Because We Belong: A Because You Are Mine Novel (22 page)

It would have been better for Francesca’s health if she’d accepted Gerard. Much better. She was a fool to seek solace and protection from a man who was not destined to be on this earth for much longer.

That surveillance video certainly plagued his cock as well, Gerard thought, grimacing as he stroked his rigid erection. He was uncomfortable from sustained arousal, but also very pleased. He enjoyed discovering something that made him this stiff and virile.

He stepped out of his pants and underwear, pausing to remove his belt, looping it in one hand. Clarisse remained bent over the bed, but she looked anxiously over her shoulder. She made an arousing picture, her cheeks starting to flush from excitement, her bottom slightly pink, her outer sex visible between her spread thighs, the tissues slick and flushed. She saw the belt. His cock jumped in the air when her eyes widened in trepidation. Their sexual relationship had only begun the day before Francesca arrived at Belford, when he’d heard Clarisse would be the one to serve her. He’d never done anything like this to her before. He chuckled and smoothed the leather over her ass.

“Now I propose we make things between us a little more interesting,” he said silkily. “I’ve recently come to recognize how thrilling the belt can be.”

He didn’t wait for her permission before he landed the leather strap and she fell forward, crying out sharply and catching herself with her hands.

* * *

Francesca recalled the labyrinth trail she’d taken on the night of the ball in order to find Mrs. Hanson. It seemed she’d gone a backward route. All she need have done was take the door off the dining room, which led to a staging area for serving, and then some stairs that went to the kitchens. Once she was sure Ian hadn’t followed her, she paused on the stairs, gathering herself and drying a few tears while she listened to the sounds of pots clanging and sporadic conversation in the distance.

Mrs. Hanson gave her a warm greeting and gladly agreed to fulfill her request for a sandwich to go, after Francesca explained she was going out to the gardener’s cottage to sketch. Work would help to focus her . . . ground her.

The housekeeper far surpassed her expectations, packing her a sack filled with an enormous chicken salad sandwich, fruit, two scones, a carton of milk, homemade oatmeal cookies, and a thermos of coffee and cream. Not wanting to run into Ian while she was feeling so frayed, she asked Mrs. Hanson to pass a message to Anne that she planned to work through lunch.

She kept repeating that conversation with Anne in her head as she sat at the picture window in the cottage and sketched later that morning. She realized she was willfully resisting what Ian’s grandmother had said. If she accepted Anne’s logic, she wouldn’t only have to sacrifice her anger at Ian for leaving. She’d have to own her helplessness in dealing with his pain.

She’d have to admit there was nothing she could tangibly do to ease Ian’s suffering but allow him to continue on this path.

That, she realized, was not an easy thing to allow.

Perhaps her anxious thoughts were the reason she was so dissatisfied with her preliminary sketches of Belford. What she outlined on the page shared little in common with the house she’d come to know, conveying a cold, austere, dead shell versus the warmth and proud tradition she was beginning to respect and love.

She ripped out the page from her sketchbook and crumpled it up in a fit of frustration. Impulsively, she grabbed her coat, then her sketchbook and pencils and headed out the front door of the cottage.

* * *

Ian stood on the threshold of the cottage entrance, tensing in wariness when he received no answer to his call. He scanned the room rapidly, taking in the dying fire and the crumpled sketch lying not far from the chair Francesca had scooted next to the window.

“Francesca?” he called again, his alarm rising. He sensed the cottage was empty, but perhaps she was just avoiding him, angry as she’d been earlier. He stalked through the kitchen and then down the hallway, peering into the empty bathroom. He’d prefer she was there, hiding from him. At least that would mean she was safe and unharmed.

The bedroom, too, was empty.

“Francesca?”
he bellowed, his mind flying to dire possibilities, the very hint of which made his blood turn to ice water. He started at the sound of the front door slamming shut.

“Ian?”

His eyes sprang wide, relief coursing through him at the sound of her breathless voice. He began to walk out to meet her, but paused on the threshold of the bedroom when he saw her coming down the hallway.

“Where were you?” he demanded, backing into the room so that she could enter. The hall was dim, while the bedroom was sunlit. He peered at her face anxiously, searching for signs of distress. She carried her sketchbook under her arm and fisted a pencil in her gloved hand. Her nose and cheeks were pink from cold, but she appeared to be perfectly fine.

