Driven By Fate (12 page)

“Look at me, Francesca. Show me with your eyes how much you enjoy sucking it.”

Her thick, black eyelashes lifted to gift him with a flash of silver. Gratification swam in their depths. So much. She loved the rock hard evidence of how bad he wanted to fuck her. There was frustration there, too, though. Of a sexual nature, yes. His beautiful overachiever wanted to get more of him into her mouth and couldn’t manage it. Jesus, the sight of her trying to take him down while pumping his length in her hand…he would live off the image forever.

The hell with that. He’d just live off it until the next time. “You’re going to work hard until the entire thing disappears into your mouth, aren’t you? Just like we had to work on getting me into your pussy. Nod like my good girl.” He stroked her hair, groaning when she managed another inch.
Christ.
“Memorize the shape and taste, Francesca. I like having it sucked. Frequently. I’ll require it often.”

Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned around his swollen flesh, hand working faster in time with her mouth. Porter’s head fell back, hips rolling in a subtle upward movement. Just a little longer. A little longer to enjoy before he dragged her onto the bed and made her scream.

Downstairs, a door opened and shut. Loud male voices reached through the floorboards, muffled but excited. Between his outstretched thighs, Francesca pulled back with a gasp, slapping her hands over her mouth. Unacceptable. Porter swore his jaw would shatter from the pressure. Not with frustration over the intrusion, although there was definitely some of that. It was more, however. Men in the vicinity of his woman. His woman who should be waiting for his directive to stop. Rationally, he understood her concern, but his nature didn’t care. It wanted her focused on him, too lost to stop.

Just like him.

Porter reached down, wrapping a fist around her nightgown strap. He hauled her onto the mattress beside him and stood, yanking her knees to the edge of the bed. With rough hands, he shoved the nightgown up and over her hips, before taking a moment to savor the sight of her, unable to resist jacking himself as he rolled on a condom, looked her over. Smooth, tan thighs spread. Upturned ass lifted for a fuck. Perfection.

“Porter, you can’t—”

He whipped the belt from his pants and shoved the leather between her teeth. As soon as he felt her lips close around the edge, he drove his cock to the hilt, groaning in satisfaction at her muted scream.
Oh god
. There is was, that sexy clench of her inner muscles, driving him to insanity. Good. So
goddamn
good. “Oh, I can.” He enunciated each word through his teeth. “I
will
. I will sweat and come and curse all over you. And then I’ll go downstairs and introduce myself as the man who will be making an appearance whenever you require my heavy cock. The one that makes you behave.” He reared back with his hips and slammed into her. “Does that make me a bad man, Francesca?”

The belt fell from her mouth. “Y-y-yes,” she sobbed. “You’re a bad man.” If her ass wasn’t pushed up against his stomach, pussy tightening and releasing around his dick rhythmically, he would have paused to reassure her. She wanted this, though. Needed it. The soles of her bare feet rubbed against his thighs, her undulating hips encouraged him to move, to thrust.

So he did.
Hard.
He put a hand on the back of her neck, pushing her face into the mattress to catch her cries as he drove.
Drovedrovedrove.
“You like the bad man, though, don’t you? The man who brings the pain and takes it away.” He aligned his chest with her back, nestling his mouth against her ear, keeping up his rapid thrusts. “How does my cock feel? Hurts a little, hmm?” With the hand not holding her neck, he reached around their bodies to tease her clit. Her hips bucked underneath him, her groan filling his chest with satisfaction. “Yes, I know. That’s better now. I give and I take away, don’t I, Francesca? Never forget it.”

Porter found her shoulder with his teeth, needing a place to subdue his own growls. His woman. His
woman.
The possessive voice in his head grew louder until nothing, not even the laughter coming from downstairs, could invade his conscious. The slap of his balls against her backside as his aching erection entered her wet pussy, the tops of his thighs connecting with hers, were all he could hear, see, feel.

Her muffled whimpers increased, her shoulders beginning to vibrate. “
My lord
.”

