Beth Kery - Because We Belong

Sex was the way he’d learned best to demonstrate his feelings. He was just a man, after all. Still, wonder spiced his arousal. From where had this loving come on her part? This generosity? He couldn’t understand it. All he could do was drown in it.

He never blinked as he looked down at her, eating up her image even as she consumed him. His girth stretched her lips wide. Her cheeks hollowed out as she treated him to that strong, singular suck that used to keep him awake at night in recollection. His cock popped out of her mouth when she leaned back extra forcefully. She slapped the bobbing stalk playfully, gave him an eye-crossing stroke from balls to tip with her fist, and then reinserted him into her mouth. She dragged her teeth back and forth over the sensitive head gently before she firmed her lips, ducked her head, and sucked him deep.

He groaned and tightened his fingers against her scalp, clamping his eyelids shut. The image of her was too arousing. He flexed his hips, his taut movements matching hers. Still, he was careful not to be too demanding. She hadn’t done this in a while. Neither had he, and he wanted to stretch the exquisite moment . . . hang on.

He’d always known how free she was with her love, how unselfish, but today, at that moment, the truth cut at the heart of him. The pleasure sliced just as deep. What right did he have to always take what she offered so innocently, so wholly?

He stilled his flexing hips, restraining himself, but she grabbed a buttock with her free hand. She pushed, and he opened his eyes. She ducked her head, swallowing his cock, jerking slightly as the tip squeezed into her throat. Her nostrils flared. She moved her head back, pulling at him so strongly he gritted his teeth.

She pleaded with her eyes.

His groan felt like it ripped at his throat. He held her head in his hands, his thumbs bracketing the tops of her jaw, and thrust, taking what she offered so sweetly. If she gave, did that mean he deserved? He didn’t know. He didn’t care, he was being flayed alive by her mouth, by her love. Time stretched as he stared down at her, rapt, and she made love to him with fierce precision.

It was too fucking sweet.

He thrust deep and erupted, almost immediately jerking his body back in order to free her throat, ejaculating on her tongue. He held her to him, fucking her tight, wet mouth with his convulsing cock, giving her his seed and whatever else had been ripped loose from inside his spirit.

His body tightened in one last blast of searing pleasure.

He sagged, staggering slightly, and quickly righting himself, lest his cock impale her. He slid out of her mouth during his dazed fumbling. She grabbed his hips. A ragged laugh left his raw throat.

“What?” she asked, confusion and the beginning of a smile starting on her slick, swollen mouth. He’d left a white drop of semen on her bottom lip when he’d stumbled. Her beauty seemed to flash like a bright headlight on his already disoriented brain, stunning him.

“You actually act like you could steady me,” he said, referring to their disparate size and weight.

She kissed the tip of his glistening cock. He groaned roughly at the erotic vision she made.

“I can steady you,” she said, holding his stare. His smile faded. She rose before him, took his hand and led him over to the bed.

“We never even took off our coats,” Ian said wryly under his breath as he helped her remove her T-shirt a moment later. He didn’t know how she’d done it: given him the most intimate, heart-wrenching, balls-emptying experience of his life while they were almost both completely dressed and wearing winter coats. They sat at the edge of the mattress, Ian in only his unbuttoned pants, Francesca almost nude, their coats and discarded garments forming a pile at the bottom of the bed. He pulled the T-shirt over her head, and she seemed to notice his furrowed brows.

“What is it?” she asked

“Why?”

“Why what?” she wondered, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and pausing to sink her fingers into the muscle, rubbing until he closed his eyes in pleasure. It’s one of the many things he loved about her. She was such an innate sensualist, always curious to experience, touch . . . taste. Yet another reason it was such a blessedly good thing that they both enjoyed it when she was restrained during sex. Her touch tended to erase all of his typical control.

“Why aren’t you angry anymore?” he asked gruffly, taking the caressing hand in his own and kissing the palm.

She gave him a fleeting glance as he worked the shirt off his arms.

“I don’t know,” she said, grasping behind her on the bed. She stood and slipped the black cashmere overcoat that he’d once bought her over her nakedness. He didn’t like it. Her naked body was a blessing to his eyes—curving, firm, exquisitely feminine, the very shape and form of his dreams. He looked forward to laying her on that bed and returning all the pleasure she’d just given him in spades. He caught her hand, scowling. She’d better not be planning on running off again—

“That’s not an answer, Francesca.”

She sighed, seeming to genuinely struggle to explain herself. “I meant it, I don’t know why I feel different. For all I know, I will be angry at you again sometime soon for leaving the way you did. But something . . . happened.”

“What happened?” he demanded, still holding her hand.

“I talked to your grandmother and she . . .”

“What?” he asked. He pulled her into his lap, disliking her distance. He opened the coat impatiently, exposing her naked breasts, belly, and thighs to his gaze, an admittedly cavemanlike gesture to demonstrate her availability to him . . . a probably useless but stark reminder of their intimacy. His love for her swelled when he saw her small smile. She really did understand him shockingly well. He opened his hand at the side of her jaw and tilted her face toward his in a silent prompt to continue.

“She seems to understand you better than I do,” she said, perhaps a little regretfully, her fragrant breath softly fanning his face.

His eyebrows tilted up. “I think we both know it’s not the same. She’s my grandmother. Not my lover.”

