Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1)

by Liz Meldon

  “Really?”

  “Hmm. For the last, oh, six, seven years I worked all the time. It wouldn’t be fair to expect the kind of submission that I need from someone when I couldn’t be there properly—physically or emotionally.” The larger brush swept across my skin, up and away from my sex, as if painting the area all one colour while he spoke. “I dated here and there, but only a few fit the disposition to be a submissive, and most of them found the dynamic a bit—degrading. Like I was trying to control them or micromanage their lives, like I wanted to dominate them for sexist reasons or what have you. It never really worked out.”

  The fact that someone unfamiliar with the lifestyle might consider it controlling didn’t surprise me. After all, Dean was a fan of routine. He liked to schedule the entire day if he could, down to the very last detail, something he usually told me about over breakfast. Power, control, dominance, influence, possession—the whole combination was his kink, from the way he commanded me during playtime to the way he cooked my every meal.

  To someone who didn’t understand—it was a lot to take on. Dean in that state was a lot to take on.

  I understood. Doms didn’t boss their submissives around to control them; they did it because their submissive needed them to.

  Because subs enjoyed routine and structure too. We gave up a piece of ourselves to our Dominant because we knew they wouldn’t abuse it.

  At least, that was my reason for doing it.

  Dean made me feel safe in my submission.

  The realization hit me hard, but I tried my damnedest not to let it show. I lay there, perfectly still, my mind wandering, drifting, roaming over the kind of relationship Dean needed—why he had turned to an escort instead.

  Once again thinking that I would have done this for free.

  I would have done it in my personal time—but only with him.

  All the while knowing what a dangerous thought that could be.

  A thought that could wreak destruction on my professional life, my personal life, my heart.

  So, I blocked it all out and focused on the sweep of his brushstrokes, the even rhythm of his breathing, my eyes closing, until, eventually, unintentionally, I drifted off to sleep.

  2

  Belle

  “Belle—”

  “I’m sorry!” I jolted, startling between dreaming and awake at the whisper of Dean’s voice in my ear, only to have him hold me down by a lone finger on my shoulder. Still on the pile of pillows, I blinked quickly, fighting the hold of my midafternoon nap.

  “Don’t move,” he murmured gently. “You’re all painted up—though it’s nearly dry.”

  “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” I told him, an indirect apology. As I recalled, I’d nodded off just after he explained why he had hired an escort—and I had given no response to that. Ugh. “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t apologize, Belle. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

  I wanted to press a hand to my forehead. Sit up. Scratch at my head. However, my skin felt thick, blanketed in paint. Instinct told me to look down, to confirm the foreign substance coating my body, but I forced my gaze to stay on Dean’s handsome face.

  “How long was I out for?”

  He removed his finger from my shoulder, the tip coated in shimmery purple. “About three hours.”

  “Three hours?”

  No wonder I felt so stiff. Suddenly I needed to move. I wiggled my hips from side to side, my butt sore, even cushioned by the pillows, and then did the same with my neck.

  “Let’s get you up, shall we?”

  “But I don’t want to ruin your work,” I protested as he slipped a hand under my shoulders, his palm’s warmth settling between the blades. “Shouldn’t I wait a bit?”

  “No, you’re fine, Belle. The paint dries quite quickly.”

  A part of me didn’t believe him, like he was somehow devaluing his work—but that was ridiculous. Maybe I was still half asleep. Clearing my throat, I held out my arms, straight as boards, when Dean lifted me. His lips twitched, as if holding back a smile, and once he had me sitting relatively straight, he gripped the underside of my arm, then heaved me up the rest of the way with his other arm across my back.

  The world spun as soon as I was back on my feet, and I immediately toppled into him. The fact that I refused to look down only made things worse.

  “You’re all right,” Dean murmured, helping me clumsily shuffle off the pillows and onto the tile again. “Anything asleep?”

  “My butt, a little,” I told him as the pinpricks started to hum beneath my skin. “Otherwise I’m okay.”

  “Good.”

  “Can I see?” My eyes, wide and imploring, shot up to him, and he nodded with a soft sigh.

  “Of course.”

  “The mirror in my bathroom is bigger, sir.”

  A little smile kicked up the edges of his mouth. “That it is.”

  We crossed the gallery together, Dean still steadying, his hands on my arm and lower back. His studio felt too bright, the sun beating down on it, and the narrow stairwell was too dark, my eyes struggling to adjust between them. Once we were back in the second-floor hallway, alertness crept over me, and I shed the remnants of my nap with a steadying breath and roll of my shoulders.

  Dean had worked on me for almost four hours; I shot him a wary look as we crossed into my bedroom. He must have been exhausted.

  But if he was, he showed no signs of it. In fact, he walked with a spring in his step, his head held high, his shoulders back, his grin lingering. It was nice to see him again—my Dom.