The title urged him on until the force of his drives were lifting her off the bed. “If someone walked in right now, I wouldn’t stop. No, little girl. I’d go harder.” He grabbed a section of her hair and used it to pull her head back. “I’d make them watch as I came. I’d show them how thoroughly I own this body.
Your
body. I’d make you tell them how good I feel.”

“Oh god…” she moaned. “I’m—
please
.”

Somehow the rain pinging on the roof managed to break into his thoughts. He didn’t want the rain there. Rain reminded him of home. Home reminding him of leaving her. No.
No
. He shoved the unwanted reminder aside and refocused on Francesca. His. His for now.

Forever.

The word blasted through the sound of falling rain and took a torch to his insides. He looked down at her writhing body and had the sudden, fierce desire to see it dappled with rain, to see her smiling face upturned in the downpour. So beautiful. Her image flickered and he found his throat closing, found himself hurriedly drawing her back against his chest to reassure himself she hadn’t vanished.

What was happening to him?

“Francesca.” Was that his voice? “
I need you
.”

She turned her head, gaze seeking his over her shoulder. Pure pleasure clouded the silver pools, but concern threaded into their depths. “I’m right here. I can’t go anywhere. You’re inside me.”

His hand slipped to the left side of her chest, over her pounding heart.
Here? Did she mean here?
“You’re inside me, too.” The revelation left him before he could stop it. He expected her to question him—what the hell would he say? —or try and disengage. Instead, she lifted one hand and curled it around the back of his head, tugging it down. Their mouths united in a slow glide of tongues that turned ravenous almost immediately. Crushing her back against his chest, he reversed positions and sat down on the mattress’s edge, Francesca facing the door.
Yes
, he liked this even better. Every inch of them touching.

“Ride me,” he groaned into her hair. “Make it stop hurting.”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

Francesca placed her hands on his knees for leverage, snapping her hips back and grinding forward. Porter dropped his head into the crook of her neck and gathered the hem of her nightgown in one hand, holding it at her waist so he could pet her clit. “Good girl. Open your thighs a little wider. Work the tip…
fuuuck
, just like that.” She sank down to the root and tweaked her hips, stealing his breath. “You learn fast what your lord needs. Not a beginner…not anymore. Still feel like one, though, don’t you?
Christ,
you do.”

As he watched, riveted, she wedged her feet against his thighs, bringing her knees even with her shoulders. “My lord is a good teacher,” she murmured. Porter’s eyesight wavered as she lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped. His cock jerked inside her body, his balls drawing up tight. His hands flew to her hips, fingers digging into her flesh until she increased the pace. She ground down on his cock over and over, ass meeting his lap each time with a
smack
. He angled his body so the thickness of his erection would slip against her clit with each impaling of her body.
Ahhh fuck
, she loved that. She let her thighs fall wide open for maximum impact, head falling back, tits thrusting into the air.

“Oh…god.
Oh god
.” She stopped bouncing and began circling her hips in fast, tight figure eights. “I have to—I’m going to—”

Porter reached between her legs and pressed her sensitive nub with his thumb. “Not just yet. Tell your lord who makes your pussy cry.”

“He does.
You do
.”

She bore down on his cock and he slapped her between the legs in reprisal. “Who will fuck you in a house full of people because he owns what is hidden inside your panties?”

“Y-you, my lord,” she gasped.

“That’s right, Francesca. There’s every chance we’ll go downstairs to meet these men and while we’re making small talk, I’ll decide I want my cock sucked again.” Just saying the words made his hardness surge. He was close. So goddamn close. “If that happens, what will I do?”

A breathless pause during which her body started to tremble. “Bring me back upstairs.”

“Correct,” he groaned. “You’re allowed to come now.” Porter bit down on her earlobe as she climaxed, incapable of stopping himself from following her. To whom had he been giving permission? She drew on him with her clenching body, sending hot liquid rushing from his painfully full arousal. He sucked in deep breaths of her scent, finding it helped center him and God only knew, he needed centering. Nothing about this was familiar. Nothing controlled or simple. Just messy, chaotic need, and relief that was short-lived because he already wanted her again.

