Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1)

by Liz Meldon

  Maybe I’d get to watch him work out while I lounged.

  What a way to kill an hour or two.

  “Well, yes, it’s my off day, but—”

  “Just pretend I’m not here,” Dean remarked, his tone casual, like he wasn’t asking the impossible. “If I stayed up at the house, I’d just worry. I’ll be catching up on some work—but if you’re under for too long, I’m coming in.”

  “Noted.” I grinned, fiddling with the hem of my bikini bottom. To his credit, he hadn’t once ogled me like I’d done to him.

  Not that I’d mind if he did.

  I’d bought the bikini for him. He’d requested all my lingerie be either pink or white, so I had applied that directive to bikinis too.

  “Well, go on then.” He grabbed his laptop before settling into the chair, appraising me from behind the shade of his aviators. “Enjoy the water. Sometimes we get turtles in the shallows.”

  “Oh, cool!” My cheeks coloured at the pitch of my voice—and the fact that I’d had to stop myself from clapping with delight.

  What?

  Turtles might have been my favourite animal. Sue me.

  So, I unpacked the rest of my things, spreading out my towel and plopping my tote in the middle to keep it from blowing away. Dean even shuffled over enough so that his chair leg caught a corner. I then tossed my sunglasses, pulled my brand-new mask and attached snorkel on, and brushed my sandy feet off before slipping them into my pink flippers.

  Brimming with excitement, eager to explore the clear blue waters of the Caribbean Sea, I waddled down to the surf, my steps exaggerated courtesy of the feet fins. However, rather than charging straight in, I paused. The water surged up to my ankles, warm and inviting. Nibbling my lower lip, I glanced over my shoulder and found Dean watching me.

  Or maybe not.

  Who could tell with those sunglasses?

  Still, the thought had that feeling bubbling up again.

  Which triggered my anxiety—my absolute need for professional distance.

  So, I looked to the island to distract me again. To the sunlight glinting off the water. To the waves breaking against the shore. To the distant cries of birds.

  And, with a steadying breath, I waded in with that feeling still warming my chest, clinging to me, at the thought of Dean Donahue watching my back.

  8

  Dean

  Tuesday, February 12th

  “Strip.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Belle drag the beach cover-up over her head, then toss the shapeless cottony fabric onto the poolside lounge chair, barefoot on the cement. She fluffed her hair, as she always did, and I shifted myself away so she wouldn’t see the effect that her naked body still had on me, two weeks in.

  Not that I shouldn’t get hard at the sight of a stunning naked woman who bowed to my every command.

  As her Dom, I just expected myself to have a little more control. Over my feelings. Over my body. Over everything.

  Hands planted on my hips, I refocused on the pink inflatable ring at our feet. The pool floatie was one of many I’d stocked the house with in anticipation of Belle’s arrival. Pool time was a scheduled part of our day, as I wanted her to relax between sessions, and she had proven preferential to the enormous flamingo floatie; it had the perfect seat for her to curl up with her e-reader beneath the sunshine, and she always looked especially cute when she straddled the flamingo’s neck, her feet kicking ineffectually through the water.

  Today’s floatie of choice was more traditional, though imagine my surprise when I inflated it for the first time and discovered the damn thing looked like a fucking donut. While pink, it also had a chocolate glaze and sprinkles on top. Belle had thought it was adorable, completely missing my unimpressed look as she fawned over it. On the next grocery run, I had been sure to include a box of near-identical donuts—just to see her smile.

  Naturally, the donuts were rewards. I loved spoiling people with food, but two months straight of sweets and treats wasn’t good for either of us. Thus far, I’d kept our desserts healthy and only brought out the chocolate, the ice cream, the mini-cakes when Belle had earned a little something extra that day.

  Which she did quite often. Belle was a fucking dream as a submissive—in all categories save one. While she listened well and did as instructed with only minimal, occasional hesitation, she still came whenever she damn well pleased.

  It was driving me nuts.

