Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1)

by Liz Meldon

  Did he think I could walk like this? As soon as my tensed thighs brushed together with the first step, it would all be over. Even the caress of my thin cotton panties was too much.

  “Now.”

  Well. That tone didn’t exactly broker room for argument. Grasping at the top of my seat, I hauled myself up and shuffled around the table, then tiptoed across the aisle to him. Dean sat up straighter, no longer stretched out, yet still somehow consuming the space, filling the room. He patted his knee, and I waddled over, hardly moving my legs, to perch there—until he grabbed my waist and dragged me back. I inhaled sharply, hands curled to tight fists as he arranged me on his lap, my body so small tucked against him, back to chest.

  “You can let go now, Belle,” he breathed in my ear, his interest in our little game rubbing hard against my ass. I shook my head, knowing I could hold out just a little while longer, knowing that I had the determination to succeed.

  Until his knee popped up between mine, forcing my legs apart. Until his hand slid between them, cupping me, my soaked panties downright shameful—but they made him groan ever so softly. Barely audible. I’d have missed it had his mouth not settled so close to my ear. I draped over him, legs splayed and hands resting on his taut forearms.

  “You did it,” he murmured. “Well over five minutes. Let go, Belle.”

  I shook my head, flushed and panting. “No, I-I can go longer…”

  My whole body spasmed when he started to rub me, to massage me in slow, torturous circles. White-hot bolts of pleasure licked through me, burning, scorching through my veins as I descended into madness—right there on his lap. The very small bit of sanity left in me ordered that I hold on, take it just a few moments more.

  But the pleasure won out. Dean swept his thumb across my clit, once, twice, three times, still cupping me with the rest of his hand—and I lost it. I broke. Back arched, head tossed over his shoulder, I came undone with a breathless cry. Fireworks burst behind my eyelids, a gorgeous array of blues, greens, yellows, purples, reds—the rainbow of Dean’s spirit. Just how I’d imagined it. Not white and grey, black and gold, not the masculine utilitarianism of this aircraft, but jewel-toned explosions. I lost control of my body, which had devolved into a writhing, shuddering, arching creature of lust that I didn’t recognize.

  A creature that, judging from the way he roughly kneaded my breast through all those dreadful layers, the way his teeth raked my neck, Dean Donahue fervently approved of.

  He dragged it out, not stopping the powerful vibrations of that damn third setting until I begged him, until I actually sobbed the plea, unable to take it a second longer. At last, the vibration ceased, but his thumb continued to stroke my clit through my panties, taking long, leisurely sweeps as I trembled in his arms.

  It was only when he stopped that I realized, at some point, I’d grabbed his wrist. While my one hand had been here, there, and everywhere, running over my hair, clutching at the leather couch, at the skirt hitched up around my waist, that other hand had locked around his wrist.

  I stared down at it, at the way I clung to him. It suggested familiarity—an intimacy that we didn’t have. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  Blinking hard, I loosened my grip, no longer able to feel his pulse race beneath my fingertips, and then pulled my hand away completely. It wanted to go back. As Dean sat me up, arranging me on his knee again, I craved the comfort—the security of clinging to him as the storm settled.

  “Very good, Belle,” he murmured, his one hand rubbing up and down my back, the other resting on my bare thigh. “Seven and a half minutes. You proved me wrong.”

  I brightened at the praise, pushing back the weird feelings in favour of something less confusing. “Thank you, sir.”

  A few other phrases sat on the tip of my tongue.

  I tried.

  That was so much harder than I thought it would be.

  I didn’t think I’d make it.

  I swallowed them all; they’d just ruin the moment—take away from my accomplishment.

  “Now, off you go,” he said lightly as he helped me up. My legs felt like jelly, and I leaned into his steadying hand on my hip. When I finally dared look back, the darkness had lifted from his eyes—lessened, sure, but it hadn’t disappeared completely.

  Not if the tent in his pants had anything to say about it.

  I hesitated, wondering if I should do something—if it was technically my job to take care of that. However, a quick pat on my butt and a nod toward the bathroom answered that for me.

