Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (14 page)

He tightened his hold on her hips and stilled her in his lap. Her eyelids blinked open heavily. He held her stare as he put his hand between her thighs.

“No,” she whispered, even though she bucked her hips forward, bumping her damp outer tissues against his knuckles as his finger burrowed between her labia.

“I don’t like to see you suffering,” he murmured. “You need to come. You need relief.”

He placed one hand at the base of her spine, his other between her humid thighs. He flicked and pressed her clit with the ridge of his forefinger, slightly pressing her body against the pressure from the back in order to increase her pleasure. He watched with a tight focus as every muscle in her sleek body tightened. He saw the flush on her chest and cheeks deepen, felt her slight tremors as she crested.

Her cry as she succumbed struck him as poignant. Sad. So beautiful it hurt. He nursed her through her climax, his cock throbbing in her convulsing vagina. It was too much to bear, but he forced himself to exist in the flames, not wanting the moment to end.

He couldn’t survive that way forever, though. No man could. He leaned forward slightly at the same moment he pushed her back, so that her upper body was bent back between his spread thighs at an upward angle, her hair falling behind her, her weight supported by his spread hands on her back. He began to fuck her in that position, using his pumping arms to control the motion. His gaze moved hungrily over her perspiration-glazed, naked torso, her beautiful breasts trembling every time he thrust high into her, a tiny cry popping out of her throat as they slammed together.

He slid one hand up her back to her shoulder, using his hold to support her better and to optimize the thrusts of her pussy down on his cock. His groans twined with the muted keening sound she made. The friction was intense. Optimal. His flexed biceps felt like they’d pop out of his skin, he abused them so hard, never letting up an ounce on the tension, but he didn’t care. The pleasure far outstripped the discomfort.

Desire rode him like a slashing rider, but he grimaced when he saw she’d closed her eyes again, blocking herself from him. He realized too late that instinct had taken hold. He was controlling their lovemaking, fucking her ruthlessly.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, the fist of passion gripping at his throat, making him sound strangled. He
would
stop, though. He would, if she said the word. “Do you want to finish it?” he asked even as he thrust her up and down again and again on his voracious cock.

She clamped her eyes tighter and shook her head. A moment later, he felt a rush of heat around him. She was coming. He plunged her down on him and flexed his hips, sinking his cock to the hilt.

He let heaven fall. It crashed down like knives, spikes of pleasure ripping through him.

He pulled her against him while he still ejaculated inside her, hugging her to him desperately, breathing the scent of her release, moving her sweet body over him in a sublime dance he dreaded coming to an end.

* * *

She kept her eyes closed as she panted with her face pressed against his neck, filling herself with his scent. She wondered dazedly if she was trying to blind herself to the vision of him, or if she was childishly shutting her eyes in an attempt to hide her own treachery from herself. His hands moved, stroking her sides and back, his touch somehow soothing her and making misery rise at once. When mounting confusion and shame reached her throat, she held down a groan. She lifted herself off him, wincing at the abrupt extraction of his still firm, warm flesh from her body.

She didn’t know if she was glad or anxious that he didn’t speak as she stood and hurried into her robe.

“I have promised to paint Belford Hall for Anne and James,” she said in a thick voice as she tied her robe rapidly.

“Yes. Grandmother told me,” he said.

She glanced at him and impatiently ripped through the unsecure knot she’d just made and refastened the robe. He hadn’t moved since she’d crawled off him, she realized with rising discomfort. He just sat there, looking devastatingly beautiful with his dark hair mussed, his tuxedo pants down around his thighs and his glistening penis falling against the stark white of his dress shirt at a slanted angle. Her fingers shook as she jerked at the belt of her robe too tightly.

“I was planning on doing the sketches while I’m here. If you plan to stay, however, I’ll come back another time,” she said, determinedly meeting his stare. His blue eyes glittered in the flickering light of the dying fire.

“You won’t leave Belford,” he stated flatly. “Not now.”