And he couldn’t foresee a time when he wouldn’t.

Chapter Fourteen

Conflict fluttered inside Frankie’s chest, grazing her ribcage like wings.

She could hear her uncle’s booming laugh as he moved through the kitchen, the sound filling her bedroom. In a minute, she would walk downstairs with Porter and there would be no doubt as to what they’d been doing. In all the years they’d lived together, she’d never brought home a date, hoping to spare her uncle the horror of having
the talk
. The talk he hadn’t signed up for. On the few occasions she’d been intimate with men, it had been far from their little patch of Queens. Just the possibility of running into her uncle or one of their family friends had made her stomach twist.

Now? Right this second? She
wanted
to walk down those stairs with Porter. That was where the conflict stemmed from. Since she’d met him, her body felt different. She
saw
herself differently when looking in the mirror. Saw someone desirable, a woman who could tempt a man. And dammit, she really didn’t feel like hiding that feeling. Hiding
herself
.

Not anymore. Yes, this introduction was going to be a little uncomfortable. Porter wasn’t exactly the first man she’d envisioned bringing through her front door, nor was he a brilliant conversationalist. But she’d been uncomfortable inside her own skin her whole life. Hell, just being a woman in a male-dominated world had done it. This impending meeting felt different. As if she’d shed an outer layer and would be walking around exposed from now on. Free.

Porter’s footsteps creaked on the floorboards as he approached her from behind. She’d been standing there way too long, dragging a brush through her hair, staring into space. He placed a strong hand on her hip and that was all it took. Her brush paused mid-stroke and every cell in her body rushed to the spot he touched.

“Where do you keep your clothes?”

She shivered at the low pitch of his voice. “Why?”

His touch slid down, gathering the hem of her nightgown and lifting. “You’re not going downstairs in this. In fact, I’m taking it with me. You may only wear it at my home.” He tugged the garment over her head and, without turning around, she could sense him folding it. “Clothes.”

Since he couldn’t see her, she didn’t bother hiding her smile. “Middle drawer for jeans. Top drawer for shirts.”

His breath lifted the hair on her neck. “Panties?”

Heat tickled her belly. “The drawer beside the shirts.”

Frankie closed her eyes, listening to the homey sounds of him opening and closing her ancient drawers. She couldn’t recall a single time she’d stood naked this long. There was no self-consciousness, only awareness as he removed a pair of light blue underwear from her drawer and dragged them slowly up her legs, massaging her backside where his spankings had landed.

She’d always taken care of herself, would continue to do so as long as necessary. A leopard didn’t change its spots. But it felt
unbelievable
to let someone dress her, direct her, soothe her. Cherish her. Remove all responsibility. For now. Just for now.

Warm hands ghosted over her naked breasts, a kiss lingered at her shoulder. He placed her palms flat on the dresser and lifted her feet, one by one, into the waiting denim, before sliding her jeans up and over her bottom. As he zipped and buttoned her fly, his mouth moved over her ear. “I’ve never been more satisfied, Francesca, than I am after I’ve been inside your body. And still, I’m twice as desperate for you than when we started. It’s turning into a goddamn problem.”

He licked at her earlobe and she gasped. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re sorry,” he repeated, before a long pause. “I want to take you
home
with me.”

The intensity in his voice scraped over her raw senses. “I—” Spend the night with him? Was she willing to take that step? It felt so permanent. Oh, but she wanted to. Wanted very badly to wake up beside him, see him with stubble and bed head, make him breakfast while wearing one of his dress shirts. That yearning warned her it was a bad idea. The more time she spent, the more first experiences she had with him, would only mean more pain when this ended. His leaving was inevitable, if their affair didn’t end first. “I have early classes tomorrow,” she said. “I can come over afterward.”

His mouth was no longer at her ear. In her peripheral vision, she saw his hand grab a shirt from her drawer, the movement brisk. “I won’t be there.”

Those four simple words threatened to close off her throat. She turned to face him, trying not to show on her face the alarm bludgeoning her insides. “What?”