  “I’ve a box of Swiss chocolates waiting for you when you come back,” Dean told me, his smirk stretching into a pleased grin when I clapped my hands together.

  Bit embarrassing—squeeing over a box of chocolate, but I couldn’t help myself. Chocolate was everything, and, despite my initial nerves, I’d done an admirable job today.

  Chocolate was my reward.

  I could definitely get used to this.

  “Swiss chocolate?”

  “Just for you,” he said as he settled back into the couch, his arm extended across it once more. “I made a pit stop in Zurich on the way to New York to ensure I was fully stocked. Go on.”

  A flood of warmth rushed through me at the thought—at the idea of Dean purposefully detouring to another country to spoil me.

  This man who didn’t even know me.

  This man who had bought me for the next two months.

  In an instant, the warmth shattered, and I was left with a slightly queasy feeling, a feeling I couldn’t explain—and certainly didn’t want to. So, I smiled instead and toddled off to the bathroom like a good girl.

  Hoping that once we reached his private island, the line between my true self and the escort he was paying me to be would become much, much clearer.

  House Schedule (Monday–Saturday)

  Early Morning: Wake Up, Breakfast, Check-In Phone Call for Belle

  Mid-Morning: Office Work for Sir, Taskwork for Belle

  Noon: Lunch

  Early Afternoon: Pool Time

  Late Afternoon: Playtime or Additional Rest Time

  Early Evening: Dinner

  Late Evening / Night: Free Time

  House Rule #7

  No panties. Swimsuit bottoms are acceptable during pool time.

  4

  Dean

  The difference a change of scenery—and a fantastic blowjob—could make was unreal.

  We’d only been on Ixora Isle for an hour and already much of my stress had faded away. Named after the family of flowers that had bewitched me the first time I went hopping around the Virgin Islands as a boy, my private island sat about ten minutes from Saint Thomas by boat. Virtually isolated, it was the perfect retreat; I had bought and named it after a single showing. I’d had a gorgeous estate built atop it. I’d arranged the landscaping to my exacting specifications, all the while leaving much of the island’s natural beauty untouched. I’d had an infinity pool installed. I’d had all the living quarters furnished and decorated—seven years ago.

  And I hadn’t spent more than two fucking days at a time visiting.

  The family dubbed me a workaholic, but if I didn’t do it, who the fuck would? Richard?

  Mother and Father’s firstborn had taken the reins, booted me from my position, for all of what, a month, and already things were…

  Well, they were headed down the same path they had been when I stepped up seven bloody years ago.

  My teeth gritted at the memory, at the thought of all those emails sitting in my inbox, waiting, begging, to be answered. But for the first time in far too long, I had no electronic devices on me. No phone. No smartwatch. No tablet. No—anything. Dressed in nothing more than a maroon cotton tee and a pair of mid-thigh black swim trunks, I was free.

  And with each lap of the waves upon the shores of my own private paradise, with each gust of beautiful Caribbean wind, I became freer still.

  Hands in my pockets, I watched the rolling ocean through a pair of dark aviators
, waiting to be joined by my houseguest.

  A houseguest who was rather good with her mouth.

  And who climaxed like a fucking angel.

  Clear waters swept up the shoreline, stopping within an inch of my bare feet. Behind me sat a pair of slip-on loafers; while I intended to leave the beach shortly, having promised Belle a tour of the island and the house—save the third floor—before dinner, I needed a few moments to wiggle my toes in the sand. Today had been such a whirlwind: the flight and the anxiety it wrought; the sordid events on said flight, which, all things considered, had improved my anxiety considerably; then the trek from Saint Thomas’s quaint airport out to a café, then the harbor, all that luggage in tow, followed by a boat ride through choppy waters that’d had poor Belle’s stomach turning.

  But we’d made it.

  We had survived the first leg of this journey. Fifty-nine days to go, right through balmy, beautiful February and March. No more New York winter for my submissive—just sun, sand, and sea for miles around us.