  And her poor bottom couldn’t take another spanking, honestly. A quick glance showed she was still pink from yesterday’s. I sighed, hoping today’s afternoon play session might finally help us get some control over that.

  Wanton little submissive, coming on a whim—on her whim.

  My cock twitched at the thought.

  “I think if I sink into it a little more,” she said suddenly, contemplatively, pointing at the inflatable donut, “and put my hips up on this end, we should be good.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  For two glorious weeks, I’d been able to live out some of my longest-standing sexual fantasies, the kind that I’d need months and months of trust-building with a submissive in the real world to accomplish. While Belle and I had been on speaking terms since last August, we’d only had limited experience in the kink game. Still, she performed beautifully—especially when she wasn’t trying to perform. Even now, she stood beside me with her shoulders back, her stomach taut, but not overly posed as she had been when we first started. And she was sublime.

  I hadn’t blamed her for the initial posturing. Most of Belle’s submissive experience came from her interactions with other escorts onstage at Elysium. She was accustomed to performing for a crowd, not for a single Dom. I’d let it slide the first week, thinking she might need the comfort of familiarity, but had called her out on it this week. She didn’t need to arch her back, thrust out her tits, her ass, just to please me. I preferred her like this—au naturel, but still at attention.

  “Well, let’s see if we can figure it out, shall we?” I offered a hand to help her onto the ring; I’d always wanted to fuck someone on one of these things, and we’d spent last night’s dinner going over the logistics. Belle settled in gracefully with my assistance, scooting her butt up onto one side of the ring, her back and shoulders sinking into the middle, her head resting against the other side. I stared down at her, sans sunglasses, and frowned. Clearing her throat, she reached up and gripped the pair of handles on either side, which I intended to tie her to once we had our positions figured out.

  I didn’t like the strain on her neck. She’d be in that position for as long as I could have her, and the thought of her pulling something made my chest tight. So, we reworked ourselves, shuffling her about, trying different versions of the same pose until we found one that she was more comfortable in. Her pretty little cunt sat just on the edge of the ring, her legs dangling over the side. I could work with that.

  “Are you all right?” When she nodded enthusiastically, her cheeks flushed the same adorable pale pink they always were before a scene, I grabbed the silk ties and ordered her to grasp the handles. Once she closed a fist around each, I tied her in place, topping each wrist off with a decadent bow—which was, of course, all for my viewing pleasure. She was just so pretty in pink. Bows were an added bonus to such a perfect package.

  “Ready?” I asked with a raised brow.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Sit up. Lift yourself—good girl, just like that.” I grabbed the ring and dragged it toward my prized infinity pool, the one with the six-million-dollar view, temperature-controlled to perfection. However, the stamped buttermilk-beige concrete surrounding it could hurt Belle’s back, and I moved carefully, slowly, ensuring that risk was minimized. Once I had her at the edge of the pool, I lowered her in, grinning when she squealed softly at the very miniscule splash, then nudged the floatie toward the shallow end.

  Stripping off my charcoal-grey tee, I tossed it onto the lounge chair next to Bell
e’s cover-up. I really did love this part of the house. It overlooked the water on the east side of the island and came equipped with an outdoor pizza grill—still unused—and a half dozen cushy lounging chairs, though only two were out of storage for the time being.

  Not only did peace find me, but I’d been looking forward to fucking Belle here in some capacity—on a chair, over a chair, in the pool—for two weeks now.

  With a grin, a private one not for the eyes of my submissive, I dove headlong into the deep end, cock a veritable iron rod under my swim shorts. Gliding below the surface, I stroked through the slightly chilled water, using Belle’s pink toenails for guidance. She let out another squeal when I burst forth, breaking the surface with a splash and shooting up right between her legs. I flopped onto the inflatable ring like a brute, drenching her, blanketing her, our noses only a few inches apart as she giggled, then pushed up to accept my quick kiss. Mollified, lips tingling, I eased away. In the shallows, I could stand, but I settled in the gap between her thighs, draped over the side of the floatie, and lazily kicked my feet to paddle us around the pool.

  “How’s this, Belle?”

