Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine 1)

He drove into her one last time, his groan striking her as helpless somehow, even though he was the master in this situation. He wrapped his forearm around her waist, pulling her to him in a desperate hold. She cried out brokenly when she felt his cock swell impossibly large. A roar erupted from his throat. He bent his head, grimacing, and pressed his mouth against her back. She bit her lip and clenched her eyes as she felt him explode deep inside her.

He groaned and thrust in and out of her shallowly as he continued to ejaculate, his breath falling hot and ragged against the skin of her back. Her eyes stung. Her tears weren’t from pain but from the powerful feeling burning in her chest.

Had she fallen in love with this man?

How else could she explain her total and absolute trust in him, her willingness to surrender completely to him?

What else could this euphoric feeling be as she watched him there in the mirror, abandoning himself completely to bliss? Either she was falling in love or she was going mad.

Either way, he’d been right before. She was completely at his mercy.

Part VII

Because I Need To

Chapter Thirteen

Ian unbound her, then gently helped her out of the harnesses, still raw from shattering climax and a brew of emotion he couldn’t quite identify. When her feet touched the floor, he immediately took her into his arms, wincing in pleasure at the sensation of her silky naked skin pressed against his.

He placed his hand on her jaw and tilted her face up to his. He kissed her deeply, wondering how he could feel so much driving, almost harsh, desire for her and this swelling tenderness all at once. Had he been too hard on her? She was so soft, so feminine, so exquisite, he thought dazedly as he caressed her firm, taut curves. He’d been gauging his reaction from hers. When she’d squeezed his cock rhythmically as she whimpered in orgasm minutes ago, he’d hardly thought of her as delicate.

She was a mystery to him—a compelling, tormenting, sweet one that he couldn’t resist.

He lifted his head a moment later and grabbed her hand. He shut the door behind them as they left the room, and then led her to the bathroom. Without speaking, he opened the glass door to the steam shower and twisted the handle. When the temperature was comfortable, he stepped aside and nodded for her to get in. He followed her, shutting the door behind them.

She seemed to have caught his subdued mood, because she said nothing as he meticulously washed her beautiful body in the minutes that followed. He felt her gaze on him, though, as his lathered hands whisked over satiny skin. Steam curled around his knuckles as he washed . . . worshipped. A small part of him still wanted to withdraw like he had in Paris, when he’d been so overwhelmed by her sweetness and generous response.

The experience tonight had choked his defenses, though, making it impossible for him to maintain his sanity and resist her.

He washed himself in a much more cursory, if thorough, fashion and shut off the water. After drying them both with a towel, he again took her hand and led her to his bed. He whipped back the duvet and turned to her, releasing the clip on her hair. The heavy weight of it fell, tumbling around her shoulders and back. His fingers immediately furrowed into the silky, unbound glory.

Her large dark eyes made something clench tight inside his gut.

“Get into the bed,” he murmured.

She lay down, curling onto her side, her front facing him. He came down next to her, his belly brushing against hers, and whipped the sheet and cover over them. He stroked the silky length of her hip as the heavy, pregnant silence settled upon them. Neither of them spoke for a moment or two, even though he sensed her alert attention on him.

Then she touched his mouth with soft fingertips. He closed his eyes, trying and failing to shelter himself from a rising tide of unwanted but unstoppable feeling.

He rarely allowed a woman to touch him so intimately, but he let Francesca. Her eager, searching fingertips tormented him for the next several minutes as she charted his face, neck, shoulders, chest, and belly. When she gently scraped a nipple with her nails, he hissed in a burst of sublime pleasure. He held her stare as she wrapped her hand around his cock a moment later.

Her touch was so gentle. Why did it feel like she ripped a bandage off a wound deep inside him when she began to move her arm, pumping him?

Unable to take any more of her sweet torture, he twisted around and located a condom in the bedside drawer, longing for the day when Francesca had been on the pill long enough, when he could be inside her naked.

A moment later, he lay on top of her, their bellies heaving against each other in tandem, his cock fully sheathed in her warm, clasping pussy. He opened his clenched eyelids and saw her staring up at him.

“Do I wrong you, Francesca?” he demanded toughly.

She didn’t answer for a moment, but he knew from the somber expression in her eyes that she understood he’d meant not just tonight but everything—his inability to resist this vibrant, talented, beautiful woman despite the fact that he’d inevitably taint her brilliance with his darkness . . . eventually make her turn away in hurt.

The thought of seeing rejection of him on her beautiful face sliced at him deep.

“Does it matter?”

A spasm clenched his facial muscles at her soft reply. He began to move, fucking her with long, thorough strokes, shuddering at the distilled blast of pleasure.

No. It didn’t matter.

He couldn’t stay away from her, no matter the consequence to her . . . or to himself.

* * *

After they made love again, he held her and they talked like lovers—or at least that’s what Francesca suspected lovers talked like, not having any experience herself. It was a heady experience, listening to him talk about his childhood growing up at Belford Hall, his grandfather’s estate in East Sussex. She wanted to ask him about what his experience had been like with his mother in northern France—surely it had been a night-and-day experience in comparison with the luxury and privilege of an earl’s grandson—but she couldn’t muster the courage.