“No,” he said, hating to see her this way. Francesca was not born to be a cynic. He palmed her jaw and smoothed his thumb over her pale, smooth cheek as if he could erase her sadness . . . her desperation. “You’re tearing at yourself, bloodying your spirit. You think you want to escape the bonds that hold you secure, but in reality, you need to be held tighter.”
A muscle jumped beneath his stroking thumb. She stared up at him, a wild, angry longing in her dark eyes. “Why should I let you bind me tighter when you’ll leave again soon, and I’ll be alone, fighting against the bonds . . . bleeding once again?”
“Because I’ll try my damnedest to come back.”
“Promise me.”
He blinked at her harsh demand. “I can’t.”
She made a muffled sound of misery in her throat, killing him a little. He touched his forehead to hers. “I want to be with you more than anything, Francesca. But I can’t do that until I feel . . . whole. Please understand.”
He took her into his arms and clasped her to him, tight, inhaling the scent of her hair. “There is no other woman for me. If I can never feel myself worthy of you, then I’ll never want another. If I can’t find a place at your side, it means I’ll go through life alone. Please understand that. This isn’t about me abandoning you. I’m the one who feels cast ashore alone while the rest of the world floats away.”
He felt her shudder. She shook her head, her face rolling against his chest. Her arms slipped around his waist. “But I’m here. I’m right here.”
“I know,” he said, using his hand to tilt back her face. She stared up at him with shiny eyes. He brushed her lips softly with his own, absorbing the slight tremors that went through her body . . . cherishing them. “And you’re suffering. Let me bring you relief.”
She pressed closer to him, her light clothing allowing him to feel her firm, feminine body, her tension . . . her heat. Her eyelids closed. “Yes,” she said. “I need help. I can’t seem to . . .” Her voice broke, and he covered her mouth with his, hating to witness her misery. It hurt like a burning lash whipped against his insides to know he had done this to her—because of his need, he’d trained her to his touch, taught her to meet his needs, to exceed his desires. He’d told her once that there probably wasn’t a handful of men on the planet who could dominate her sexually, and he’d meant it. She possessed such a strong, fierce spirit, she would only—could only—submit to a true mate. He’d recognized before that he was incredibly fortunate to be one of the few men to whom she could submit, but there, in that moment, he recognized how blessed he was . . .
. . . 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.