  I turned away from the breathtaking ocean views, catching my trusty old bowrider docked at the small pier. It had been wasting away in the marina for far too long; even though I’d paid to have it maintained all this time, it yearned to slice through waves once again. I could have purchased a flashier yacht; the entire family had sniggered about it when I showed photos.

  I didn’t need some ridiculous yacht, nor did I want the hassle of staffing it. I could handle the bowrider just fine on my own—and for the purpose of this vacation, that was all that mattered.

  North of the sandy beach upon which I stood, palms swayed in the late afternoon breeze. A smattering of natural foliage separated me from Belle, though I trusted she would be able to find her way from the house to the well-maintained path through the trees, then down to the beach. Although I was seldom present, I had people out here twice a month, rain or shine, to keep the property clean and maintained. When I had decided I would be bringing a companion on my two-month jaunt, I’d had much of the furniture and kitchen appliances replaced or updated. Bougainvilleas now encircled the house’s main entryway, their blooms pink and white, and blush oleanders blossomed in the garden beneath Belle’s bedroom window.

  So many months of preparation—all leading to this moment.

  I ought to be a bundle of nerves.

  But the island soothed me.

  Belle soothed me, quite unexpectedly. While I liked her well enough as a person, I hadn’t known what to expect from her as my temporary submissive. However, if her efforts on the plane were just a taste of her abilities, then I considered my doubts quashed.

  A grin crossed my lips when I spotted her cresting the hill, appearing right where she should be on the trail that spilled out between two mature palms. Blonde waves free and caught on the wind, she was a vision in white as she hurried somewhat ungracefully down the sandy slope, mouth spread into a full smile as she waved her sandals at me. She’d been barefoot at first, padding along after me for our tour of the island—only to be told her feet would need some protection when we tackled the more rugged forest paths.

  And while I didn’t consider those slips of leather—gladiator sandals, maybe, which would weave up her legs—to be adequate hiking shoes, I only intended to show her the basics today. I had included proper running shoes on her list of essentials, and I trusted she’d brought them for future walks.

  “Ready!” she announced as she skipped down the beach, her delicate feet sinking into the sand, a little breathless when she bounced to a stop before me. Her shapeless white dress would have been wildly inappropriate anywhere else: the damn thing was sheer enough to show off her pink nipples through the fabric, and with the light behind her, every inch of that gorgeous figure demanded my attention. Sleeveless, the dress stopped at her ankles, yet it billowed in the wind, lifting to show off toned calves.

  She popped her sunglasses down from the top of her head, then pushed them up her nose. While she had also expressed some nerves earlier—not aloud, but in her body language—it seemed the island had worked its charm on her, too. That smile—the ancient Greeks would go to war for that smile.

  “Where to first, sir?”

  I held out my hand, the thrill of hearing her say sir in that sweet voice not lost on me yet.

  “We’ll walk along the beach,” I told her as she slipped her hand into mine, our fingers threading together a little too naturally, “and then up to the stairs there. They’ll take us to the upper trails. I have a few spots I’d like to show you.”

  Hand in hand, we ambled across the beach at a breezy pace, and I regaled her with stories of the initial purchase, the construction of the house, and the dozens of environmental impact reports I had insisted upon. This island was a piece of my heart, despite how infrequently I visited, and preserving its natural beauty was essential. I welcomed the iguanas, the insects, the birds. So long as they weren’t clogging my pool drain or chowing through my pantry, let them do whatever they wanted.

  We paused at the base of the wooden staircase I’d had installed years ago, each of us slipping on our shoes. As I’d predicted, Belle’s sandals wrapped intricately around her calves, requiring more concentration than I thought necessary for island living, but the effort did nothing to dampen her enthusiasm.

  The creaking, groaning stairs, on the other hand, had her clutching at the back of my shirt as we climbed, one hand fisted in the fabric as the other ghosted along the side of the rocky cliff the stairwell wound around. I reached back to steady her and noted that the railing could probably use some sprucing up. By the time we reached the top, her carefree smile had vanished, replaced with an anxious, forced expression instead. Taking her hand again, I brought her away from the edge of the cliff. It was only a ten, maybe twelve-foot drop here, but the trails would take us up to a good sixty-foot plunge into the cove below.

