Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1)

by Liz Meldon

  I smacked her thigh this time, forgoing the chastising pinch for something sharper. Uhm. There were so many other, better words to add a pause to one’s speech.

  “Sorry, sir,” she whispered, her eyes closing tightly for a moment as my thumb found her clit again, circling it, sweeping over it. Before she could get another word out, I added two fingers to her heat, massaging her inside and out. “Oh.”

  “Belle.”

  “Penny got me into escorting,” she whimpered. Her hips writhed against my hand, her nipples hardened to perfect stiff peaks. “We m-met at a human sexuality seminar at NYU. At first we were just seat buddies, but then around Christmas we s-started talking about what she did for a living. It intrigued me. Plus, I had student debt, and she told me, ahh, that I could make money just by letting people t-touch my feet.”

  She tried to retreat, to pull herself away from my grasp, but she wasn’t going anywhere. I pressed down on her clit, working her inner walls harder.

  Curiosity had forced me to ask the question. Belle was such a natural submissive, albeit an unrefined one. The stars had aligned for us; she’d been added to Elysium’s submissive registry only two weeks before I started looking for a vacation companion. As soon as we had begun all this, I couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t gone straight into it. Perhaps she hadn’t known—hadn’t realized that she was made for this lifestyle.

  What a terrible waste, her first three, four months at Elysium, pawning her pretty feet off in a dark room.

  “And did you like it?” I murmured, reaching underwater with my free hand and clamping onto her big toe. “Strangers, fetishizing your feet?”

  She giggled when I squeezed, the sound making the corners of my mouth curl up.

  “I like escorting. I like making people feel good,” she admitted, then moaned and arched her back up when I resumed working both clit and G-spot simultaneously. She’d started to quiver, a lovely pale flush spreading from her cheeks to her breasts. “Escorting has structure. It has rules. People think it’s a-ambiguous, but to me, it’s b-black and white.”

  I caught the hitch in her words, and a distressed look flashed across her face. Before I could ask, it was gone.

  “Both you and the client are on the same page,” Belle continued. “You both know what you’re doing there. It isn’t shades of g-grey. There is order, and we…oh, god.”

  A part of me wanted to press the issue. Something about the distinct lines between client and escort—something was bothering her. I hadn’t noticed anything amiss these last two weeks, but that flicker of dismay had piqued my interest. I made a note to ask again, another time, not mid-scene.

  “And do you like this?” I growled, pumping her harder. “Being my pretty little submissive?”

  Our eyes met and her cunt tightened. Her lips parted. Her breath stuttered. She nodded and I nipped at her thigh.

  “Use your words, Belle.”

  “Yes, sir,” she choked, “I like being your pretty little sub.”

  My smile turned predatory—for I, the hunter, had truly cornered my prey. “Good girl.”

  This was her moment. This was her chance to learn, to improve, to take her pleasure into her own hands and—

  “Ah!” She bucked up, her pussy rippling around my fingers, and her sharp cry startled a trio of yellow-breasted bananaquits from the nearby foliage. In that moment, I knew I’d lost her. Again. Without permission. Again.

  I exhaled noisily—on purpose. “Belle.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she whimpered, her thighs quivering atop my shoulders. “It came out of nowhere. I didn’t mean to—”

  “No excuses, Belle.” I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice—but not all that hard. She licked her lips, chest rising and falling unevenly.

  “Yes, sir,” she said miserably. Good. At least she knew she had made a mistake. Mind you, she sounded upset every time she came without permission—which had nearly been every time—but she was always drenched after her punishments. My eyes narrowed at her when she threw her head back, gaze to the sky, with a defeated huff. Maybe Belle was a secret brat. Maybe she wanted the punishments. I didn’t mind doling them out, but hearing her beg me to let her come was part of the fantasy. I’d like to hear it, and not just in our final week.

  Apparently, I needed to get more creative with her punishment this time. While she yelped and cried when I spanked her, tried to wriggle away with every strike, her skin heating and coloring like something from a divine tragedy, her body didn’t lie—her cunt couldn’t lie.

