by Liz Meldon
“For all the fruit at the bottom,” he insisted as he set it on the table beside me. His wine glass, still full, sat precariously close to the table’s right corner, and I tried not to breathe him in too deeply when Dean stretched across me to grab it.
“I’m going to watch another Sherlock episode tonight,” I said as he straightened, his musky cologne lingering between us. “You in?”
Since I spent most of my daytime breaks reading by the pool, I had opted to make full use of Dean’s gorgeous home theater room in the evenings to catch up on all the shows I’d missed since starting at Elysium. I usually worked six nights a week at the kink club and caught up with sleep during the day. Between that, running errands and trying to maintain some semblance of a social life, there wasn’t much time for TV-bingeing.
Enter Dean’s huge library of movies and TV shows.
When he first showed me, I’d thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Not only did he have a wealth of stuff to watch, but plopping down in the cushy, enormous chairs felt like being cradled by a cloud. There had been plenty of nights where I’d completely passed out within minutes of curling up inside one of those bad boys, courtesy of a full day with Dean and the Caribbean sun.
If I woke up in my bed with zero idea of how I got there, I could safely assume Dean had carried me there after I conked out, whether he had been watching the show with me at the time from the comfort of his own cushy chair—or not.
Just one more of the many things that I liked about him—that I could fall asleep, full-on snoring, drooling sleep, and not have to worry about him hurting me. Misusing me.
As I spooned a bit of lemon sorbet into my mouth, I couldn’t help but think how strange it was to trust someone so completely in such a short time.
When I nudged Dean’s thigh with my toe, lifting an eyebrow to my question, he shook his head.
“Not tonight, Belle. You go—enjoy yourself.”
He gave my chin a quick pinch before sauntering toward the stairs, wine in hand. Bowl sitting on my lap, my gaze trailed after him, through the glass railing, along the alabaster staircase. One flight, around the corner, second flight. Then he was gone.
And I didn’t need to follow him to know what he was up to. Anytime Dean turned down an invitation to do something together during what was technically free time for me, it was because he planned to lock himself away on the third floor for the rest of the night.
I let out a huff. It wasn’t that I needed to know what he did up there. Dean had a right to privacy, just as much as I did. But I still wanted to know. It was driving me nuts, honestly—even though it shouldn’t. I ought to let it go. Dean had made it very clear that the third floor was off-limits. In fact, that was one of the house rules—no third floor.
But I just…
I just wanted to know—him. It wasn’t about the mystery, the allure of the ambiguous third floor. Dean always emerged in a good mood. He went up there distracted, maybe even a little distant, then returned carefree and smiling. Something up there mattered to him. Something up there soothed him, relaxed him. It took his worries away, even if it was only for an hour.
A part of me wanted to be that for him. More than just the escort he’d pay to act out his fantasies. I wanted…
Frowning, I set my sorbet bowl aside, still seated on the table, and went for the pitcher of ice cubes and leftover sangria-soaked fruit. The giant ladle managed to snag a grape, a strawberry half, and a slice of kiwi. I shoved all three into my mouth—but didn’t chew right away. Not when I heard the door to whatever the heck was up there closing. A curt, echoey click in Dean’s enormous house. No lock. Never a lock. He kept it open, as far as I could tell.
Slowly, I smooshed the fruit around with my tongue, each flavor laced with enough absorbed sangria to make me pucker. Sensing that it was just me and ol’ Holmes for the night, I gathered up my dessert and drifted to the home theater room, wet thighs brushing together. At the top of the stairs, I paused, bowl and jug precariously balanced in one arm, and used my dress to wipe each leg.
And as I carried on, I realized that while I might have wiped the evidence of Dean’s dessert away—he still clung to me, his lips ghosting along my thigh with every step I took.
House Rule #17
The third floor is strictly off-limits. Punishment for breaking said rule will be more severe than any other offense. Belle should consider herself warned.
