Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1)

by Liz Meldon

  I didn’t know much about art, but I’d taken an intro to art history class at NYU to fill my humanities credit. The distinctive brushstrokes, all that color, the blurred lines between objects and their surroundings. Dean Donahue was a secret impressionist.

  He was an artist—a brilliant one at that.

  As I studied his work, carefully holding each canvas by the corner, greedily digging through the rows, this seemed right. It was what I had thought about Dean all along. He wasn’t white and grey with accents of black like his jet. He might run an empire, be worth billions—but to me, he was his paintings.

  What was that old Monet quote?

  “I would like to paint the way a bird sings.”

  An apt description. A quote that put words, eloquently, to the strange, wobbly feeling in my chest that I felt while poring over his work.

  In the center of the room, it appeared he had a new work on the go. While the background needed colour, the rest of it was—

  Me.

  Dean was painting me.

  He had the cluster of freckles on my right shoulder down. The figure in the painting had her back to her audience, though she peeked over her shoulder mischievously. A long blonde plait trailed down her back, tied off with a pink bow at the end. He had done a rough tracing in pencil first; her face—my face—still needed to be filled in.

  Well. I’d been right about one thing: this room had certainly made my feelings for Dean clearer. As I stood there, tearing up like an idiot, a pleasant burn on my cheeks and a tightness in my chest, I decided that my feelings were almost painfully obvious now.

  Which suddenly made this trip, our dynamic, so much harder. It complicated things. It—

  “Belle.”

  My blood ran cold. I tensed, then slowly turned on the spot to find my furious Dom in the doorway. Sunglasses on top of his head, a thin box of pink macarons in hand, Dean stood there silent, rigid, his figure seeming to fill the entire doorway.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, his words dangerously quiet—precise.

  As I stared back at him, lightheadedness struck. My knees threatened to give out. I couldn’t think straight. My tongue felt too big for my dry, sandpapery mouth. I started to tremble.

  And two seconds later, I made everything a thousand times worse when, in a mousey little voice, I squeaked, “Uhm…”

  House Rule #2

  Belle will use her safeword (apricots) if she is feeling unsafe, has encountered an undiscussed limit, or is too uncomfortable to continue—no exceptions.

  13

  Belle

  “Get downstairs.”

  Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.

  Head down, I power-shuffled across the room. The heat of Dean’s stare scalded, tracking me the entire way, and he stiffly turned to the side so I could squeeze by him through the doorway. My clammy hands tightened to fists as I hurried down the stairs, going from light to dark—to darker still when Dean slammed the studio door and thundered down after me. His figure loomed behind, a phantom in the shadows, and I practically ran the rest of the way down.

  “Left,” he ordered sharply. Okay, so not downstairs, downstairs. I turned, hesitating, unsure of where he wanted me, cowering out of the way when he stalked down the hall. “Your bedroom.”

  I nodded. There was no point in trying to say anything in my defence. I’d been caught snooping—I’d been caught breaking a house rule. One that threatened severe punishment if broken.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why. His work was magnificent—but it was just that: his work. Not every artist wanted their soul plastered across a billboard in Times Square.

  Lying was always an option. I could say I heard a noise—wanted to make sure everything was okay, that nothing was broken, that, I don’t know, a bird hadn’t crashed through the studio’s glass ceiling.

  But I’d damaged Dean’s trust enough today. A lie would make everything worse. It’d taste sour and foul on my tongue—and I’d probably end up crying, anyway, inadvertently outing myself.

  “In.”

  I scampered through my open bedroom door, wondering if I was being given a time-out. Dean always seemed to enjoy administering punishments—and I, for the most part, liked enduring them. Today, however, as he slammed the box of macarons on the little dresser next to the door, he didn’t look like he was enjoying himself. In fact, this could very well be the first time I had ever seen him truly angry, his features granite-hard and his eyes stormy. My lower lip quivered at the thought, but I steeled myself. I had done the crime. I deserved to do the time—whatever that might entail.