  I closed my eyes when we neared my bathroom, relying on Dean to lead me the rest of the way. My feet shuffled across the cool tile, and the light faded behind my eyelids as I crossed between rooms. We stopped, my thighs bumping against the granite countertop. Dean left, his presence notable—and missed. The light switch clicked. Brightness. I waited. Waited until he was at my side, his hand on my back, his warmth, his presence, with me again.

  “You asked me to paint you,” he whispered, his breath tickling the shell of my ear, his voice coaxing goosebumps to skitter down my arms, even beneath the paint. “So, I did. I painted what I see when I look at you, Belle.”

  I licked my lips, swallowed heavily, and took a deep breath.

  Then opened my eyes.

  “Oh.”

  His work was stunning.

  I shouldn’t have expected anything less. Eyes wide, I drank it all in, scanning myself in the mirror, wanting, needing every detail.

  To be honest, I had expected a lot of pink. Pink, white, beige, gold—girly but decadent, innocence personified. Instead, Dean had painted me like a sunrise.

  The edges of his work, along my arms, my hips, my legs, were a blend of purple, black, and blue, like the sky at dawn as the sun chased away the night. I stepped back as far as I could from the counter so I could see his work reflected in its entirety. The colour scheme integrated beautifully to soft oranges and yellows as it moved inward. Over my heart, my sex—pink and red. The rest of me was the cosmos. It was the rising sun, the dawn sky, the welcome light of morning. Dark, rich tones throughout.

  “Wow.” I was a masterpiece—my favourite of all his works. I didn’t want to move, to bend. Looking down, I noticed small details that were lost in the overall canvas: twinkling, swirling stars—black amidst the darker colours, gold within the lighter.

  Dean leaned against the counter, his arms crossed, his smile a little less easy now. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I breathed, hurrying back to him, my hand falling to his chest as I stared at myself in the mirror. “Dean… It’s stunning.”

  “You’re stunning, Belle,” he murmured. Gently, he placed my hand on the granite, fingers splayed, and stood beside me, a little behind me, and brushed my loose blonde waves over my shoulders. “I just worked with what I was given.”

  I almost told him he was being modest, but I faltered, instead, at the caress of one lone finger down my spine. In
the mirror, I watched him watching me, his sandy brown lashes, lush and thick, flickering as his gaze swept along my body. My nipples pebbled tighter as his finger ghosted across my bare skin, suddenly so sensitive, every nerve heightened, with the other half of me covered in his artistic genius.

  My heart skipped a beat when Dean caught me, sage-green snapping to my dark blues in the mirror. Holding my stare, he moved in closer, electricity dancing under my skin when our bodies touched—when he wrapped my hair around his fist and gently tugged. My lips parted, my breath hitched. I tipped my head back as he nuzzled my cheek, his soft exhale warming my skin.

  I turned my head toward him, as far as I could, as far as his fist would allow. Heat pooled in my core, flashing when Dean trailed a long, torturous open-mouthed kiss along my jaw—until it finally found my lips. Moaning, I stood up on my toes to meet him, to kiss him like I’d wanted to all day. He dipped down, claiming me, tongue thrusting between my lips, flicking at mine, before retreating—encouraging me to chase.

  The heat in my core surged outward, the first tingles of arousal prickling between my thighs as I reached up and trailed my painted fingers along his jaw. Dean nipped at my lower lip, hard, and I squealed, the tingles exploding to white-hot jolts lapping at my sex.

  I needed more.

  More of him.

  More of his skin against mine.

  More of us.

  More.

  My hand dropped from his stubble to his shorts, fingers plucking open the button with surprising ease. With the movement, the bend, Dean’s work cracked, the paint splitting over my knuckles. As I wrenched open his shorts, I tried—maybe not as valiantly as I could have—not to catch his artwork on the belt loops of his cherry-red Bermudas, on the zipper stretched taut over his shaft.

  Exhaling sharply, Dean dragged his lips along my jaw, the scrape of teeth making me shiver, and then stopped at my ear.

  “Belle…”

  In the mirror, I watched him close his eyes, leaning into me with an almost pained expression. I stilled, fingertips nudged beneath the tight, smooth waistband of his briefs. Did he want to stop? Hopefully not for my sake—because I didn’t need him to do that.

  The incident—it had happened. We’d talked about it. He’d given me nearly four days of aftercare. It was done.

  “Please, sir,” I whispered, my words a soft whine that had his cock swelling more. Swallowing hard, I took the risk, my heart racing, and bumped my nose against Dean’s, coaxing him to look up. Before he could tell me to stop, I kissed him—and held nothing back. My desire spiked as his lips parted, as he leaned into it, as he let me say everything I desperately needed to say without uttering a single word.