  This next punishment needed to make her suffer, my miscreant submissive.

  So, I dragged her and the floatie toward the stairs at the far end of the shallows, the water parting against my chest like waves crashing over the hull of a boat. Tonight, I’d have a good think on her punishment. She’d take it tomorrow, during my office time. No task for her. Just penance—a good one, too.

  For now, however, I had a very pressing matter to see to. Leaving her floating there without a word, still tied, her legs splayed weakly over the curve of the ring, I climbed up the stairs and stalked over to the lounge chairs. From the breast pocket of my discarded tee, I grabbed a condom and tore open the foil. My cock sprang free, falling like a lead weight once I yanked my soaked trunks down, and I rolled the condom on with a barely contained groan.

  Silently, I stalked back to the pool and stomped down the first few steps. Water splashed up, sprinkling the slowly spinning floatie. Belle watched me curiously, almost with concern, and she squealed when I grabbed the float and yanked it to me. I spun it around, resisting the urge to do it a few times, and then hoisted her hips higher onto the ring, arranging her in our initial position. She was forced to lift herself with her arms, a small challenge, to avoid catching her neck at an odd angle.

  Stepping between her parted thighs, I raised her hips a touch more before sinking completely into her. Again, we became a symphony, my groan and her cry echoing across the pool area, the trees, maybe even down to the beach—if I fucked her hard enough.

  And I had no intention of going easy on her. While her punishment might still be pending, she hadn’t earned gentle, indulgent lovemaking, not with such a wanton disregard for our house rules. So, I was merciless. Brutal. Each thrust, each pounding of my hips, coaxed exquisite sounds from her lips, so much so that I went harder, the pink donut ring bouncing against my thighs, just to hear her cry.

  Water sloshed around us, and as one of my hands kept a firm grip on her thigh, the other found its way to her nipples—none too gently, either. A tweak for each, followed by a rougher plucking. Belle let out a strangled sound, glaring up at me for the first time, her teeth gritted. Her legs kicked out when I did it again, and I smirked. Bratty submissive indeed. The display earned each plump breast a swat, followed by a flick for both nipples. Defeated, as if realizing there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it, Belle tipped her head back, her blush deepening. She huffed again. Her toes curled.

  My smirk turned dark—and my hand drifted up to her throat.

  She heaved a strangled breath as my grip around her neck tightened, her eyes wide—but not in panic. In delight, almost. Fucking Christ, this woman…

  I squeezed harder, slamming into her, then, when her mouth fell open with a gasp, I slipped my fingers between her parted lips—used her mouth as my anchor, hoping she could still taste herself on my fingers.

  She started to clench around me again, her limbs stiffening. While her lips closed around my hand, I had yet to feel a hint of teeth. Good girl. So ridiculously beautiful, flushed and moaning and shaking—but she didn’t get to come again. It seemed even less likely that she’d remember to ask for permission with four fingers shoved in her mouth.

  So, I had my way with her—selfishly. I sought my own pleasure, thrusting hard, over and over again, until I found release. It was the kind of orgasm you feel in your teeth, that leaves you seeing stars, and I barely managed to keep myself upright, not to plummet right
on top of her. Knees weak. Pleasure thrumming through my veins. I could have ground against her, prolonged it, but that might have been the final push she needed to climax herself.

  I retreated instead, pulling out of her with a hiss, then pushed the floatie away before plopping down unceremoniously on the top step. Off she went, still stuck in place, a writhing mess of a submissive, gasping for breath. Pussy glistening in the late-afternoon sun. Blonde waves and long legs hanging over either end of the ring. Ruined. Left in the throes of pleasure, unable to find her release.

  What a pretty picture. Exhaling briskly, I sat back, propped up on my elbows. The concrete bit straight down to the bone, but I could barely feel it. I could barely feel anything. Teeth briefly gritted, I sat up out of the water to pull the condom off, knotted it, and tossed it back toward the chairs.