12
Belle
Thursday, February 28th
“Now, remember, while I’m gone, no swimming out here.”
I leaned back against the pier’s wooden railing, grinning as Dean prepped his flashy little boat for the trip to Saint Thomas. A warm midday breeze toyed with my hair and dress, and I held a hand over my forehead, shielding my eyes despite wearing sunglasses. “I know, sir.”
He marched about, throwing ropes onto the bobbing dock. “And I’ve left something already prepared for lunch in the fridge. You’ll just need to put it all together when you’re ready.”
My lips pursed. Yup, I’d seen all the salad prep he had done when we normally would have been having fun in his office. However, Dean was headed out for some meeting in Saint Thomas, the details of which had all been vague—apparently, I wasn’t need-to-know. And that was fine. But today was a Wednesday. I didn’t want—or need—the day off, and a ridiculous part of me already missed him.
Which was, you know, ridiculous. He’d only be gone for two hours, three max. He had promised to call if things ran late, and I had free run of Ixora while he was gone. If I really wanted, I could nap for the full two hours and wake up to his return. But I’d been on edge all morning; who’d have thought I would come to crave the stringent routine Dean had in place six days a week?
I gathered the loose fabric of my sundress up in one hand, then picked up Dean’s laptop carrier case with the other when he seemed to be going down for it.
“Sir, I know how to cook,” I said as I handed it to him, the boat rising up and down between us. The wind made the sea choppy today, and while I didn’t want to see him go, I was also pleased he hadn’t asked me to come with him. I’d only just gotten my seasickness under control and could now officially sit in the damn thing without needing to take a handful of anti-nausea pills beforehand. Given we had done a few more day trips this past week, coming up on the end of our first month—movie night in the park in Saint Thomas, a luxury spa day in Saint Croix, kite surfing off Cruz Bay, and an ice cream date in Coral Harbor—I considered it a win.
“You, cook?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up over his aviators. “That’s debatable, Belle.”
“Hey!” I swatted at him with a giggle, lightly smacking his butt when he leaned over to slip his bag in the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat. He shot up and whirled around at the contact, and I hid my hand behind my back with an innocent smile.
“You know,” Dean mused, “I’m only basing my opinion off the evidence at my disposal—”
“Well, if you would just let me cook one of these days—”
“We tried that, remember?” He leaned on the boat’s chrome handrail, taut muscle climbing up his arms, rippling shoulders hidden beneath the floral-print button-up tee. “Fajita night?”
“Okay, well, your burners run a lot hotter than the ones in my crappy studio,” I argued, hands planted on my hips. “Fajita night doesn’t count. That was a trial run.”
“Fine.” He beckoned me forward with a crooked finger, and I tiptoed along, both hands behind my back now, unable to stop grinning up at him. Dean smoothed a hand over my wild blonde mane, wrangling it back to earth as the wind continued to whip it into a frenzy. With a soft sigh, I leaned into his touch, into the way he cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheek as he said, “We’ll do another Belle night—you’ll cook everything. I’ll be totally hands-off.”
“Well…” I shrugged, fighting the urge to clutch his wrist, to turn and kiss his palm. “Maybe not totally hands-off.”
His rich, full
laughter had me blushing, and I stood up on my toes as he came down, presenting my cheek for what I thought would be a quick kiss. Instead, he lingered, his breath hot against my skin, his hand suddenly back in my hair, threading through it, fisting it just hard enough to tip my head back.
“We’ll see,” Dean murmured. He trailed his nose along my jaw, my neck, then up to my ear. “Be a good girl while I’m gone.”
I swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
He pressed one final kiss just below my ear, then straightened. “Shall I bring you something back?”
I bit my lower lip as I smiled, wide and adoring, the kind of smile that came naturally around Dean. “If you want to.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to see.” He shot me one last grin before casting off the final bit of rope anchoring him to the dock. As he went for the keys to get the engine going, I started forward, grabbing the metal railing of the large bowrider.