  She blossomed like an azalea bloom in the morning sun once we diverted onto the forest trails, stopping here and there, asking me to name trees, flowers, and birds. I did my best to differentiate between the various palms. I pointed out the thin, spiny thorns of the possumwood trees, and we paused to admire the little blue flowers on the guaiacwoods. Papaya trees, agave clusters, and grapevine. While most of the birds scattered at the sound of our conversation, I still managed to show her a pair of conures and a flock of yellow warblers.

  “All the trails are clearly marked,” I told her, tapping at a swipe of white paint on a palm trunk. “A few may be more overgrown than this, but you can explore them on your off days, if you’d like. They all connect at some point in the path.”

  “It’s not like I can get lost on an island of this size,” she mused, sunglasses popped up on her head beneath the shady canopy. “If I reach the water, I’ll know I’ve gone too far.”

  I grinned, grasping her hand again before leading on to the spot I’d been most excited to show her.

  As we neared the island’s edge, the density of the forest thinned, giving way to the stunning view beyond. Belle fell quiet as we stepped out of the tree line and headed toward the cliff.

  “You can see nearly all the islands from here,” I told her, acquiescing when she tugged her hand away. I slipped both of mine in my pockets instead, taking in the sprawling blue waters dotted with green landmasses. To the left, the American Virgin Islands, under which my island fell, and to the right, the British Virgin Islands. Given I had dual citizenship, I could have purchased a luxury vacation home on either. In true Donahue fashion, I’d built my own instead.

  Just over the cliff’s edge, a gorgeous little inlet housed the perfect swimming cove. Usually calmer than the open sea, it offered a safe haven for admiring the marine life below the surface. I intended to take Belle out there soon.

  “The cove is quite nice for swimming in,” I said, expecting her at my side—only to find her about ten feet back. She nodded enthusiastically when I faced her.

  “I’d love to swim in the cove, sir.”

  My brows d
ipped at the palpable shift in her energy. “You all right, Belle?”

  “Fine,” she told me, arms crossed, her smile forced again. “I just… I’m a bit nervous with heights, that’s all.”

  Oh. Well, had I known that, I wouldn’t have dragged her up the side of a cliff face and marched her to the brink of a sixty-foot drop. My jaw clenched. Fear of heights hadn’t been in her file—and as her Dom, I needed to know all her limits, not just sexually.

  Offering what I hoped was a soothing smile, I steered her further back from the cliff, adding another ten feet of distance before I stopped. “Is that better?”

  Belle tucked her hair behind her ears, the humidity already starting to work its magic. “Yes, sir.”

  “I only wanted you to see the view,” I insisted. My fingers trailed down her arm, stopping at her elbow. “Not like I intended to make you dive off.”

  “The view is lovely,” she told me, her skin prickling at my touch. “The island is stunning. I just don’t do well when I can see how far I’d fall if I tripped.”

  “Fair enough.” As a man with a ridiculous fear of flying, I could sympathize. Beyond that, I didn’t want her to feel frightened here. Good Dominants could inject a little terror into their sessions, but at no point should Belle feel unsafe. I couldn’t allow that. Not for a second.

  Silence settled over us, allowing for the swell of the natural world. Palm fronds rustling in the wind. Birds twittering across the forest. The waves pounding into the cliff below. Her sunglasses weren’t quite dark enough to hide the way her eyes drifted up my body, hitched at my lips, then flicked up to meet my gaze. Unable to ignore the beckoning of those deep blues, I moved closer, the heat between us rising, drowning out the heat around us.

  I caught some of her blonde locks between my fingers, rubbing the ends together, another whiff of her faintly floral perfume wafting over me. By the end of this week, I intended to know every part of her—every inch of her skin. What made her gasp. What made her scream. I’d know it all and enjoy every second of the learning process; even now, standing before her, the thrill of the hunt had my heart beating just a little faster.