Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(44)
Author: Beth Kery

. . . and how damned.

He kissed her deliberately while he began to undress her, gentling her when she grew frantic and strained against him, taming her when her hunger grew wild and she bit at him, tempting him. She made a rough sound of protest when he broke their kiss in order to pull her T-shirt over her head, but then his mouth was back on hers, drinking her sweetness, using his hands to unfasten her bra and massage her breasts, his fingers to coax her nipples into hard, delectable crests that made his mouth water.

He lifted his head and began to slide his tie off his neck. “Take off the rest of your clothes and come over here,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

He watched her while he waited, his gaze lingering on her flushed cheeks and lips, the pale globes of her bare breasts heaving as she panted. For a moment, he wondered if she’d balk at such a stark order, but she surprised him by quickly complying. She was hurting so badly. Both of them were writhing in a sea of agonized need.

His mouth went dry when she removed her shoes, and then jerked her jeans and panties down over her hips and ass at once. He’d forgotten how lovely she was. He recalled the first time he’d seen her naked—the willowy waist and curving hips, the pale, smooth erotic harbor of her stomach, the soft, reddish-gold hair between firm white thighs. He longed to press his face to her belly now, absorb her softness and heat, inhale the subtle perfume of her sex. She’d asked him once if he wanted her to shave her genitals as he did, and he’d answered with an absolute negative. He knew better than to alter perfection.

“Come here and turn around,” he said.

She followed his instructions, walking toward him, naked. The ends of her hair swished next to her waist when she turned. Her ass was firm, but very feminine, curving deliciously. His hand itched to palm the plump buttocks, to slap them playfully . . . then not so playfully. He stroked her from waist to hip to buttock, amazed anew at the softness of her skin. He gently squeezed a taut cheek.

“Face me,” he instructed when he realized he was becoming fixated on the delightful sensation of her flesh in his palm. She did so and he lifted the hand that held his bow tie. His already throbbing cock lurched against his pants when without prompting, she put her wrists together to be bound in front of her mons.

Oh God. She was so exquisite. So rare. So much more than he deserved.

He tied her wrists together, and then studied her face closely, looking for signs of her state of being, clues as to what she needed. Her chin was held high, but he saw the wildness in her eyes, calling to mind a gentle creature turned feral . . . a rabid doe.

He stood and went to the walk-in closet. When he returned to her, he carried a leather belt.

* * *

Francesca took care to keep her face impassive when she saw the black leather belt looped in Ian’s right hand. He approached, pinning her with his stare, and began to roll back his sleeves. Her sex clenched tight and her nipples pinched at the vision of his strong, veined forearms sprinkled with dark hair. He always rolled back his sleeves before he punished her. She’d been conditioned to become aroused at the sight, but acute anxiety mixed with her lust tonight.

“I know I’ve never used a belt before,” he said.

“You used to say it was too harsh.”

“I don’t have much to work with here,” he said, and she knew he meant that he didn’t have his room full of sexual equipment at his disposal. He opened his hand at the side of her neck and gently stroked her throat with his thumb in a soothing gesture, as if he’d known she was having difficulty drawing breath as desire and anxiety warred in her chest. “You can trust me to attenuate, Francesca. You know I’d never harm you.” Her heart jumped. He closed his eyes briefly and she sensed his regret. “Not in this way, at least. Never. Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” she said, holding his stare. That much, she did believe.

He nodded slowly, still studying her face so intently, she wondered what he read there. He’d said once that women were a mystery even to themselves. She couldn’t have agreed more at that moment. She also knew he’d been given the gift of decoding her, though . . . and that’s why she stood here, naked and bound before a man who had forsaken her.

“Then come over here,” he said quietly, pointing at the bottom post on the grand bed. The four carved posts were seven feet tall. “Put your hands above your head and rest them on the post. No, don’t bend over all the way,” he instructed, using his hand to prompt her into the position he desired. When he’d settled her, she was mostly upright, but bent slightly at the waist, her weight braced by her bound hands. He put the looped belt strap between her thighs and gently flicked his wrist. She immediately parted her legs more at the silent prompt, liquid heat surging at her sex.

“That’s right,” he said gruffly. He swept her long hair around the shoulder furthest from him, fully exposing her backside. Her clit throbbed dully as he stroked her from flank to hip with his hand, pausing to squeeze a buttock in his palm. Then he did the same with the folded belt, running the sleek leather over her spine and caressing her ass and the back of her thighs. She moaned softly.

“I’ll prepare you with my hand,” she heard him say. She bit her lip when he spanked her bottom, that quick, expert slap achingly familiar. He spanked her again. It stung, but it aroused her almost unbearably. The flash of sensation as her nerves were awakened, the erotic sound of flesh against flesh, the sharp knowledge that she was allowing it . . . that she wanted it. He continued to enliven her flesh, spanking her by hand, escalating her arousal. At one point, she turned to look at him, hungry for the image of him standing there, his eyes hot and possessive as he watched his hand striking her ass with a tight focus. He glanced up and made a rough sound in his throat.

Francesca turned her head and closed her eyes, overwhelmed with a potent mixture of shame and desire.

Chapter Seven

He dropped his hand. Her bottom prickled and tingled, not unpleasantly. Her pussy felt hot and wet. She kept her eyes clamped closed, her ears pitched for signs of what he was doing in the silence. Then the folded leather strap touched her ass. He ran it over the smarting flesh in circles. Her clit pinched in anticipation. She clamped her teeth.

It was going to hurt. She dreaded it. She needed it.

“Hold steady,” Ian said. He lifted the leather and struck gently several times. She knew from having done this with him before they were just test strokes as he got the feel for the instrument he used. He lifted the belt. Her muscles tensed. Then it came, that quick, bright flash of pain, more concentrated than what came from the paddle or the flogger. She whimpered. Her hips moved, but not to escape another blow. From arousal.