Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine 3)

She moaned at the impact of his arousing words even before she did what he said. Her body quivered at the sensation of the cool, hard surface pressing against her fevered flesh. She turned her right cheek to the wall, glancing down at Ian. He’d unbuttoned the bottom buttons of his shirt. He still wore his clothing, but his cock poked out of the fastening of his pants between the plackets of his white shirt. She clamped her eyelids shut at the sharp pang of arousal that stabbed at her clit. He looked magnificently aroused, his cock deliciously full, heavy, and slick with her juices.

“No more of that,” he murmured, stroking her hip and ass. “Open your eyes.”

She followed his order, meeting his blazing stare. He began to paddle her ass, the smacking sounds filling her ears, the sharp burst of mild pain and prickling nerves crowding thought out of her brain, her consciousness drowning in the vision of Ian. He didn’t strike her hard with the whippy paddle, and for Francesca, the sharp strikes only mounted her arousal. The experience was only exponentially more exciting because he stared at her point-blank. He usually preferred she turn her head when he spanked her.

Now she knew why. Looking into his eyes, seeing how rigid his facial muscles grew, how his stare grew hot enough to burn, she realized what a fragile thing his control was . . . How desperately he worked to restrain it.

He groaned harshly and she blinked, her gaze flying back to his face. She realized her stare had dropped to his flagrant erection and she’d been licking her lip hungrily. He gave her bottom a good pop and she jumped.

“Sorry,” she said, unable to keep her amusement hidden.

“No, you’re not,” he muttered thickly, but she noticed his tiny smile. “Just for that, go up on your toes and turn your forehead to the wall. You can lower your hands and rest your head on them.”

“What?” she asked, confused, even though she was already lowering her hands and resting her face in the cushion of them.

“You heard me,” he murmured. “Go up on your tiptoes. It’ll tighten all your muscles. You’ll feel the paddle even more.”

She flexed her calves, going up on her toes. He landed the paddle. Moisture surged at her core. She saw what he meant. The position tightened her leg muscles, but even more so, it was a somewhat awkward, vulnerable position. He paddled her bottom several more times, then paused to rub the stinging flesh.

“You’re turning nice and pink,” she heard him say.

“Ian,” she pleaded in a strangled voice when he parted her cheeks and she felt his stare on her asshole. She held her breath in her straining lungs when he touched her—not penetrating her, just rubbing the sensitive area. In a flash, it all came back to her: her lying on the bed in the penthouse, her legs and arms trussed by rope, utterly vulnerable . . . completely open to him. She’d fleetingly wondered if she was wrong to give so much of herself to another human being, but love had silenced her doubts.

He’d left later that night.

She moaned in a mixture of misery and arousal.

“What is it?” he asked sharply. She realized he’d sensed her sudden uncertainty.

She swallowed in order to speak, but couldn’t think of what to say. Her calves strained, the pain making it difficult to concentrate.

“Lower your heels,” he said, stroking her buttocks and thighs soothingly. “Francesca?” he prompted when she kept her forehead pressed to her hands, her breathing coming erratically. “Do you not want me there tonight?”

She shut her eyes, knowing he referred to anal play. She could refuse him, and he wouldn’t question her. It wasn’t a matter of physical discomfort, though. In fact, his touch had electrified her with excitement. But she’d also experienced a powerful flashback relating to the trauma of giving herself . . .

. . . and being abandoned.

But hadn’t she decided this afternoon that it was childish to withhold herself from him in order to punish him for her hurt, though? . . . To deprive him as if it was a crime for being himself.

“No,” she said in a muffled voice against her hand. “I do want you there.”

She felt his hand moving her hair. He swept it over her far shoulder and smoothed it from her forehead and cheeks.

“Look at me,” he said.

She turned her chin reluctantly.

“You’re afraid to give too much, aren’t you?” he asked starkly, his blue-eyed gaze roving over her face, seeming to read her expression like the fingers of a blind man.

“I don’t want to be left alone again,” she said simply.

“I don’t want you to be alone, either, nor do I want to be alone,” he said, and she heard the note of desperation in his voice. “I’m trying, Francesca. Please know that. I’m trying so hard.”

She closed her eyes. “I know it.”

“I won’t do anything you don’t want, you know that. But I don’t want to walk away from intimacy with you because I’m afraid, either. I’m trying to have faith, lovely,” he added in a more subdued tone, his voice thick with emotion.

She opened her eyes slowly. “I have faith enough for both of us,” she whispered. And when she said it, she felt the truth of her words. She believed he could find his way back to her. She knew he had what it took inside him to find his way out of his darkness.

He nodded once, holding her stare.

“Just a moment,” he said, and she sensed him walking away. He was back in a moment, the paddle set aside, a bottle of lubricant in his hand. Her vagina tightened. She turned her face against the back of her hands. Should she feel ashamed for giving permission for this . . . for her need?