“Don’t forget to call,” I said, hating how worried I sounded as Dean crossed back toward me. “I mean, if you’re going to be late. It’s a bit windy, and I just…” I trailed off when he cupped my chin. “Don’t forget to call.”
“I won’t, Belle. Even if I’m not running late, I’ll call the house phone before I go.”
We held one another’s gaze for a beat longer than necessary, reflections caught in our sunglasses. Finally, begrudgingly, I took a step back and crossed my arms.
“Well, you don’t want to be late.”
“No,” Dean said as he straightened. “I suppose not—although I can certainly think of a few acceptable reasons why I might be late.”
He wanted to have me on the boat. It was in our dossier, one of the sessions we’d both signed off on. Arms bound with intricate knots behind my back, he wanted to set me on his lap and slowly have his way with me from here to Saint Croix. The thought made heat flare in my cheeks, in my core, between my thighs.
“Go on, sir.”
“And when did my submissive get so bossy?”
“I think I’ve always been a little bossy,” I said as I sauntered backward, going until I bumped into the wooden rail on the opposite side of the pier again. “Maybe you just haven’t been paying attention.”
He smirked. “Hardly.”
Yeah, that sounded about right. Dean wasn’t a man who missed much.
I drifted to the beach as he backed the boat out, but stayed put until he was past the shallows, puttering into the horizon. Before he went too far, Dean slowed and waved at me. I stood up on my toes and waved back, smiling. Then he was off, headed toward the towering isles of green in the distance.
With a heavy sigh, I wandered back toward the house, kicking through the mounds of near-white sand, stopping here and there on the trail to admire a flower or a flock of birds in the trees. The whole place felt bigger without Dean, more imposing—intimidating, even. Like the island knew I didn’t belong, that I was just a visitor. Gathering my dress in one hand, I headed for the house at a good clip.
In the hour that followed, I did my best to keep busy. I tidied my bedroom. I put away all the dishes that had been left out to dry on the rack next to the sink. I ate the salad Dean had prepped. Made a smoothie—one for me, one waiting in the fridge for him. I read by the pool. I entertained the idea of a little skinny-dipping in his absence, but eventually decided against it. Somehow, it didn’t feel right—doing the things alone we usually did together.
So, I retreated indoors, to the wonderfully cool interior, the tinted glass walls a surprisingly good buffer against the heat. While February had been incredibly comfortable, as we crept closer to March, so too did the daily temperatures rise. It was all still manageable; Dean had chosen the winter months for a reason. I couldn’t imagine doing half of what we’d done outside in, say, July. Ugh.
As I headed for the stairs, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the nearby wall. My cheeks looked fuller, my skin freckly—on its way to golden. I liked the look, although my wide-eyed innocent persona was harder to pull off when I wasn’t porcelain white. Dean didn’t seem to mind. He always prompted me to put on sunscreen, and then to reapply it, but we had wasted many a Sunday afternoon down at the beach, lying under the sun together, napping, reading, chatting.
E-reader in hand, I scaled the alabaster staircase up to the second floor, purposefully not looking over as I went. While I had no issues being on the upper level, I still didn’t like looking over the glass railing. My stomach knotted at the thought, and I scuttled away, headed down the corridor to my bedroom.
After tossing my reader on the bed from the doorway, I drifted back toward the stairs, trying to decide how best to kill the rest of my Sir-less afternoon. Behind me stretched the long hallway that housed Dean’s bedroom, his office, and a few other empty guest suites. And to my right, just as I neared the top of the main staircase—another set of steps that took you up to the third floor.
I paused.
I shouldn’t have paused.
I should have just kept going—to grab my smoothie, then go to the cinema room, like I’d planned, to waste another hour before Dean came back.