Porter pulled the shirt over her head, obscuring her vision for a second. “I have a business meeting in Miami tomorrow evening. It’s only for one night.”

Not London. Just one night. Thank God.

He reached a hand out, presumably to clear the hair from over her eyes, but he stopped, looking at his outstretched hand as if it had operated on its own. It dropped back to his side. “I was going to ask you to come with me. As my assistant,” he rushed to say. “I know you won’t take a free trip.”

“But you aren’t now? Going to ask me?” Of course, he wasn’t. What a ridiculous question. She’d just refused to spend the night at his house. Why would he assume she’d say yes to Miami?

Because I don’t want to be away from him.
The last three days had been harder than she’d ever expected. Another one so soon weighed like lead on her shoulders. But there was more. There was jealousy. This man, this sexually dynamic man, in Miami alone. Even the idea of women looking at him, wanting him, lusting after him, made her crazy. The emotion was so unlike her, yet stronger than anything she could remember.
Mine. My man. My Dominant.
“I want to go.”

His gaze narrowed. “You do.” It wasn’t a question. “Why?”

Her chest ached with the need to tell the truth. Was he compelling it out of her? “If I could go back to that night at Serve, I’d sock that redhead right in the face. I hate her,” she whispered. “I hate all of them.”

A flash of surprise crossed his face, before it disappeared into a scowl. “Honestly, Francesca. I’m beginning to think you don’t listen when I speak. No one from that night exists in my memory, save one mouthy girl in ripped jeans.” He tucked his shirt into his own jeans, muttering something about the rain and smiles. “Take that feeling you have about the redhead and multiply it by one thousand. You might just come close to how I felt watching those fuckers manhandle you outside. And does this mean you’ll come?”

“Yes.” The wings in her chest flapped wildly. “I’ve never been to Florida.”

He laughed. It was over way too fast, but she’d heard it. Rich, throaty…a little rusty. Obviously, he’d heard it, too, based on the way he wouldn’t look at her now. “Yes, well. It’s decent enough, although it’ll be a quick trip. Airport, hotel, dinner.”

Dinner. She did a mental scan of her closet’s contents. Not a damn dress in sight. She’d have to do something about that. Oh wow, she actually had a reason to buy a dress. Excitement coated her nerves like pancake batter. Not just about the prospect of dressing in something other than jeans, but being with Porter, spending the night in the same bed as him, watching him shave.

The warning bell in the back of her mind rang louder, but she didn’t want to listen. Not just then. She had a trip to pack for. Her body felt well-used. More. All she could think of was
more
. Getting her fill. When she got back from Miami, she’d figure out a way to reel back these feelings for Porter. With her upcoming presentation, it would be easy to pull focus from him and place it on work. But she could have this one thing, this one memory. Couldn’t she?

“There’s a lot going on in that beautiful head,” he murmured. “I’d love to know even half.”

Schooling her features, she ducked around his powerful form and headed toward the door, her mind turning to the upcoming scene with her uncle. Before she reached the door, she stopped. Without giving herself a chance to think, she extended a hand toward Porter. A terrifying moment passed where she didn’t think he would take it, that he would find it silly or juvenile.

But he did. His hand slid around hers, and they walked downstairs together.

…

In Porter’s lifetime, he’d flogged, paddled, and tied women up, even caned willing participants on the odd occasion. Somehow holding a woman’s hand felt far more intimate than any of those activities. It required more control than he could have imagined. The dark half of him demanded he squeeze,
squeeze
her hand until she whimpered. Order her to put that hand to better use. But there was a lighter half he was slowly becoming aware of, one that maybe hadn’t been revealed until she’d ripped the lid off. That half felt suffocated by the very idea of crushing this offering she’d given him. Just reached out…and offered.

He walked into the kitchen feeling like a bear with a daisy in his paw.