  “Dean, I’m sorry. I just—”

  “Strip,” he snapped, then marched out of the bedroom. With trembling hands, I tugged my dress over my head, folding it a few times over before tossing it on the bed. Waiting for him to return—was agony. I thought I had experienced the pain of waiting during our sessions; anticipation could be just as delicious, just as glorious, as the act itself. This, however, was torture.

  Five minutes stretched on like five years, but I just stood in the same spot he had last seen me in, fidgeting with my nails, my insides twisting. When he finally stalked back in, a brief shining moment of relief flickered through me—only to extinguish almost immediately. He hadn’t returned empty-handed.

  In one hand, a spreader bar, the cuffs at either end made of leather. In the other, a paddle. A large, hefty wooden paddle that I had never seen before. My heart leapt into my throat; why did he have both?

  “Dean,” I started, my breath hitching, “sir, I’m really sorry—”

  “Lay back on the bed.”

  I hesitated, not liking the size, the weight, of that paddle. Our eyes met briefly, and his were all storm and steel and disappointment.

  I hated the last one the most. So, with a deep breath, I climbed onto my squishy queen, then settled on my back, heart hammering. He said nothing as he attached the spreader bar’s cuff to my right ankle, pulling it tighter—possibly tighter than he needed to. I winced, staring up at the ceiling, regretting how I had gone about discovering the third floor.

  Because I didn’t regret what I’d seen. In fact, learning about that side of Dean only made my feelings for him stronger.

  But I had done it the wrong way.

  He wrenched the left cuff tight too, and I flinched, suddenly finding my legs spread open—wider than I’d anticipated. It was hard to measure length just by looking at something, but feeling it, legs open, every part of me on display, was a different story entirely. The bar certainly felt bigger than it looked.

  Dean stomped over to the bedroom window, then yanked back the curtain I always kept closed, all in a brooding silence. I sat up on my elbows, frowning when he lifted the window open and locked it in place.

  “What are you—”

  Before I could even get it out, he was back at the bed, yanking me down to the end by the spreader bar. He then scooped me up, an arm around my waist, and half walked, half carried me over to the window. I waddled along beside him, struggling to move with the bar in place, so focused on that that I couldn’t prepare for what he did next.

  For when he pushed me right up against the window ledge, facing the sea of blush-pink oleanders below. I looked up immediately, anxiety spiking. Beside me, Dean knelt down and fastened the spreader bar’s cuffs to two clasps on the floor I’d never noticed before—probably because I avoided that window like the plague. Spaced roughly the width of the bar apart, two little metal hoops stuck out of the floor, no more than a finger’s width around, attached to which were the clasps.

  And attached to the clasps—me.

  I couldn’t move. Not even if I wanted to. I was stuck—right up against the window ledge.

  “Dean—”

  “You cannot fall.” He stood and hooked an arm around my midsection, lifting me as far as the clasps would allow, pulling me to show that I wasn’t going anywhere. “You will not fall. Do you understand?”

  I hated
his tone. It was crisper, sharper. This wasn’t Dom-Dean. This definitely wasn’t aftercare Dom-Dean. This was—angry Dom-Dean. I’d never met him before, and as he set me back down on the ground, none too gently, I wasn’t sure I liked him very much.

  “Do you understand, Belle?” There it was: a hint of Dom-Dean. A whisper of the velvet I had come to expect, want, need.

  “Yes, sir,” I whispered, my hands death-gripping the window ledge as I continued to stare up, not out. I wasn’t sure why it mattered if I knew I couldn’t fall—

  “Good. Now, bend over the ledge, out the window.”

  Oh. My heart dropped from my throat straight to the pit of my stomach in two seconds flat. He wanted me to—lean out a second-floor window? Naked?

  Well, the naked part didn’t bother me, but the, what, twenty-foot drop below—

  “Belle.”

