Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(41)
Author: Beth Kery

“Stay right there,” he grated out, lifting her hips more firmly in his grasp and serving her pussy to his raging cock, slapping her ass against his pelvis and thighs, too far gone to care if he was making her spanked bottom burn in discomfort. God, it felt so good. He slammed her against his pelvis, his cock jerking viciously at her farthest reaches.

His roar of release scored his throat as orgasm tore through him.

* * *

Francesca just lay there with her hot cheek pressed against the soft fabric of the chair, her mouth gaping open in wonder at the sensation of him coming inside her. All that power, rocketing into her, detonating inside her. She thought she’d remember the first time she felt Ian succumbing to pleasure while harbored deep inside her body for the rest of her life.

His grunt sounded like it tore at his throat. It felt like something vital was being ripped out of her when he withdrew abruptly.

“Francesca,” he said at the same moment he lifted her into a standing position, her back against his front, and turned her toward the couch. They walked—staggered more like it—their bodies not breaking contact while they crossed the short distance to the sofa. Ian fell onto the cushions, bringing her with him. He lay on his left hip, her back pressed against his tie and the buttons of his dress shirt. His warm, sticky, still-formidable cock pressed against her lower spine.

They both just panted and gasped for a minute. She became transfixed by the sensation of his warm breath striking her neck and shoulder.

“Ian?” she asked after his breath had grown more even and he began to languorously stroke her waist and hip.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice low and rough.

“Are you really angry with me?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“But you were before?” she persisted.

“Yes.”

She twisted her chin. His face looked subdued as he watched his hand moving up and down the naked side of her body.

“I don’t understand. Why?”

His hand faltered and his mouth went tight.

“Please tell me,” she whispered.

“My mother used to run away occasionally when I was a child,” he said.

“Run away?” she asked slowly. “Why? Where did she run to?”

He shrugged. “God knows. I’d find her different places—staggering down a country road, trying to feed leaves to a panicked puppy, bathing naked in an ice-cold river . . .”

A shiver of horror went through her as she studied his impassive face.

“She was mentally ill?” she asked, recalling what Mrs. Hanson had told her.

“Schizophrenic,” he said, lifting his hand from her hip and brushing back his short bangs off his forehead. “Disorganized type. Although she could be quite paranoid at times as well.”

“And was she . . . was she like that all the time?” Francesca asked through a throat that had gone tight.

His blue eyes flickered over her face. She quickly hid her concern, intuiting he’d take it for pity. “No. She wasn’t. Sometimes, she was the sweetest, kindest, most loving mother in the world.”

“Ian,” she called softly when he began to sit up. She sensed his withdrawal and hated knowing she’d caused it.

“It’s all right,” he said, swinging his long legs onto the floor, his profile to her. “Maybe it’ll help you understand better why I really would prefer that you don’t disappear like that.”

“I’ll be sure and leave a note or call if something similar happens in the future, but I have to make my own choices,” she said, studying him nervously. She would not promise to always be waiting around for him in order to help him manage his anxiety.

His head swung around. She sensed his irritation. Was he going to tell her that she damn well better do what he demanded, or their arrangement would come to a halt? “I would prefer that you just sat tight if a similar situation arises,” he said.

“I know. I heard you,” she said softly. She sat up and brushed her mouth against his hard jaw. “And I’ll keep your preferences in mind before I make my own choice.”

He closed his eyes briefly, as if gathering himself. Would she never cease to annoy him?

“Why don’t you get cleaned up and we’ll go out for a spell,” he said stiffly as he stood and started out of the room, presumably to go to the other suite and clean up. Relief swept through her when she realized he wasn’t going to fly her back to Chicago this instant for not doing precisely what he wanted, when he wanted it. Admittedly, so did a tad of triumph.

“You’re not going to try to teach me anymore . . . try to convince me it’s your way or the highway?” she asked, unable to keep a smile from pulling at the corners of her mouth.

He glanced over his shoulder. She saw the flash in his blue eyes that reminded her of heat lightning—like a storm brewing and mounting in the distance. Her smile faded.

When would she learn to keep her big mouth shut?

“The day isn’t over yet, Francesca,” he said, his voice a low, caressing menace, before he turned and walked out of the room.

Part V

Because I Said So

Chapter Nine

When she walked into the living room of the suite after cleaning up and dressing, she found Ian sitting at a desk, his computer open, his phone next to his ear.

“I’ve gone over his background extensively. His experience is steeped in venture-capitalist and fly-by-night Internet companies. He hasn’t got a stitch of financial discipline,” she heard him say. He glanced up and noticed her walk into the room. His eyes remained on her as he spoke. “What I actually told you is that you may hire whomever you wanted from a pool of acceptable CFO candidates, Declan. You have yet to supply me with that pool, so until you do, don’t start the hiring process, especially with a joker like this.” Another pause. “That may be true for all the other companies in the world, but not for one of mine,” he said, his voice like dry ice, before he said good-bye briskly.

“Sorry about that,” he said, standing and removing his glasses. “I’m having a hard time staffing a start-up company.”

“What sort of a company is it?” Francesca asked, interested. He never really spoke to her much about his work.

“A social-media-gaming concept that I’m test-driving in Europe.”

“And you’re having trouble finding the executives you want?”

He sighed and stood. He looked regal casual—a new term she made up on the spot to describe Ian’s apparel when he wasn’t wearing his typical suit. Today, it involved a cobalt-blue V-neck lightweight sweater, a white dress shirt beneath showing at the collar, and a pair of black pants that did god-awful-sexy things for his narrow hips and long legs.