  I swept a wet hand through my hair, skin prickling as I settled into the water a few steps down. As easy as it would have been to sit here and languish in my phenomenal climax, I had a submissive to punish.

  And how—in what way would it finally stick—I had no fucking idea.

  House Rule #16

  Belle will call a time-out for any problems, concerns, or issues she is having with this arrangement. She will not keep her fears from Sir, otherwise Sir cannot make them better.

  9

  Belle

  Damn it.

  I’d been trying so hard. For two weeks, I really had been trying.

  Why couldn’t I do this?

  This one silly little thing—don’t climax without permission. I knew the rule, yet I’d broken it every chance I got.

  What was wrong with me?

  I lay on the slowly rotating inner tube in silence, listening to the chatter of birds, to the distant crash of white-capped waves. A stunning shade of blue sky stared down at me, cloudless, the same as it had been yesterday, and the same as it would be tomorrow. At the sound of a splash, of Dean diving into the pool, I clenched my eyes tight, embarrassment rippling through me, taking the place of what would have been a pretty awesome second orgasm. I’d fought it this time, as Dean pounded away. I really had.

  Not that it would have mattered.

  I probably would have come eventually, no matter how hard I tried not to.

  What was wrong with me?

  When I felt wet fingers undoing the satin around my wrists, I opened my eyes again, only to find my vision blurred by unshed tears. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. As soon as Dean had one of my hands loose, I wiped it across my face, pretending to scratch an itch.

  Two weeks I’d been his sub. Only once had I managed not to break the first house rule. Once. It was a wonder he hadn’t sent me back yet, claiming he’d received a defective submissive.

  With my other hand free, I sat up, my body stiff and sore from being taken on a pool ring. I’d been excited for the scene when we talked about it last night. I hadn’t expected it to end in tears and soul-crushing guilt.

  Seriously. What was wrong with me?

  Dean held the tube still as I moved about. While we’d floated over to the edge of the gorgeous infinity pool, palms swaying in the distance, we were still in the shallow end. It had been one of Dean’s precautions—to keep everything in the shallow end, just in case the tube flipped over, or something. He was big on safety precautions. For all the pain and pleasure he inflicted, safety always sat at the forefront of his mind.

  Which I appreciated.

  In fact, I appreciated a lot about Dean Donahue. In the last two weeks, he had cooked all my meals, even on Sundays. Somehow, he had procured a list of my favourites—a feat that shouldn’t have surprised me, given the limitless resources at a billionaire’s disposal—and prepared them all sublimely. Best of all, he seemed to enjoy cooking for me. Not only that, but he took me out on day trips, all of them exciting and fun in their own right. Cave exploration. National park hikes. Bikini shopping and dinner in Cruz Bay.

  While I didn’t need to call him Sir off the island, we still functioned as Dominant and submissive, even around other people—and I liked it. I liked that he navigated the world always looking out for me. A hand on my lower back. Walking in front of me in new places. Triple-checking my diving equipment before the professionals took me under to swim with schools of tropical fish.

  Some might have considered it overbearing, Dean’s persona, but he never spoke for me. He never ordered my food when we were out. He never steamrolled my voice in front of other people. He did little things, like fixing my ponytail when it had fallen loose. Crouching down to tie my shoelaces when they came undone. Asking how I was feeling. If I was okay. If I was hungry. Did I need some water? You need to reapply sunscreen—it’s been two hours, Belle.

  With Dean I felt—treasured. Protected. Appreciated. Desired.

  All he wanted in return was for me to follow the freakin’ rules, and I couldn’t even stick to rule number one.

  Lips pressed together in a tight line, I managed to get onto my knees, my sex both pleasantly sore and swollen with need, aching, and then slip through the hole in the tube. Dean still steadied me, standing and holding both hand grips when my toes nudged the pool’s tiled floor.

  “I really am sorry,” I said quietly as he steered us toward the deep end. I knew he was frustrated with me, and I wouldn’t have blamed him for walking off, but Dean was a stickler for aftercare.

  Just another little thing I appreciated about him.