“Well one of us has got to,” she said, anger edging her tone at his finality. Not anger at him, for once. At herself. She couldn’t believe what she’d just done. He had made her a stranger to herself.

No, you did that with your insatiable need.

“I don’t want you to change your plans because of me. I won’t stay long,” he said.

Her feet wavered.

“Is there something you want to say?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “This . . .” she glanced at his beautiful, satiated cock and looked away anxiously. “Didn’t happen.”

For the first time since he’d returned, she saw a small smile tilt his mouth. She took a reflexive step back. She hadn’t been expecting that potent weapon.

“It happened all right,” he stated unequivocally. “Do you mean that you prefer not to make it obvious to everyone at Belford that it happened?”

She nodded, not meeting his stare because she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d meant.

“All right,” he said, jerking his underwear and pants over his thighs and hips. He settled back in the couch, but left his pants unfastened. “I can agree to that, if it’s what you prefer. It’ll give us time to figure out what it means, I suppose.”

“What
what
means?” she mumbled uneasily.

“Everything. What we mean.”

She gave an impatient shake of her head. “There is no ‘we.’ I’m going to bed.”

“I assume since you found me in here tonight, you’d checked my quarters first?” he asked from behind her.

She paused and cautiously peered over her shoulder. “Yes,” she admitted, seeing no way to deny it. “Your grandmother pointed out your rooms when she gave me the tour. When you weren’t in them, I came here. Anne said this was your favorite room.”

He held her stare. “Go now to your suite and rest. I think you’ll sleep now. But tonight—I’ll wait for you in my bedroom after everyone settles.”

She opened her mouth to deny him—God, how she hated his quiet arrogance. He spoke before she could come up with the most scathing response possible.

“I’m not saying it for me—or at least not just for me. You’re burning from the inside out, lovely,” he said, his voice hollow. “I know it’s my fault, but I see how tired you are. I won’t have you suffer while I’m here. I don’t want you to become sick. You’ll come tonight. You’ll come tonight if only because we have no choice. Not while we’re here together in this house. Maybe you’ll rest easier . . . and so will I for a precious period of time.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. She thought of denying him, but didn’t want to add lying to the sins she was compiling since Ian had returned. She said nothing, just turned and left the sitting room, silently praying all the while she’d find the strength to prove his arrogant assumptions wrong.

* * *

Ian watched her go, forcing muscles that wanted to spring into action and claim her into complete stillness. After the door had closed behind her, he glanced around the increasingly dim room. The fire was almost out. It was always darkest before the dawn.

He lowered his head and caught her lingering scent. He inhaled deeply, taking strength from the fragrance, and stood.

On the way to his quarters, he heard a click and a subtle, scurrying sound on the oak floors of the hallway. He glanced behind him and saw the maid, Clarisse, standing outside Gerard’s closed door, looking down as she finished closing the side zipper on her gown. Her head came up and she saw him standing there. She started. The shadows were so heavy in the hallway, he sensed more than saw her shocked embarrassment.

Neither of them spoke. Clarisse turned and hurried away in the opposite direction.

* * *

She slept better than she had in ages, not rising until twelve thirty. For a moment, she lay in bed, recalling all the tumultuous events of the previous night.

After she’d left Ian standing on the dance floor the night before, she’d searched through the maze of Belford, desperate to find the kitchens. Twenty minutes and two startled waiters’ instructions later, she’d found what she sought: Mrs. Hanson bustling around the gargantuan kitchen belowstairs, preparing some of the last touches on the lavish midnight buffet.

“Francesca!” Mrs. Hanson had called in mixed shock and pleasant surprise when she’d appeared. But then the sweet older woman had acted like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to stumble into the kitchens in all her finery.

Mrs. Hanson had given her a cup of hot tea and let her sit at the center island, just like Francesca had grown accustomed to doing while at Ian’s penthouse. Francesca didn’t tell the housekeeper why she’d sought her out in such odd circumstances, but Mrs. Hanson seemed to understand without words. She must have heard the rumor of Ian’s return. She answered Francesca’s random questions about mundane things, like the feast, occasionally interrupting their conversation to call out instructions to the catering staff.