  My voice wobbled. “But, sir—”

  “Do you know what rule you broke today?” His words had me shivering. That voice. Like steel. Like flint. Like a knife. I nodded miserably.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then do as you’re told.”

  Teary-eyed, I looked through the opening before me. In the far distance, waves lapped at the beach. They whitecapped and crashed in the open sea. Closer to home, palms swayed in the breeze, bowing to the right, flourishing beneath an unrelenting Caribbean sun. The breeze kissed me, too. It brushed across my face, ruffled through my hair. But I didn’t bow. I stayed upright, my lips trembling, staring off into the horizon. Hoping that would calm me. Hoping that would make this easier—if I just watched where the sea met the sky.

  Dean pushed against my lower back. Not harshly. Not insistently. The weight of his hand had an oddly soothing effect, nothing more than a reminder that I had a job to do—both literally and figuratively.

  Still, I couldn’t believe that he was making me do this.

  Heights were not my friend. They never had been. He knew that. He’d known that from our first day here.

  So, he had either forgotten—or he remembered and didn’t care.

  In that moment, I wasn’t sure which hurt more.

  You hurt him first, whispered Logic and Reason, two nagging voices at the back of my mind who usually worked in tandem with Self-Preservation. All three had been sounding meaner lately, more critical of my choices, my feelings, but they were right. I had broken his trust first. I had broken the rules. Maybe I had even broken us.

  With some difficulty, I pried my hands from the window ledge, then reached down and pressed them flat to the outside wall. My clammy skin skirted over stubbly concrete, and, slowly, with Dean’s hand still resting on the small of my back, I bent over. The wind picked up as soon as I eased through the windowpane, tossing my hair about, throwing my balance for a loop. I panicked. I started as you do just before succumbing to sleep—when you feel like you’re suddenly falling, falling, falling into the black and startle awake.

  I pressed hard to the wall, bending at my waist. A pair of tears fell—straight down, splat, onto the cobblestone pathway through the garden. My stomach turned. So high. So precariously high.

  You cannot fall.

  You will not fall.

  He might have been angry with me, but Dean hadn’t forgotten safety. He hadn’t forgotten to remind me that I was still safe with him.

  But then his hand was gone, its heat lingering across my lower back. My skin prickled in his absence, and I squeaked when my sweaty palms lost their grip and I fell another inch or two down the wall, my breasts compressed against it suddenly. Tightening my core, I braced myself again and straightened, looking up—up and out, straight to the blue horizon.

  My head threatened to spin, but each deep, purposeful breath quieted my panicked brain. Just don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t—

  I stilled when Dean placed the paddle against my butt. It spread the full length of me, encompassing both cheeks. The weight of it, the firmness, had my lips trembling again, my eyes tearing.

  “Ten strokes,” he said coolly from inside. “You will count them, Belle.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, wishing my voice didn’t shake, but knowing that was too much to ask for right now. He gave my backside a little pat with the paddle, and I found myself wondering if maybe, just maybe, he planned to go easy on me. Usually it was three sets of five, not two.

  The smooth wood of the paddle vanished. I braced myself, staring across the horizon. Then I heard it, the faint whoosh of air, followed by…

  Thump.

  I screamed—more in surprise than anything. It was so different from the stick he had used the first day; the stick stung, same as his bare hand. They were both just a kiss of fire across my skin, one that quickly faded. The paddle ached, then burned. Quickly, at that, its reach widespread.

  “O-one,” I whimpered, my gaze swimming. The second hit was no less shocking, but I managed not to scream this time. Squeal. I had no qualms about squealing—and squeal I did. Over and over again, with each hit. Three. Four. The fourth squeal tapered off into a wail.

  “Open your eyes, Belle.”

  I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them. Dean slipped the flat face of the paddle between my forcibly parted thighs, rubbing me. Soft, lush seeds of pleasure unfurled through my core—only to vanish the moment I opened my eyes. Because there was the ground, all the way down there, and I couldn’t keep still long enough to comfortably prop myself up. I tensed at the rush of air. I flailed with each hit.