  “I know, Belle.” Water sloshed up around the sides of his face when he released the ring and started treading in place. I just hung there, floating, bobbing along, the chilled pool doing wonders for my slightly battered lower half.

  “I just want you to know that I’ve really been trying,” I told him, wishing I sounded stronger, hating the way my voice threatened to crack at any moment, “and I don’t mean to break the rules, and I’m genuinely really sorry—”

  Damn it. My vision blurred as tears swelled, and suddenly they were spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them. I blinked hard and sniffled, purposefully looking away from him—but not before I caught the shift in his expression from unreadable to something softer. Just like that. All it took was a few tears—tears I wished would just stay in their stupid ducts.

  “Oh, Belle.” Dean paddled back to the floatie, his voice all warm and velvety. It was his coddling voice. I loved his coddling voice. He usually adopted it after a scene—or a punishment—and it had a way of making my insides turn to goo in two seconds flat.

  Unfortunately, in that moment, I didn’t deserve to be coddled. I’d screwed up, again, and I didn’t deserve his velvet. Sniffling, I tried to turn the ring away so we weren’t facing each other anymore, but he climbed onto it before I could kick fast enough, his added weight holding us in place.

  “I’m sorry,” I croaked, tears clinging to my lashes as I hesitantly met his sage-green stare. Inside, my stomach kept knotting itself, over and over again, to the point that it hurt. “I don’t mean to cry.”

  “Don’t apologize for your feelings,” he murmured, tone straddling the line between commanding and comforting. “They’re all valid.”

  Before I could get another pathetic apology out, he took my face in both his large hands. Softly. Gently. His thumbs swept across my cheeks, collecting the fallen tears, and then, much to my shock, he peppered my very red, slightly puffy cheek with a storm of quick, feverish kisses. I let out a little squeal-giggle, squirming to escape his grasp.

  Ignoring the way my heart skipped a beat, something electric dancing beneath my skin.

  It was only after he’d kissed every bit of my face not covered by his hands that he pulled back, smiling that handsome, panty-melting smile of his. I managed a weak one in return; I just didn’t deserve his kindness, even if it did make me feel better.

  “No, Dean, I’m sorry.” I cleared my throat as his hands drifted from my face to the ring. He’d settled directly in front of me, and I could feel the gentle pulse of each kick below the surface. I shoo
k my head, knowing what I had to say would spoil the illusion of us being here, but it had to be said. “You’re paying me to be your sub, and I keep breaking the first house rule you made, and I’m sorry—”

  “Belle.” He caught my chin with one hand, his hold firmer this time. Forceful. Domineering. Lifting me to meet his gaze. “You’re doing a wonderful job as my submissive.”

  “But I keep breaking the rules, and I don’t mean to—”

  His soft chuckle had my cheeks warming. “No submissive is perfect. No Dom is perfect either. We’re human. We make mistakes—unintentional ones, most of the time. I’m not angry at you,” Dean gripped me harder, forcing me to crouch over the ring so that our faces sat no more than a few inches apart, “and I don’t want you to be angry with yourself either.”

  Relief coursed through me. Sweet, gentle, soft, warm relief, that kind that unknotted my stomach and sapped the tension from my limbs.

  “I know you’re doing your best,” he continued, releasing my chin. I stayed right there, hands resting on top of each other, hunched over the tube’s side so I could be close to him—so I could keep feeling that unexpected yet overwhelming sense of relief I hadn’t even realized I’d needed. Dean tucked my hair behind my ear, his eyes exploring my features slowly, like he had never seen them before—a strange thought, given we were both stark naked. When his thumb grazed my lower lip, I ducked my chin in, suddenly shy.

  Another strange thought, given, well, everything.

  “It’s on me, as your Dom, to push you to do better than your best,” he murmured. “It’s my responsibility to guide you, to help you achieve something. We’ll get there. I’m not an impatient man, Belle, nor would I ever be an impatient Dom.”

  I bit the insides of my cheeks when my lower lip trembled.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. His gaze hardened, and he lifted my face back up with a rigid finger under my chin.

  “Stop saying that.”