She sat on a chair across from where he’d settled on the couch. He was dressed similarly as he had been last night, except tonight his pajama bottoms were black and his robe a deep blood red. He scraped his thick hair off his forehead with his fingers in an anxious gesture and studied her closely.

“Gerard? What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine. How are you doing?” he asked intently.

“Very well, thank you,” she said, laughing at his pressured, formal tone.

He smiled. “Considering the circumstances, I mean.”

“Yes. I know what you meant,” she conceded. Her polite, pointed glance told him she was ready to hear why he’d insisted upon talking to her.

“Again, forgive me for intruding. It’s just that’s it’s hard to talk to you with the others always there. Privately, I mean.” His gaze traveled over her face and ever so briefly lowered to the small patch of exposed skin at her chest above her closed robe.

Men know. Many of them anyway.

She shifted uneasily at the recollection of Ian’s words and the knowledge of what she’d been doing before Gerard arrived.

“Why do you need to speak to me alone?” she asked.

“It’s this proposed trip to Belford Hall, the painting commission—have you given Anne a certain answer about whether or not you agree to it?”

“Not entirely, no, even though she acts—”

“As if it’s a decided deal,” Gerard said with a dry smile. “Classic Anne, to operate as if her wishes were already reality. It works amazingly well for her. Usually.” She noticed a lock of waving hair had fallen appealingly onto his forehead when he’d raked his hand through it. She returned his smile with effort.