“Am I? Your lover?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.

“Always,” he said, brushing his lips against hers. “Whether you’re in my arms or not.”

He saw her swallow thickly and wondered if she fought back tears. Her voice was strong enough, however, when she continued.

“Anne reminded me of how you always need focus . . . have to have a clear picture . . . concise understanding. I don’t agree with you in thinking that Trevor Gaines is somehow important, Ian. I think you give him far too much significance.”

“I know you think that,” he replied evenly, his thumb brushing her cheek.

“But I do understand how comprehending your past is so crucial to you.”

Their stares held. Her dark brown eyes glistened. “I know you’ve been suffering, and I hate the idea, with everything I’m worth, of you doing it alone. I haven’t stopped being furious at you for shutting me out.”

“But?” he prompted quietly.

“But I’m tired of pretending that your actions are incomprehensible to me,” burst out of her throat. “Because I love you doesn’t give me the right to demand that you be different than what you are . . . who you are. Because I disagree with you, and because I believe you’re dealing with your grief in a self-defeating way doesn’t change the fact that I love you. And always will.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Ian wasn’t sure he breathed.

“If I were to be honest with myself,” she continued in a more measured, hushed tone, “I would have to say that it didn’t entirely shock me, your reaction over Trevor Gaines and your mother’s death. I may not agree with how you dealt with your grief, but I understand it. I understand you. I can’t go around pretending self-righteousness when your biggest crime was not grieving in the way I wanted you to grieve, in a way that was convenient for me.”

He studied her flushed cheeks and slightly averted eyes. He wanted to thank her, but he found it hard for some reason. His voice box had stopped working. He stroked her face, and maybe she understood, because she turned and kissed his palm.

“That doesn’t mean I think you should go off and obsess about Trevor Gaines,” she added with a sharp glance.

“I’m not obsessing about him,” he said, finding his voice. “I want to understand my origins, Francesca.”

“Granted,” she replied. “But I can’t agree with you that it’s a positive step, Ian. I think it’s a futile, senseless search into the past, one that’s compromising your future. I only have to look at you to know that it’s hurting you, not helping.”

“I disagree,” he said, despising the necessity to differ with her in this moment when she was being so much more generous than he deserved.

She studied his face. He met her stare, determined not to flinch in this, but it took more effort than he liked.

“You’re still not going to tell me what you were doing, precisely, are you?” she whispered.

“I can’t. Not you, above all else,” he said, unable to keep misery from entering his tone. What Lucien had said was true. He accepted that now. If he told Francesca about the dirty, ugly search in that hovel of a mansion, if he told her what he’d discovered thus far, she’d be furious . . . disgusted. She thought she understood him, but she wouldn’t understand that. He knew she would beg him not to go back to Aurore alone. He knew he would listen to her above all else . . . and he just might concede to her wishes.

She shut her eyes, and he sensed her pain. He was dimming her glorious, light-infused spirit. God, he hated this. He pulled her against him, her head against his face, and inhaled the scent of her hair. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he would go. He’d monitor her well-being from a distance, perhaps hire a bodyguard to protect her. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than he had, but he couldn’t say what she needed to hear. Not yet he couldn’t. But before he could utter a word, she struggled to get off his lap and stand.

“I don’t want to talk about all that right now,” she said with a breathless lightness that he didn’t buy for a second. Had she guessed what he was about to say?

“What would you like to do then?” he asked gruffly, taking her hand to steady her as she stood.

“Lunch?” she asked. He blinked. Amusement pulled at her puffy lips. “Mrs. Hanson packed me enough for a platoon. I have it in the refrigerator. Then we can take a nap afterward?”

He couldn’t resist her small smile . . . so hopeful, so unintentionally yet blatantly seductive. He couldn’t resist her, period, and therein lay the crux of the problem. If he’d been able to resist her, he’d have been in contact with her since the first moment he fled to northern France to begin his search.

“Lunch sounds fantastic,” he said, standing and taking her into his arms, pleasure rippling through him at the sensation of her naked breasts against his ribs. He leaned down to seize her mouth, and he hoped she read all of his gratitude as well as his desire in that kiss. “But if you think we’re taking a nap afterward,” he said wryly next to her lips a moment later, hitching her body up higher against his so she could feel his growing arousal. “You’ve got another think coming.”

He saw her gaze flash up to meet his. Her laughter was like a warm, sunny day between bitter, lashing storms. There was no doubt. He was a selfish bastard. Of course he’d snatch at these stolen moments with her, greedy for every precious, golden second.

* * *

Much to her chagrin, he fastened his pants while he helped her put together their meal in the kitchen. When they returned to the bed, he insisted that she remove the coat she was using as a robe and eat her lunch naked.

“The vision of you is more sustenance than the food,” he said gruffly, halting her when she tried to pull the sheet up over her breasts. He acceded to allowing her to leave the coverings on her legs for warmth, but insisted she leave her sex exposed. She’d found plates, utensils, cups, and napkins in the kitchen and split the enormous sandwich and fruit for their lunch. As she leaned against the fluffed pillows, however, and nibbled at her sandwich, she found she’d lost her appetite. Ian stared with focused intensity at her mons, even as he distractedly ate. Finally, he gave up the pretense of eating, took a swig of cold milk and set aside his plate. Her breath caught when he turned and firmly parted her thighs.