Because You Are Mine Part III: Because You Haunt Me (4 page)

“Is this what you wanted me available for?” she muttered, her voice low and thick with sleep.

“Perhaps. I can’t stop thinking about your pussy. I’m looking forward to spending as much time as possible buried in it.” He flicked her clit with extra pressure, and watched, fascinated, as she gasped and bit her fleshy lower lip. Christ. He was going to kill himself feasting on her. She was a never-ending orgy of delight all encapsulated in one gorgeous, fascinating woman.

“Roll onto your back,” he said, his finger still plucking and stroking between her creamy labia, his gaze intent on her face as he tightly examined her subtle reactions to his manipulations, gauging her . . . learning her. His hand moved with her as she lay on her back. “Now spread your legs. I want to look at you,” he instructed gruffly.

She widened her slender thighs. His gaze fixed between her legs, he reached for the control panel, lowering the footrest of her recliner. He knelt before her, his body between her spread knees. He removed his hand and stared at her sex, utterly spellbound.

“I usually ask women to shave for me,” he said. “It increases the sensitivity. Makes a woman totally available to me.”

“Is that what you’d like me to do?” she asked. His gaze zoomed up to her face. Her dark, velvety eyes shone with arousal.

“I don’t want you to change a thing. You have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen. I may be demanding, but even I know better than to mess with perfection.”

Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. He reached and used his fingers to widen her sex lips, exposing glistening dark pink folds and the tiny slick opening to her vagina. His cock lurched viciously, knowing precisely where it wanted to be at that moment. He longed to push his tongue into that hole, as well, to have her juices sliding down his throat. He craved it.

But if he tasted her, he’d take her, there and now. That was a certainty.

He reluctantly rose and sat again next to her on the wide seat of the lounger. He leaned down and kissed her parted lips lightly as he resumed stroking her clit.

“Does this feel good?” he asked, his gaze running over her flushed face.

“Yes,” she whispered, the fervency of her response convincing him as much as her pink-stained lips, cheeks, and heaving breasts. He flicked at her clit, giving it a rapid, gentle, back-and-forth lashing with the ridge of his forefinger. She gasped, and he smiled. She was so wet that he could hear himself moving in her creamy flesh.

“You’re so responsive. I can’t wait to see what heights of pleasure I can evoke out of your beautiful body.”

He rubbed her clit hard, pulsing her.

“Oh . . . Ian,” she moaned, twisting her hips, lifting her pelvis against his hand to increase the pressure.

“It’s all right, lovely,” he whispered next to her mouth, plucking at her lips as she panted. “I grant you what I deny myself for now. Come against my hand.”

He watched, raging in an inferno of arousal, as the tension in her sleek, soft body broke, and she cried out in pleasure. He smelled it—the unique perfume that rose off her skin when she climaxed. Unable to stop himself, he seized her mouth with his own, silencing her whimpers almost angrily, slaking his thirst on her sweetness.

When her shudders of orgasm finally quieted, he tore his mouth from hers and buried his head in the crook of her shoulder and neck, panting nearly as much as she was. After a moment, he acknowledged that he wouldn’t be able to quiet his raging erection while inhaling her intoxicating scent.

He straightened and rose, walking back over to his lounger.

“We’ll be arriving in Paris soon,” he murmured, tapping his keyboard and noticing that the finger he’d used to make her come still gleamed with her abundant juices. He closed his eyes briefly to shut out the arousing image. It lingered, seemingly burned into the back of his shut eyelids. “Why don’t you go into the bedroom, wash up, and change.”

“Change?” she asked.

He nodded and dared to look at her naked beauty flushed from climax.
Christ,
she was beautiful: the dark eyes of a nymph, the pale, soft skin of an Irish maid, the lithe, voluptuous body of a Roman goddess. He resisted a nearly imperative, dark urge to pounce and sink his cock into the heaven of her like some kind of wild animal.

“Yes. I’m taking you out to dinner,” he said, shortly, instead.

“You bought me something to wear?” she asked, nymph eyes going wide in surprise.

He smiled grimly and returned his attention to his work with monumental effort. “I told you I’d give you everything you needed, Francesca.”