But I did it. I paused. And suddenly I was climbing the steps nestled in a narrow, closed-off stairwell. Ten steps up to a dark landing, then another—I counted quickly, my heart beating just a little faster—eight steps up to that door, whose sturdy click echoed throughout the entire house whenever it closed.
Nibbling my lower lip, I lingered on the landing, peering through the darkness. Light outlined the door. Maybe it was a rooftop lounge? Maybe it was just somewhere private for him to go—somewhere to get away from me.
The thought made my stomach twist harder, and I pressed against it, pretending the ache came from those weird nuts Dean had added to my salad and not actual feelings. Hurt feelings—at the thought of him needing to escape me.
“Don’t go up there, Belle,” I whispered, my hand on the wall. “Just go back downstairs.”
But downstairs didn’t tell me anything new about Dean. It didn’t help me get to know him better. I had examined this house from top to bottom over the last four weeks—but beyond that door was uncharted territory. It was a piece of Dean I might like, maybe even love.
Or it might be weird.
I swallowed hard. Given that Dean and I engaged in kink play on a regular basis, we’d had our fair share of weird. Nothing had scared me yet. Or, better yet, nothing had left a bad taste in my mouth. Every day, Dean Donahue did something, said something, that made me like him, want him, more than the day before. Even when he pulled out the really kinky stuff. Even when he tasked me with folding his clothes, naked, while wearing a sizeable butt plug. Dean and his desires didn’t scare me. They thrilled me. They excited me. They had me wet and wanting before we’d even started.
So, what if something beyond that door really was weird?
What if it made things weird between us?
Maybe that’s a good thing, my little voice of self-preservation hissed. Maybe you need that push to build up your professional walls again. They’re about a foot tall right now.
Rule number one in the escorting handbook: don’t fall for the client.
And I was dangerously close to breaking it.
Maybe if something up there freaked me out, I’d be able to get through the next month without damning myself, without risking my job and my heart.
Maybe whatever was up there would be the deciding factor. Maybe it would finally nudge me in one direction or the other.
Maybe—
Oh, hell, I was already walking up the stairs.
The handle gave way easily when I pulled down on it. No lock. Just as I’d thought. With a deep breath, I pushed the door open, standing two steps down from it. The wide-set panel swung away, illuminating the narrow corridor around me with sunlight. I squinted but stayed put.
If I climbed those final two steps, I’d be breaking Dean’s trust. Even if he never found out, I would know. It made me queasy just to think it.
&nbs
p; But, but—all my reasons.
Just a quick peek.
No snooping. Just—in and out, quick scan, then off to the cinema room to watch a show with my smoothie.
Heart pounding, I climbed the last two steps slowly, then poked my head into the room.
Only it wasn’t just some old room. I gasped, not caring how dramatic it felt to literally gasp—because it was just that beautiful. A gorgeous sunlit gallery greeted me, the domed ceiling made entirely of paneled windows. My peek turned into a gander as I stepped inside, eyes wide as I took in the dozens upon dozens upon dozens of paintings. Stacked in rows, canvases of all different sizes, colors poking out from every direction.
The style—it was just like the painting in his office. I loved that painting of the ocean’s unrest. Looking at it gave me strength whenever I was stuck doing a punishment during office time. It gave me focus.
It made me feel.
And that was because he had painted it. That painting was a piece of him, and I’d been unwittingly drawn to it for weeks.
Twirling a long strand of blonde hair around my finger, I drifted in.
Paintings like these deserved more than a peek, that was all. They were stunning. Breathtaking, definitely, with vivid canvases of the natural world—flowers from his gardens outside, trees from the island’s forest, the clear blue water and white-tipped cliffs down by the cove. And the birds: he had captured every single one I’d seen around Ixora since I arrived. Beautiful. Here and there, the occasional cityscape, with bleak, smoky fog or explosions of yellow, orange, and red light. Sunrises. Sunsets. A fuzzy white and grey sheepdog, eyes obscured. That one made me laugh.