  Whoosh.

  Thump.

  “Five!” I shrieked, standing up on my toes, shifting my weight between my legs—trying to move out of reach, only to find myself stuck. One hand reached back to grab the window frame, but as I started to straighten up, there was Dean again on the small of my back.

  “Halfway there, Belle.” No velvet this time. All steel. I would have killed for velvet.

  Hot, wet tears sliced down my cheeks, falling heavily to the cobblestone below. The remaining five hits came in rapid succession, all concentrated on the same burning, throbbing spot on my backside. By the tenth, I was still counting, but there was no telling if the words coming out were coherent. To me, it was mostly just squeals and screeches that bore a passing resemblance to the English language.

  My entire lower half was on fire. Even if he hadn’t paddled my thighs, everything hurt. Everything. My shoulders ached from the strain of holding myself up. My core felt like a spring that had been stretched too taut, seconds away from snapping. My thighs—my thighs wanted to close, but they couldn’t.

  Even the slightest attempt, the faintest movement, however, told me I was wet.

  What the hell was wrong with me?

  I dragged in a shaky, stuttering breath, nose blocked, tears streaming steadily now. A final watery look toward the garden below somehow didn’t feel as bad as it had a few minutes ago. I could stare at the ground, at the tear splotches, and, for the first time in my life, not feel like I was going to fall—or die.

  Dean’s arms wove under mine, and slowly, carefully, he guided me through the window and stood me upright. My back ached. My backside burned. My thighs quivered. And I couldn’t look at him. Shaky, suddenly lightheaded, I grabbed at Dean’s shoulder before I collapsed, leaning my full weight on him as he reached down to undo one ankle strap. Once free, my leg sprang toward the other, the movement intensifying the burn, and I wavered, fisting the starchy fabric of Dean’s floral button-down tee.

  He moved tentatively, probably slower than he needed to, as he went for the other cuff. When the thick, oppressive bite of leather disappeared, I pushed off him, stumbling back into the wall next to the window. Dean didn’t follow. He made no move to draw me to him, to cuddle me into his arms. Once he had unbound me, the spreader bar on the tiled floor between us, he just stood there.

  Stiff. Looming. One hand in a fist.

  I pressed both of mine flat to the wall. Thick, silent tears trekked down my cheeks, my mouth set in a trembling
line. When I finally found the courage, I looked at him. At the hard lines of his face, the terse frown of his lips. His sage-green gaze lifted to mine, and I didn’t see aftercare Dom-Dean. Not even a flicker. Just this unrecognizable, surly Dom whom I didn’t like. I didn’t want. And, you know what, I didn’t deserve.

  Not after that. Not after—I glowered at the paddle on my bed, at the way it sank into my thin comforter, rumpling it.

  That thing had been the worst of my punishments. Worse than forced orgasms. Worse than bare-handed spanking. Worse than some stick Dean found in the woods.

  And he couldn’t find it in him to muster an ounce of the soft, warm, comforting persona he put on for aftercare? For something so important, not only to my physical health, but to my mental, emotional health too?

  My tears fell harder, hurt turning my heart hard.

  “Get out.” As much as sudden movement pained me—I lashed out, shoving at his arm. “Get out.”

  The jolt seemed to startle him back to reality, startle him out of that awful look, the steely glint vanishing. He stumbled, catching his foot on the spreader bar, faltering. There he was—my Dom. My Dean. I saw him now, like a ray of sunlight finally forcing its way through the storm clouds.

  But I didn’t care.

  “Get out! Get out. Get out. Get out!”

  Sobbing, I shoved him again—and again, and again, and again. Right out my bedroom door. Dean made no move to stop me, to catch my hands, to pin my arms—nothing. He let me push him across the room; we both knew I couldn’t have physically moved him unless he let me. He let me shove hard. He let me scream at him.

  And finally, he let me slam the door in his face.

  14

  Dean

  Fuck.

  This wasn’t how today was supposed to unfold.