***

She must be becoming jaded, because when she saw the opulent, surprisingly large aircraft bedroom suite, she wasn’t stunned. Maybe that was because she was getting to know Ian better and knew he’d never be satisfied with anything but tasteful perfection. She opened the closet door, as he had instructed her to do, and saw a black knit evening dress hanging in the closet.

“Lin says to tell you that everything else you’ll need is either inside the top drawer in the bureau in the closet or on top of it
,
” Ian had said a moment ago. “She says the temperature in Paris will be a pleasant sixty-five degrees tonight, so the hosiery is optional,” he added, glancing at his cell phone, clearly reading a text from his efficient assistant.

Inside the built-in mahogany drawer, she found an exquisite black lace panty-and-bra set. She held up another ebony lace item, confused, before realizing it was a garter. A wave of embarrassment went through her at the thought of Lin arranging to have this intimate apparel made available to her. Perhaps she ran such errands for Ian all the time?

Her fingers ran over the last item in the drawer—silk stockings. She glanced nervously at the closed door to the bedroom and stuffed the garter back into the drawer. More than likely, Ian would want her to wear them, but she had no idea how to put on a garter and stockings. Besides, Lin had said hosiery was optional, hadn’t she?

On top of the bureau were two boxes—one made of cardboard and one of leather. She opened the shoe box first and gave a muted
oooh
of pleasure when she saw a black suede, super-sexy pair of pumps nestled in tissue. Francesca wasn’t a shoe hound by any stretch of the imagination—her jogging shoes were the most prized and expensive item of clothing that she owned—but a woman’s heart must beat in her breast after all, because she couldn’t wait to try on the sophisticated heels. She noticed the brand and winced. The shoes probably cost more than she paid for three months’ worth of rent.

Feeling both thrilled and wary, she opened the last box. The pearls shone luminously against the black velvet lining. The necklace was an exquisite double strand, the earring studs simple. Both items epitomized understated class.

Was this all part of her payment for agreeing to let Ian possess her sexually for a period of time? The thought sickened her a little.

Setting aside the leather box, she hurried to the bathroom and dropped the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. A hot shower would ground her, help her cast off this surreal sense that kept creeping upon her stealthily. She twisted a towel around her head to keep her hair dry and turned on the water.

She walked out of the bathroom several minutes later, her skin gleaming with the scented moisturizer she’d found on the counter. She still hadn’t decided about what to do with all the expensive clothing and jewelry Ian had provided.

“We’re about an hour out. We got lucky. Conditions were perfect,” an electronic-sounding male voice said, making her start in shock. She realized it was the pilot, who spoke through a microphone somewhere. She thought of Ian out in the other compartment, glancing up, rising out of his concentration as he worked when he heard the pilot.

He expected her to wear the clothing he’d bought for her. He would be irritated if she refused. She didn’t want to do battle with him. Not tonight. Besides, hadn’t she agreed to this mad venture?

Hadn’t she sold her soul to the devil in order to fully experience his touch?

She discounted the melodramatic thought and went over to the drawer and withdrew the silk-and-lace panties.

Twenty minutes later, she walked out of the bedroom, feeling extremely self-conscious and quite sure she was going to fall on her face in the luscious heels she wore. Ian gave a brief sideways glance when she approached, then did a double take. His expression went flat as his gaze ran over her.

“I . . . didn’t know what to do with my hair,” she said stupidly. “I have some plastic clips in my purse, but they didn’t seem—”

“No,” he said, standing. Even wearing the heels, she was still a good three or four inches shorter than him. He reached out and ran his fingers through her unbound hair. At least she’d straightened it this morning, and it wasn’t too wild after her sleep. It looked smooth and lustrous next to the black dress after she’d combed it, but even Francesca—a complete fashion idiot—knew that the outfit she wore called for an upswept style. “We’ll get you something suitable to put it up tomorrow. But for tonight, you can wear it down. A crown of glory like that is never out of place.”

