“I love you,” she said fiercely, for what good was there in speaking the truth and whispering it?
He groaned gutturally and began to come. They were so entwined, she could feel it: the convulsions of his penis, the warmth of his semen shooting into her, the tightening of his facial muscles against her neck. His hand moved between her thighs and she quaked, her sharp cry mingling with his rough moan.
She joined him in bliss, and in that moment, it felt neither right nor wrong, just inevitable.
Minutes later, he rolled her onto her back. She watched him as he smoothed the hair out of her face and off her arms and chest. She looked sublimely beautiful, her face moist with perspiration and drying tears, the anger gone from her eyes, the tension erased from her features. The calm after the storm, he thought . . . and perhaps before another. It didn’t dismay him. Nothing could have in that moment. She had said the words he craved, given him the balm that soothed his bruised spirit. She lifted her hips in compliance when he began to pull the pillows from beneath them. He felt her stare as he unbound her hands and tossed aside his tie.
He took her wrists and opened her arms wide, resting them on the mattress, drinking in her undefended beauty.
“I worship you,” he said.
He kissed her belly again, his eyes burning when he felt her shudder of emotion vibrate against his lips.
Francesca moved her hands, cradling his head as he kissed her belly, her fingers burrowing into his thick hair, relishing the sacred, full moment. He lifted his head, and she put out her arms. Her chest ached at the vision of him coming to her. He accepted her embrace, taking her into his. Their flesh seemed to melt together, fuse. As if it had been the sensation her body had been waiting for, an inescapable wave of warmth and heaviness went through her. She fell almost immediately into a deep, exhausted sleep.
She awoke with a start at the sound of a brisk rap on the door. She opened her eyelids and was blinded by the bright light of sunshine hitting the white sheets.
“Not now,” Ian’s sharp voice penetrated her sleepy disorientation.
She twisted her head around, her eyes widening at what she saw. Ian was behind her on his side, his elbow propping up his upper body. His short, near-black hair was mussed. Whiskers darkened his jaw. His naked glory was made obvious not only by the mere sheet draped low on his hips, but the fact that her ass was pressed snugly against his cock. She wondered what sort of expression she wore, because his mouth tilted into a god-awful-sexy smile.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice sleep-roughed. Delicious. “It was just someone bringing coffee. I sent them away.”
She rubbed her eyes groggily, trying to gather herself. “I could have used it. I feel like I’m waking up after a weeklong sleep.”
He removed a tendril of hair from her cheek, his fingertips lingering to caress. His body stirred against her. She went still in abrupt awareness.
“I know. You were dead to the world when I put the pillow under your head. I’m glad you slept so well,” he murmured. “You needed the rest. I was worried about you.”
Remembered images and sensations from the previous night pummeled her awareness, recollections of her submission to the punishment, of her multiple orgasms as he made love to her with such sweet, ruthless precision, of his total possession . . . of her admission. Deep, satisfied sleep had staved off uncertainty, but it slinked into her awareness now.
Her torso still twisted around, she looked into his gaze cautiously. The early morning light streaming through the sheer curtains seemed to make his cobalt-blue eyes glow. The vision of him filled her consciousness. She blinked.
“I don’t know how you stood it, growing up with all these servants. Didn’t you find it intrusive?” she asked, striving to change the topic from the incendiary one of how his volatile, intimate lovemaking hadn’t only broken her defenses, but also made her sleep like a baby in his arms.
“I found it horribly intrusive when I first came to live here. There was actually more staff then than now. Most of the ones you see here now are temporary, hired for the holiday and visitors,” he said idly, sliding his palm to her sheet-covered hip. He didn’t push her tighter to him, but something about the possessive placement of his hand made her hyperaware of his cock pressing against her ass. More likely she was increasingly focused, however, because he was growing more erect by the second. It felt decadently arousing, lying there in a comfortable, mussed, sun-warmed bed plastered against Ian’s swelling flesh. With a herculean effort, she scooted onto her back and came up on her other hip, facing him this time, their bodies separated by a few inches. She pulled the sheet up to cover her breasts.
“I can imagine,” she said, ignoring his frown at her sudden movement. “You were so independent when you had to take care of your mother as a child. It must have been odd to all of the sudden have people everywhere ready to meet your every whim. Now that I’m here at Belford, I’m starting to appreciate how blatantly bizarre of an alteration it must have been for you.”
His slight scowl remitted when she settled, the soft down pillow pressed between her arm and resting cheek. He must have thought she was going to get up and flee. For a second, she’d thought about it, but as always, the draw of him was too great. She’d always prized those moments in bed with him when he opened up to her, revealing his depths.
“I considered running away,” he said starkly, bracing his head with hand, his bent elbow still on the mattress.
“Where would you have gone?” she murmured.
His expression flattened. “I fantasized about finding my mother’s grave. I couldn’t think about much beyond that.”
Her heart went out to him. She knew that Anne and James had told him that his mother had died when he was a child, hoping to protect his already scarred soul from further witnessing her descent into madness. When Ian had finally discovered the truth about Helen being alive when he was a young man, he hadn’t spoken to his grandparents for a year.
“I can understand how you eventually came around . . . came to love Belford,” she said. “Despite all its grandeur, it’s a beautiful home. Your grandparents have made it that way.”
“Gerard helped,” Ian said. He nodded toward the bedside table behind her. She twisted her chin to look. It was a round table with a lamp. Several silver-framed photos were placed on it. She saw one of a dark-haired, solemn boy standing next to a handsome young man wearing a half grin. Ian and Gerard. They looked to be in a garage and were standing in front of an antique roadster. In another, they both posed next to a motorcycle—the first one they’d rebuilt together, no doubt—and in that one, Ian’s smile was every bit as wide and proud as Gerard’s.
She sensed him studying her when she turned to face him again. “
She blinked, startled by his direct question. In a split second, a dozen different answers sprang into her head. She was well aware that if she told Ian the truth, it could permanently damage a relationship that by all reports, had been a very positive one for him. The last thing he needed at this point in his life was another reason for misery.
“Like I told you, Gerard’s been very kind to me. Solicitous. In fact, between Anne, James, and him, I feel as if they’ve been treating me like I’ve just recovered from a terrible illness,” she said with a small smile. She met his gaze levelly when he examined her closely. Ian scowled and she had the distinct impression he knew she’d sidestepped his question.
“It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been interested in the same woman,” Ian said.
“Really?”