“I went into the woods a way to sketch Belford through the trees. I wasn’t far. I could hear you shouting.”

“You shouldn’t have wandered off like that. I didn’t know where you were.”

“Obviously, the way you were yelling,” she said. He was so relieved that she was all right—not abducted or wounded or worse—that it took him a moment to notice her small smile. He blinked, sure he was mistaken at what he saw. He hadn’t seen that particular, familiar expression of fond amusement for a long, long time.

He exhaled slowly. “Grandmother told me you sent word through Mrs. Hanson that you’d be out here. I’d prefer to know when you go out. In fact, I’d prefer that you weren’t out in the grounds alone at all,” he said, still studying her expression through narrowed lids, still wary of her mood.

She shrugged and went over to the desk to set down her sketchpad and pencil. She approached him again, taking off the fingerless gloves and unbuttoning her coat. He caught a glimpse of a dark red T-shirt that fitted her narrow waist and full breasts tightly.

“Well? I’m not alone now,” she said, her brows quirked upward in what he could only describe as a challenging expression.

“No . . . but for future reference,” he said gruffly. He studied her for a moment, searching for more clues, but she just watched him calmly.

“I wanted to speak with you this morning about something in particular,” he said uneasily.

“I’m sorry about the way I behaved.”

He blinked at her simple apology. “I wasn’t planning on harassing you about . . .” He paused uncomfortably, not wanting to put into words her upset over the reason he’d been determined to go to France. He cleared his throat. “What happened between us this morning,” he sufficed. “I’ve been talking things over with Lucien, my grandparents and Gerard. They agree it would be a good idea for me to do a small press conference tomorrow afternoon here at Belford, just to announce our bid to buy Tyake and make it clear I was involved in the whole thing. I’ve contacted Lin, and she’s arranging everything. I think it’d be a good idea if you didn’t appear at the press conference, though. I’d rather keep you out of the public eye. Grandfather agrees.”

She took a step toward him. “You plan on returning to work?”

“Yes, more than I’d been working before anyway.” He met her stare. “I’m taking back control, Francesca.”

“And what of this other important mission . . . this . . . this discovering of yourself,” she said falteringly. He could tell she was guarding against sounding derisive at the concept, and he appreciated that. Still, he knew he needed to tread carefully with her.

“I’m not giving up on that. I’m sorry,” he said when he saw the flash of disappointment shadow her hope. “I’ll just have to divide my time more evenly. Everyone is very concerned about what happened to you in Chicago, and they agree it might be associated with the amount of control I gave you on the temporary board.”

“I really don’t know how you can assume that, Ian.”

“I can because I’ve had threats against me before.”

“What?” she asked, taken aback.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“What do you mean it’s not a big deal? It’s a big deal if it happens to me, but not to you?” she demanded.

“It comes with the territory. Usually, it’s just a mentally ill person making ridiculous, unfounded threats,” he said evenly.

“And when it’s not usual?”

“That’s why I have such good security,” he said with a pointed glance. It was starting to get warm in here. He unbuttoned his overcoat. He glanced guiltily at Francesca’s pale, set face when she didn’t respond. “It hasn’t happened enough in the past for me to worry you with it. Now, I’m feeling like an idiot for not considering it might happen to you in the position I put you in. For that,” he said, meeting her stare, “I’m sorry.”

For a second, she looked stunned. Then she blinked and shook her head. He held his breath when she laughed softly. “Believe it or not, I was happy to have helped out in the Tyake deal. It gave me something to focus on. I liked it more than I would have expected, considering.”

“I’ve always said you have an excellent mind for business.” She met his stare and comprehension settled. “Oh, I see. It wasn’t
that
apology that you wanted.”

“Or expected,” she said quietly. For a second, the silence stretched between them, seeming to thicken. Take on weight. “I was happy to help you, Ian. Support you. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I do now. It was the only opportunity you gave me to do anything for you. You wouldn’t let me share in any other burden.”

He heard her frustration and understood. “I was all right, Francesca—”

“You were split wide open,” she interrupted him starkly.