She gave him an uncertain smile. His blue-eyed stare flickered over her breasts, waist, and belly, making her flush with heat. Francesca had been part horrified, part thrilled to see how closely the thin knit wraparound dress hugged her figure. The dress was elegant sexiness defined—or at least it would have been on somebody else, she amended as she studied Ian’s face anxiously.

Was he pleased? She couldn’t quite tell from his shuttered expression.

“I’m not going to keep any of these things,” she said quietly. “They’re too much.”

“I told you that I could offer you two things in this venture.”

“Yes . . . pleasure and experience.”

“It gives
me
great pleasure to see your beauty revealed. As for you, the clothing is part of the experience, Francesca.” His gaze sunk over her, and he released her hair, his jaw looking tight. “Why don’t you just enjoy it? God knows I will,” he said roughly before he turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him with a brisk click.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Francesca sat in the midst of the Palais-Royal, at a private table at the historic Le Grand Véfour restaurant. She was so overwhelmed by the voluptuous artwork, the sumptuous food, the anticipation of what was to happen later that night . . . by Ian’s steady, heavy-lidded gaze on her that she could barely swallow the food, let alone appreciate it as she should have.

The entire experience was a barely restrained seduction.

“You hardly ate,” Ian said when the waiter came to clear the remains of their entrées.

“I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, cringing inwardly at the mere thought of how much money and effort had been wasted on her sublime meal of beef bourguignon and mashed potatoes with oxtails and black truffles that was about to be tossed into the garbage. The waiter spoke inquiringly to Ian in French, and he replied in kind, never removing his gaze from her. One thing was for certain: She’d barely been able to take her eyes off him ever since he’d emerged from the plane’s bedroom earlier, wearing a modern version of a classic tuxedo with a black necktie instead of a bow, a pristine white shirt, and a handkerchief tucked into his pocket. He’d turned every head in the exclusive restaurant while escorting her to the table.

“Are you nervous?” he asked quietly once the waiter had walked away.

She nodded, intuiting his meaning. She stared at his long, blunt-tipped fingers idly circling the base of his champagne flute and repressed a shiver.

“Would it help you any to know that I am as well?”

She blinked and looked into his face. His blue eyes were like gleaming crescents beneath hooded lids.

“Yes,” she blurted out. And after a pause, “You
are
?”

He nodded thoughtfully. “With good reason, I think.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked in a hushed tone.

“Because I’m so excited to have you, there’s a chance I’ll lose control. I never lose control, Francesca. Never. But I might tonight.”

A thrill of anticipation went through her at the hint of dark warning in his tone. Why did the thought of seeing Ian undone by passion stir her to her very core? She glanced up in surprise when the waiter returned and placed a beautiful dessert before her and a silver coffee service before Ian.

“Est-ce qu’il y aura autre chose, monsieur?” the waiter asked Ian.

“Non, merci.”

“Très bien, bon appétit,” the waiter said before he walked away.

“I didn’t order this,” Francesca said, staring dubiously at the dessert.

“I know. I ordered it for you. Eat some. You’re going to need the energy, lovely.” She glanced up from beneath her lashes and saw his small smile. “It’s the house specialty,
palet aux noisettes
. Even if you were stuffed to the gills, you’d want this. Trust me,” he urged softly. She picked up her fork.

She gave a small moan of sensual delight a moment later as the combination of cake, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and caramel ice cream blended on her tongue. He smiled, and she smiled back impishly, forking another portion with more enthusiasm.

“You speak French very well,” she commented before she slid the fork between her lips.

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t. I’m a French citizen, as well as one of the United Kingdom. It’s a tie-up as to whether my native tongue is French or English. The townspeople spoke French where I grew up; my mother English.”

She paused in her chewing, recalling what Mrs. Hanson had told her about Ian’s grandparents finally finding their daughter in northern France and discovering a grandson as well. She longed to ask him more about his past.

“You never speak of your parents,” she said cautiously, taking another bite.

“You never speak of yours, either. Aren’t you close with them?”

“Not really,” she said, hiding her scowl at the realization he’d changed the topic away from himself. “My whole life I thought they disapproved of me because I was overweight, or so I thought. Now that I’m not overweight anymore, I’ve had to come to the conclusion that they just don’t get me. Period.”