It was a scene from one of those family sitcoms he flipped past on the way to the six o’clock news. The only difference was there wasn’t a single woman. It looked like the beginnings of poker night, six men huddled around a kitchen table. One child, approximately seven years of age, sat perched on the counter in a Jets hat, pouring what appeared to be colored sugar straight from a paper tube into his mouth. The men handed around a bag of potato chips and cracked open beers. And it was loud. Mother of God, it was loud.

That is until they turned toward the stairway and saw their daisy in the bear’s grip. Although, she wasn’t
their
daisy any longer, was she? Even though he’d been the one to have the damned thought, it angered him that it been released into the universe. The urge to drag her back upstairs increased. It swelled and pushed at the inside of his skull. It started to lessen immediately when she tightened her hold on his hand. Just a gentle squeeze, nothing like the one he’d nearly been compelled to deliver.

“Hey, guys.”

One man stood from the table. Porter recognized him from the pictures lining the hallway—Francesca’s uncle. Joe. “Hey, yourself.”

“This is Porter. Evans. Porter Evans. He’s British. Please don’t make fun of his accent.” She cocked a hip. “Sanchez, get your damn feet off my table.”

A man, who was obviously Sanchez, immediately dropped his booted feet to the linoleum floor. “Sorry, Frankie.” He leaned forward on one elbow. “I hope I didn’t just screw myself out of dinner.”

“Nope, but you’re on dish duty.”

Sanchez held up a hand. “Fair enough.”

Unbelievable. He’d pictured her slaving away over a stove like a maid, when in reality she seemed to run the house. Something akin to pride bumped around inside him, looking for an outlet.

Francesca’s uncle had been silently watching them, but now he rounded the table, a puzzled look on his face. “Did you come from upstairs?”

Porter sensed the men at the table trading nervous glances, but he kept his attention on Joe. If he didn’t think it would upset Francesca, he would tell the man to mind his own damn business. Francesca was twenty-four and had apparently been tasked with paying the bloody mortgage, so if she wanted her man upstairs, she’d have him. But she’d just agreed to accompany him to Miami. No way he was about to fuck that up.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. De Luca.” He extended a hand toward Joe. “I’m seeing your niece.”

The older man’s eyebrows went up, but he shook Porter’s hand. “That right?”

“Quite.”

One of the men pushed back in his chair. “Frankie doesn’t date.”

Beside him, she smacked a hand to her forehead and Porter smothered a smile. “She doesn’t date anyone but me,” Porter corrected, setting off another round of anxious glances.

Francesca shifted from side to side. “Did the game end early?”

“No, we’re just getting too old to sit outside in the rain, even for the Jets.” Joe flexed his hand with what appeared to be serious difficulty before shoving it into his pocket. “We still have some of that spaghetti lying around? We’re starving.”

She shook her head. “It’s not enough I cook you breakfast, now its dinner, too?”

“Book club night for the wives,” Sanchez explained. “Also known as drink-too-much-red-wine-and-swap-recipes-that-they’ll-never-actually-use-on-us night.”

“And what’s preventing you from making your own dinner? Are your opposable thumbs in the shop?” Laughter rumbled in the room. “Fine, I’ll heat you up some leftovers, but someone pays to have my cab cleaned.”

Francesca started toward the refrigerator, but didn’t get three feet before being yanked to a halt. By him. His hand was still wrapped around hers, refusing to let go. Every eye in the room was trained on him; he could feel them, but he couldn’t seem to pry his fingers from hers. They’d only been standing in the room for one minute and he already had more questions than he’d walked in with. Why wasn’t Francesca at wine and recipe night? Did no one invite her? If he wasn’t here, would she have been sitting inside the dark house all by herself? The questions must have shown in his eyes, because she tilted her head, not the least bit uncomfortable with his behavior, more curious than anything. Instead of trying to pull away, she leaned down and kissed his wrist.

“Do you want some spaghetti?”

He did. He wanted to eat something she’d prepared. More than anything. But he didn’t belong in that kitchen and they both knew it. Coming down the stairs, he’d not given a fuck what anyone thought. Now that he stood in the middle of this scene that represented her life, he realized how little foresight he’d employed.