He clamped his mouth shut. He felt the pain rise up in his chest, and tamped it down willfully. Anger filled the empty space. This is why he didn’t like confrontations. It ripped the scab off old wounds. Made him
feel
, when that was the last thing he wanted to do.

“How would you have liked it,” she asked in a quiet, trembling voice, “if I had been hurting as much as you were, and I ran away, depriving you of the opportunity to comfort me. How would you feel?
Ian?
” she pressed when he didn’t respond, taking another step toward him.

His nostrils flared as he tried to expand his aching lungs while keeping his mouth sealed tight to prevent . . . what? He couldn’t say. He wanted very much to walk away in that moment, but Francesca’s eyes wouldn’t let him.

She raised her eyebrows expectantly, waiting.

“Furious,” he admitted finally. “Desperate.”

“That’s right,” she said. She stepped closer still and reached up, putting her palms on either side of his face. Her eyes burned him like dark fire. The pain in his chest amplified despite his efforts to contain it. Grimacing, he grabbed her wrists and tried to push her away. She’d been ready for it, though. Her hands broke free of his halfhearted restraint. She threw her weight against him so that he caught her roughly to steady her, his hands at her waist beneath her coat. Cupping his jaw again, she tilted his face down toward her.

Christ.
He hadn’t been expecting this; hadn’t read her unusual mood accurately. He wasn’t prepared.

She sealed her front to his and went up on her toes. She kissed him. Sweet. Addictive. Insistent. Desire didn’t hesitate, flooding into his blood, washing away his doubt . . . his anger . . . his pride. He should have walked away while he could, left to hunker down in solitude to silence that ache.

Once he tasted her, he knew he’d stay.

It was like keeping still in leaping flames, accepting what she gave him . . . knowing she saw his pain . . . letting her lick his wounds. He didn’t really consciously agree to it. It was just that he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed between pain and shame on one side, and rabid need on the other.

She moaned softly into his mouth, her taste permeating him. Arousal crumbled his last defense. He tightened his hold, spreading one hand on her lower back and the other on her hip and buttock. He bent down over her, forcing her back into a slight arch, grinding her against him.

She broke their kiss and pushed against him, straightening. He clutched her to him while she rained kisses on his jaw and neck. When she’d first pressed her lips to his, they’d been cool from the winter air. So quickly, she’d grown hot, feverish in her determination to give.

But he’d always struggled to take.

He felt her hands at the waist of his pants, unfastening them.

“Francesca,” he began hoarsely.

“Shhh,”
she soothed, her fleet fingers working the buttons through the holes of his shirt, the anticipation tearing at him so much that he moved to help her. She ripped the last button free and whipped back both sides of his shirt. She pressed her face to him. He held her head against him, staring out the sunlit window, seeing nothing as her mouth moved over him, kissing, licking, biting gently. His skin roughened in pleasure. He tried to take her into his arms and lift her to the bed when she sucked and nibbled at a taut nipple. She resisted him, however, whispering “no” against his damp skin. He looked down at her in helpless arousal as she laved the sensitive flesh with the tip of a dark pink tongue. He delved his fingers into her hair and hissed her name.

As if in answer, she began kissing his ribs, her hands massaging his back muscles, scraping her nails down his spine until he shuddered. He groaned in agonized anticipation when she dropped to her knees before him. Christ. It’d been so long for him, he didn’t think he could stand the buildup to bliss. He couldn’t understand in that moment how he’d ever lived without it.

She released his cock and jerked down his clothing beneath it. Her cool fingers gripping his swollen flesh made him wonder if steam would rise off him, he was so overheated. She held him naked in her hand, his underwear bunched around his balls, stroking his length firmly, no shyness or reluctance, her motions sure and firm, even a little rough . . . just like a man liked it.

Just like
he
liked it. Just like he’d taught her.

She bathed the head almost delicately with her tongue while she jacked the stalk vigorously. She looked up and met his stare as she arrowed him between her lips. He inhaled sharply as she sucked, and his cock slid along her warm tongue. He read the message in her eyes and it made him want to shout. Weep. Punish her for making him feel so much. Come in Francesca’s sweet mouth and never stop. He furrowed his fingers into her hair and pulsed into the heaven of her, opting for the latter choice.