Francesca had eventually gone back up, forcing herself to remain at the ball until past one in the morning, going through the motions of enjoying herself and fastidiously acting as though Ian wasn’t across the room. Ignoring him stole every ounce of energy she possessed.

Trying
to ignore him, because it hadn’t worked in the slightest.

Once she’d gone to bed, however, she was surprised to realize she couldn’t rest, despite her exhaustion. There was no one left to fool but herself, lying there alone in the darkness, and Ian’s return had halted that brittle self-deception. Sleep had been an utter impossibility.

Until she’d finally risen in desperation and sought him out.

He’d been right.

It was strange to feel so awake on that bright December day, her nerves tingling with awareness . . . so
good
, and yet so terrible at once. Quenching her desire had been what she needed to rest, and he’d known that. Some part of her must have known it, too.

She closed her eyes as she stood before the bathroom mirror, overwhelmed by a potent paradoxical sense of shame and arousal at recalling what had occurred in the sitting room. Never in a million years would she have thought she could be so bold . . . so desperate. The memory of what she’d done under the cloak of night felt like the recollection from another person’s brain had been magically inserted to her own, all the details excruciatingly vivid, but also foreign somehow.

He’d left her. He’d offered no explanation as to why (not that she’d allowed him to give a reason) and practically the moment he returned, she had sought him out and let her pussy rule the day.

No. You let his cock rule.

Yet another reason it was difficult to meet her own gaze in the mirror as she got ready. Shame, anger, and longing were an unbearable brew.

She showered and dressed in jeans, boots, and a warm sweater and smoothed her hair into a ponytail. She left the suite a moment later, carrying her sketchpad, pencils, her coat, hat, and gloves in her arms.

They all were in the sitting room when she arrived—Lucien, Elise, Anne, James, Gerard . . .

Ian.

The mood in the cozy sitting room was very casual and easygoing, everyone looking pleasantly lazy after the late-night festivities. She’d interrupted Elise in the process of animatedly describing a funny scene from a comedy that was currently popular. Her friend was curled up in the corner of the couch, her knees resting casually on Lucien’s thighs. She envied Elise’s ease in such splendid surroundings, a natural consequence of her upbringing, an innate confidence Francesca herself could never hope to achieve.

“Good morning,” Francesca said to everyone. “I apologize for being down so late.”

“Nonsense, we all slept in,” Anne assured. “But you look rosy this morning. You must have slept well. I’m glad to see it.”

She was determined not to meet Ian’s stare at Anne’s incendiary words, even though she felt his gaze on her heated cheeks. She couldn’t help but notice from her peripheral vision that he was dressed much like her. Her heart used to do a leap on the rare occasions when she saw him in jeans, knowing it probably meant he wanted them to go motorcycle riding together. He really did become a different man on the open road. She loved seeing his wind-whipped hair, his relaxation palpable in comparison to his typical rigid control, his full-out smile . . . the vision of him laughing without restraint. Even though she lectured herself not to look, she couldn’t seem to stop herself from glancing furtively at his long, muscular jean-clad thighs and narrow hips as James pulled up a chair for her and Anne went to pour her a cup of coffee from the service arranged on the sideboard.

“You weren’t planning on starting work on the painting today, were you?” Anne asked as she approached, noticing the sketchbook and coat she’d placed on the floor next to her chair. “But I was hoping you’d relax before beginning on that, take a little vacation. Why don’t you get started after the New Year? I’m having the canvas and your supplies delivered on the thirtieth. We’re all determined to be lazy today, after last night. We’re thinking about taking in a movie in town,” Anne said, handing her a china cup filled with coffee and cream. Francesca took a sip of the hot brew.

For some reason, irritation was rising in her at the idea of them all being so casual and accepting of Ian’s unexpected return . . .

. . . of his prolonged, unexplained absence.

He could do murder and his friends and family would rush to see to his every comfort.

You certainly were eager enough to see to his every comfort last night, you hypocrite.