Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(21)
Author: Beth Kery

“Straddle my lap,” he ordered.

Her nearly dried hair scattered around her shoulders and back as she did his bidding. He placed his hands on her hips, settling her hot, burning bottom on his thighs. He smoothed her hair behind her shoulders, exposing her breasts. His gaze fixed on them, his upper lip curling slightly in a snarl.

“Look at that,” he said under his breath. “Your nipples are nearly as red as your ass.” His gaze flickered up to her face. “So are your cheeks, Francesca . . . and your lips. You enjoyed being punished, lovely. And that pleases me so much. It’s going to be so good fucking your wet little pussy.”

Her sex clenched painfully. He opened his large hands around her ribs and lowered his head, bringing her breasts to him. She tensed, expecting the delightful, forceful suck he’d treated her nipple to in the workout room, but instead, he pursed his lips slightly, kissing first one turgid nipple, then the other sweetly. “So perfect,” he whispered. His hands moved rapidly. Her excitement spiked when she realized he was unfastening his pants. He slipped just the crest of her breast between his lips, sucking lightly and whipping the flesh with his wet, warm tongue.

Her clit sizzled, tormenting her. Her hips twitched in his lap. She couldn’t control herself. She clutched onto his head and made a wild, fevered sound in her throat. He lifted his head and glanced up at her face.

“It’s all right,” he soothed, his blue eyes alight with lust. He moved his hand, sliding it down her heaving belly. She whimpered when he slid his finger between her creamy labia. He touched her clit. That’s all. One touch.

She exploded like a cache of dynamite.

She hardly knew what she was doing, so much pleasure swamped her existence at that moment. For a moment or two, he continued to stroke her clit as climax thundered through her. Distantly, she was aware of him cursing harshly and pushing her closer to his body, as if he wanted to absorb her shudders of orgasm. She shook against him, helpless in the face of roaring pleasure.

He shifted his hand. She cried out when she felt him push a thick finger into her vagina.

The next thing she knew, she was sprawled on the couch next to Ian, and he was staring down at her as she gasped for air.

“You’ve never been with a man. Have you?”

Her soughing breath froze. It hadn’t really been a question but an accusation.

“No,” she said, resuming her panting. Why was he looking at her like that? “I told you.”

Fury sparked in his eyes. “When exactly did you tell me you were a virgin, Francesca? Because I sincerely doubt I would have let such a crucial piece of information slip my mind,” he snarled.

“There—before we came into the room tonight,” she said, pointing stupidly at the door to his bedroom. “You asked if I’d ever done this before, and I said—”

“I meant had you ever let a man punish you. Dominate you. Not—fuck,” he muttered in a blistering fashion. He stood jerkily and began to pace in front of the fireplace, raking his fingers through his short hair. He looked a little demented.

“Ian, what—”

“I knew this was a mistake,” he muttered bitterly. “Who did I think I was kidding?”

Her lips parted in dawning shock. He thought this had been a mistake? He was rejecting her? Now? Fresh images and sensations bombarded her consciousness, memories of how wild she’d been, how out of control with lust and need.

She relearned a painful childhood lesson at that moment, one that she would have done well to recall tonight. It caused no greater shame than to express need, to make oneself vulnerable, and then to have that pure, honest emotion thrown back at you as if it were garbage.

Tears blinding her eyes, she reached desperately for the cashmere throw blanket at the corner of the couch. She whipped it around her naked body before she stood. Ian came to a halt when he saw what she was doing.

“What are you doing?” he barked.

“I’m leaving,” she replied, stalking toward the bathroom.

“Francesca, stop right this second,” he commanded, his voice quiet . . . intimidating.

She paused and glanced back at him. Hurt and fury rose in her, tightening her throat. “You just lost the right to order me around,” she grated out.

He blanched.

She turned just in time to prevent him from seeing the gathered tears spill out of her eyes. Ian Noble had seen enough of her vulnerability for one night.

He’d seen more than enough for a lifetime.

Part III

Because You Haunt Me

Chapter Five

Two days later, Ian watched out the window of his limo as Jacob Suarez turned down a street lined with attractive brick townhomes. An associate had informed him that David Feinstein had inherited the residence from his deceased parents, Julia and Sylvester, but that David could likely have afforded the affluent Wicker Park residence on his own. Feinstein’s art gallery was doing very well. Apparently Francesca’s roommate possessed excellent taste and good business sense along with a refined, quiet, thorough manner that appealed to many wealthy art connoisseurs.

Ian had also been admittedly relieved to learn that David—or “Davie,” as Francesca called him—was gay. Not that her housemates’ sexual preferences mattered much, Ian thought, as Jacob came to a halt. He’d proved firsthand the other night that Francesca’s housemates weren’t touching anything they shouldn’t.

He’d learned firsthand that he had been touching things he shouldn’t, with the result that he was wearing a frown by the time his driver opened the car door for him.

The image of Francesca’s shattered expression as she’d left his bedroom the other night burned his consciousness for the thousandth time. He’d watched, fuming silently, as she’d fled the penthouse, wanting to stop her but knowing by the fixed, stubborn expression on her beautiful face that she wouldn’t listen to him at that moment. He’d been furious at her for putting them in this situation, and furious at himself for seeing only what had been convenient for him to see.

Yes, he’d understood she was innocent, but not to that degree. He’d known it was best just to let her go. For good.

Yet here he stood.

He rapped at the dark green painted wood door with a strange sense of resigned determination. From where did this strange obsession come? Did it have to do with the fact that Francesca had caught him unawares in her painting years ago? Her possession of him had been fleeting, but alarmingly concise.

He wanted to both punish her and possess her in turn for her innocent infraction.