Because We Belong

in his cheeks made his eyes look even more blue than usual.

“I knew we’d have to return to the others,” he said gruffly, his breath still coming erratically. “I didn’t want that,” he glanced at the semen-damp towel she still held between them, “to be making you uncomfortable.”

A flash of heat went through her at the idea of his essence filling her while she mingled with the others, his come spilling into her panties, wetting her thighs . . . While she found it arousing in theory, she knew he was right. It would have been uncomfortable, not to mention potentially embarrassing.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She moved the towel, folding it to dry him as best she could before she pulled it away and set it on the washer. She bent for her panties, pulling them up over her thigh-high hosiery and into place. The mundane mechanics of the aftermath of thundering passion brought it home to her, what had just happened. She lowered her dress. Acting on an impulse, she suddenly grabbed the offending towel and tossed it into the washer, setting the mechanism to its hottest temperature and turning the machine on. It was stupid, and immature, and she knew it—as if she really believed she could wash away what had just occurred.

She kept her head lowered, avoiding his stare. “Do we really have to go back to join the others?” she asked thinly. How long had they been absent? It probably couldn’t have been much more than fifteen minutes, as focused and distilled as the twist of fury and desire they’d both been caught in had been.

He paused in the process of pulling up his pants.

“Francesca.”

She looked around slowly.

“I’ll take you straight to my bed now, if that’s what you want. I said we’d go back to the others for your sake, not mine.”

In a sweeping instant, it all came back to her. It didn’t matter how tender she’d felt toward him as he shook in climax. It didn’t matter that she wanted to give herself to him again and again. He’d left her. He couldn’t promise her a future.

He wouldn’t.

Where did you have to go that was so important that you left me without a word?

The question felt like it scalded the back of her throat, but she didn’t ask it. He obviously was not burning to tell her the answer . . . to give excuses. Her pride wouldn’t let her ask, especially when he clearly didn’t want to offer up the explanation.

“I want to go back with the others. Anne will worry if we don’t,” she said, her voice sounding hollow.

His eyebrows arched as he hastily began to refasten his trousers. “She’ll worry no matter what. But it’s your decision.”

She smoothed her dress and hair.

“I can go back in with the others first. I’ll tell them you went to the ladies’ room. You can go and freshen up before returning,” Ian said. He let his hands fall and she saw he looked as immaculate and gorgeous as ever, possibly more so than earlier, with the added color in his face.

“All right,” she said in a thick voice. It was difficult to say what she was feeling, given her impulsivity. Her rabid hunger.

“Francesca?” She met his gaze reluctantly. “You will still come to me tonight. I know what you need, and it wasn’t this. Not entirely. This was for me. I needed to know you belonged to no one else.”

“I belong to myself, Ian,” she said starkly before she walked to the door and unlocked it.

But what sort of a comfort was that, really, when she couldn’t trust herself? And wasn’t there an element of truth to what he’d said? Who knew, better than Ian, what she needed?

And she did need. Crave, in fact. Not only Ian, but the beautiful, raw, sometimes shocking intimacy they’d once treasured. That they’d just shared.

How could she possibly both desire this connection she felt to him and yet despise it at once?

Her pulse began to thrum again at her throat as she sensed him behind her, silently following in the shadows.

* * *

Lucien and he stood at the corner of the large room near the bar, a fair distance between themselves and the rest of the chatting group. Anne had put on a classic jazz selection, which further muted their conversation.

“Don’t tell me you’re not interested in finding out more about Gaines,” Ian said, scanning the room. Francesca was still in the ladies’ room.

“You know that I am. I’m more interested in locating our siblings, though. The ones who already know about their biological father anyway. Like this man, Kam Reardon, that you told me about.”

“They deserve to know. All of them. If no one in their life has told them, then we should.”

He felt Lucien’s stare on his profile. “Forgive me for saying so, Ian, but the knowledge doesn’t seem to have sat well with you. If you’re an example of what might happen, I think it’s a terrible idea to spring the truth on innocents.” Ian met his half brother’s stare angrily, but Lucien didn’t flinch. “Take it from someone who knows. There’s no joy in telling someone that Trevor Gaines’s sickness was one of the reasons they walk on this earth. Watching how you reacted makes me think we should bury his name along with his worthless corpse and never mention the likes of him again.”

“You don’t really believe that,” Ian grated out. “You’re curious. You certainly listened when I told you everything I’ve found out about him so far. There’s more to discover. Reardon has answers, I’m sure of it. I just haven’t been able to locate the bloody bastard and I had to leave before I could,” Ian said, taking a drink. Francesca entered the room. He regretted the telltale glow of her cheeks and her hesitant smile as she joined the others, and yet he wouldn’t have changed anything. He was glad her flushed cheeks and slight embarrassment following their absence was there for everyone to witness.

Savage that he was.

And yet . . . he had no real right to mark her as his, he thought as he ground his teeth in acute frustration.

“Do you plan on telling Francesca what you were doing in France?” he heard Lucien murmur and knew the other man was also watching Francesca’s entrance.

“No. And please don’t tell her, either,” Ian said, sounding harsher than he intended. He met Lucien’s stare. “She would try and talk me out of it.”

“So would Elise, if I were on your mission,” Lucien said. “Do you know why you haven’t told Francesca what you’ve told me?”

He shrugged. “You understand what she can’t.”

“I do understand. I’ll admit . . . I am curious about Gaines. How can I not be? And I want to be involved in contacting any of our brothers and sisters who are interested in making the connection. Maybe there is a chance of us finding some blessing among all the senselessness. I doubt it, but who knows?”

“We’ve become friends,” Ian said, his gaze still stuck to Francesca.

“True. There’s been one sliver lining. But my point is, the reason you aren’t telling Francesca what you’re doing isn’t because she won’t understand. I think you know she might understand perfectly well, but still try and talk you out of it. It’s because she’s the only one who has the power to change your mind that you’re not telling her, and you know that. So you’re stubbornly not telling her so you can continue with this obsession.”

“Obsession?” Ian spat.

He blinked, realizing that Lucien looked uncomfortable. Concerned? He glanced over to the others and saw Anne, Elise, and James looking over at them worriedly, while Francesca seemed startled. He’d shouted, when he hadn’t meant to. What the hell was wrong with him? He inhaled, trying to regain his splintering control. He clamped his mouth shut, waiting for their observers to look away. “Have you told Elise what I’ve told you?” he asked Lucien in a more level, quiet voice after a pause. “Have you told her you plan to visit Gaines’s estate with me when the time is right?”

“No,” Lucien admitted. “But the only reason I haven’t is because she’d probably tell Francesca while we’re here at Belford. Even though you didn’t tell me you were dead set against Francesca knowing until just now, I’d