  “Good, sir,” she insisted, pool water glittering in the sunshine, streaking across her skin away from her pebbled nipples.

  “Anything uncomfortable?” A question different from painful. I knew she wasn’t in pain, and I certainly didn’t mind a little discomfort in my submissives. She shook her head.

  “No, sir.”

  “Good.”

  I smoothed my hands up her thighs, relishing the way her skin prickled in response. Deciding to stick to the shallow end, I planted my feet, then lifted her legs over my shoulders; this was the easiest position to accomplish what I wanted. Belle lay there in the ring, tied down, splayed open, her folds wet—but not with pool water. I fought the urge to just dive in, bury myself in her perfect pussy. Instead, I circled her clit with my thumb, drawing slow, languid circles around the little bud. Her eyes drifted closed, but a sharp tsk had them shooting open again.

  “Tell me about yourself, Belle.”

  Her confusion was lovely. Brow furrowed, forehead wrinkled, lips slightly downturned. She likely hadn’t come out here expecting to talk—not about herself, anyway. I’d learned in these last two weeks that Belle certainly liked to talk, or, at the very least, be talked to. She responded eagerly to filth whispered in her ear, especially from behind.

  But today I hoped that conversation would accomplish something—that it would distract her enough to hold off an orgasm, or at least force her to ask permission when one was on the horizon.

  “About myself? What do you mean, sir?” She shifted about, but I kept at her clitoris, circling it, stroking the plump lips around it.

  “Family, friends, childhood, favourite uni class,” I rattled off, watching her closely. “I want to know more about you.”

  “Uhm.” She pressed her lips together with a wince; I hated uhm. However, rather than chastising her this time—she seemed to have caught herself—I merely moved away from the little bundle at the crest of her thighs, massaging her outer lips, my forefinger and middle finger in a wide V.

  “Go on, Belle.”

  “Well, I was a military brat,” she said somewhat tentatively, her inner thighs twitching when I focused on a spot that always seemed to rile her up—the right pressure, the right consistency, the right tenure. Her pussy and I had become rather familiar these last two weeks.

  “Really?”

  “My dad was in the army.” She swallowed hard. “He’s retired now, but we moved a lot. Usually somewhere new every two or three years. Mom worked part-time on the base, if she could, at the shops and things. We were in Germany for two years while I was in high school—ninth and tenth grade. In Heidelberg. I loved it.”

  I’d gleaned she had something of an adventurous streak, piecing together the bits of her personality and history that she had been willing to share on our coffee dates. To account for that, I had several day trips planned this month; not only did I want our play sessions to stay fresh and exciting, but I wanted her to see the islands, too, as my treat.

  So far, we’d gone out into deeper waters with a team from Saint Croix, wherein Belle had swum with dolphins, turtles, and tropical schools of fish. I’d hovered nearby, both enjoying her excitement and keeping an eye out for danger as the hired divers showed her around. Last Saturday, we had explored the caves along my island’s cove, and yesterday we’d gone hiking in Saint John’s national park, then shopping in Cruz Bay. She had walked away with the teeniest string bikini—I just knew I was going to rip it to pieces the first time she wore it.

  Sure, I was using some of the time I’d bought for nonsexual purposes—but being a Dom wasn’t strictly sexual. We maintained our dynamic, even off the island, and I honestly couldn’t remember a time I’d been happier.

  Which—was a bit depressing.

  What the fuck had I been doing all my adult life that I couldn’t have had this ages ago? Working? Being ordered around by my father? Reviving the catastrophes my brother had left in four of our major resorts?

  I could have had this bliss. I could have had her.

  I swallowed hard, tuning back in to Belle’s reminiscing about Heidelberg with a soft smile. Well, I had her now. That was all that mattered.

  “And do your parents know you escort?” I asked after a moment of silence, one punctuated by two sharp breaths from Belle as I swept my thumb back and forth across her clit.

  “Y-yes,” she whispered, then cleared her throat, her hips bucking up to meet my hand. “I sat down with them after my i-interview with Candace, actually. We made a pros and cons list.”

  I chuckled. “How very logical of you.”

  “We—” She squeaked again when I slipped a finger into her wetness, in and out, then returned to her clit. “They’re my emergency contacts on my f-file at Elysium, actually.”

  “And they don’t oppose it?”

  “Well…” Her cheeks flushed, and I snuck two fingers in this time, thrusting deep inside her heat as her eyes widened. Honestly, she was positively dripping. I could have used that—embarrassed her, lowered my voice as I whispered about how sordid and wrong it was to be so wet during a casual discussion of her family life. But Belle didn’t get off on humiliation, nor did I, so I left it at that.

  “Belle?”

  “Dad doesn’t exactly broadcast it,” she said breathlessly. I milked a long, low moan out of her when I removed my fingers again, spreading her arousal across her folds. Her right arm jerked up, perhaps to brush the hair out of her face, but her cheeks darkened when she found herself stuck. “They tell people I bartend in the city, but they don’t mind asking me about my work. Foot fetish stuff seems safer to them, after I explained it, than, you know, what most escorts are known for.”

  This. I nodded. “I imagine so, yes.”

  “I didn’t tell them I’d been, uhm, cross-trained into other areas,” she said, squealing when I pinched her thigh. Uhm. “Sorry, sir.”

  “And your friends?”

  “My friends were actually really judgmental,” Belle admitted with a frown. Her blue gaze swept across the house as she nibbled her lower lip briefly. “Like, really judgmental. I just don’t tell them about it anymore. I mean, after we graduated, we all kind of drifted apart anyway. There are only a few I keep in touch with. Most of my friends now are in the same profession.”

  “It must be easier that way,” I told her before I dipped down and engulfed her clit. She whimpered, her heels digging into my back, and I sucked hard in response. The pressure lifted seconds later, heels undug, but I could imagine her curling her toes instead, eyes clenched shut.

  While it was disappointing to learn that Belle had experienced some personal tension, it didn’t surprise me. Escorting wasn’t exactly a profession the world smiled upon—even when the world hadn’t a fucking clue what went on half the time. Not all escorts slept with their clients. Some were exclusively show pieces, like Bel
le used to be. Some professional Doms never took their clothes off, never touched a client’s bits. Maybe I was too deep into it. I’d been a patron of Elysium for years, after all, visiting anytime I was in New York. Maybe I had just normalized it.

  Still, the thought of Manhattanite fucks being rude to my Belle over what she chose to do with her life—a surge of protectiveness, possessiveness, flared deep within me, and I gripped her quivering thigh, hard, hoping to leave a mark as I swept my tongue the full length of her sex. Belle moaned, lifting her hips up to meet it.

  I ought to pull back. From the sound of her breath, from the greediness of her hips—I had her in my thrall. This was the precipice, the tipping point, the exact moment she ought to realize she was close and fight. Fight the pleasure. Fight the fall. Prolong it. Heighten it. Leave it in my very capable hands to dole out as I saw fit.

  Belle didn’t get off on humiliation—but surrender. Surrender to my touch, to the pleasure of it, to the pain. If she stopped jumping the gun, she’d realized how much better she could feel.

  I, in theory, should also back off. It was my responsibility as her Dom to guide her, teach her, instruct her with a firm hand if necessary.

  But I so adored her little breathy moans, her squeals—the way she flailed helplessly in my grasp.

  Unlike any submissive I’d had before, Belle made me weak.

  And a Dom couldn’t be weak.

  I pulled back begrudgingly, easing up, moving away from the spots that drove her wild to ones that merely made her feel good. She sucked in a ragged breath, the tension in her body dissipating somewhat.

  “How did you get into escorting?” I asked thickly, hoarsely, my voice like gravel—the Dom voice that always made her shudder.

  “Penny!” she blurted, arching up and all but shouting the name when I flicked her clit. Her cheeks flushed bright crimson when I arched an eyebrow at her, and she settled back into the floatie with a whimper. “I… We, uhm—”