  I tasted it—his surrender. To the moment. To me. To us.

  My Dom’s surrender wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t a soft acquiescence, a gentle agreement to go with the tide. It was rough and harsh, a surging tidal wave, a relentless summer storm. Dean kissed me like he wanted to hurt me, his fist jerking at my hair—and I loved it. Every merciless second of it. The way he angled his body toward me, his need digging into my hip. The way he steered me, guided me—conquered me. I melted against him, dissolving into a weak-kneed puddle of a submissive, a whimpering, moaning creature in his arms.

  One hand in my hair, Dean closed the other around my throat, towering over me, forcing a slight bend in my knees. I pulled away, still close enough that I could feel the heat of our mouths, of their proximity. Close enough that a strand of saliva stretched from his lip to mine. I fluttered my lashes, gazing up at him, and sucked in a strangled breath—just for him, just so I could see the storm rage in his sage-greens.

  His mouth crashed back to mine, his growl humming between us. My neck craned beneath him. My hipbones protested, unimpressed with being shoved up against the granite. I ignored them both. Instead, I focused on my hand—slipping under his briefs and finding him at full mast. He groaned when I grasped him, when I slid my hand from head to base and back again, stroking him.

  If I hadn’t been so forcefully held in place, I would have dropped to my knees and begged him to let me take him in my mouth. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to worship him, to show him how grateful I was that he had painted me as he saw me. Not the girl next door. Not the wide-eyed innocence schtick I’d been slapped with at Elysium. He saw something more. Dean painted me. He painted depth and passion. I needed to thank him, to let him know how much that meant to me—and I wanted to do it on my knees. But Dean held firm, kissing me, consuming me.

  Until one hand dropped. It skimmed down my back, over the swell of my ass. It skirted the still-healing bruises, though a brief sharpness flickered when he grazed one in passing. I shifted my legs open when that hand slipped between them, my skin prickling when he cupped me. Dean groaned, pinching my swollen clit between two fingers, my desire smeared across his palm.

  “Fuck, Belle,” he growled into my mouth, his hand constricting around my neck when he broke away. His gaze slid across my face, from my watery eyes to my fully parted lips—the head of his cock slick when I swept a thumb over it. His jaw muscles flickered for a moment, lips in a thin line, fingers pulsing over my clit, watching me as my body twitched in place. Suddenly, his grip around my throat loosened, and I gasped down a breath as he slipped two fingers into my sex with ease. He groaned, sinking all the way in. I widened my stance further, dropping lower, as pleasure bloomed across my body.

  “You’re so wet,” he murmured, voice low, gravelly. His thumb slid up my neck, cresting my chin and plucking at my lower lip. “You’re so wet for me.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said—sighed, more like. Sighed dreamily. “Only for you.”

  “Belle.” Nipping at my earlobe, Dean snatched my hand out of his briefs and pressed up firmly behind me. I braced myself on the mirror with a whimper, torn between my need for him and the sudden protests of my bruises. Need won out, my legs drifting further apart as I leaned over the counter, my cheeks flushed as I watched him shove his shorts and briefs down muscular thighs, his cock nudging against my ass insistently when he straightened. Our eyes met in the mirror, and my fingers curled against the glass when he wet himself between my folds, sliding back and forth, his dark, lusty stare holding mine, before thrusting deep inside me.

  Pleasure surged, intermingling with pain—the pain of the intrusion, of his hips pressed to my bruises. My head hung heavy between my arms, and I swallowed hard, clenching around him.

  “Belle?” Dean smoothed one hand up my back as the other gathered my hair away from my face. I bent lower, my painted breasts skimming the counter, and arched my back. The shift relieved the pressure, and we both moaned as Dean sank in just a little deeper, peppering my shoulders, the nape of my neck, with languid kisses.

  “Sir—” I yelped when he retreated, then pounded back into me with enough force to make my teeth chatter. My bruises ached, but some of the sharpness had ebbed. Slowly, I lifted my head, searching him out in the mirror. One hand on my shoulder, the other on my hip—never mind the artwork—Dean raised an eyebrow.

  “Belle—”

  “I’m all right,” I insisted. Because I was. My healing bruises were still sore, but I could manage. More than manage. I clenched around him, a flurry of little pleasurable tingles rippling through my core, and noted how his jaw muscles wavered in response. With a nod, I pushed back against him, pain somehow sharpening the pleasure. “I can take it, sir.”

  “Tell me your safeword.”

  “Apricots.” I squeaked when he thrust again, harsh as ever, but kept my head up, holding his gaze in the mirror, determined not to flinch. Dean studied me for a moment, then wrapped my hair around his fist.

  “Say it again.” Another teeth-chattering pump of his hips. I winced when mine slammed into the counter, focusing instead on the blaze licking its way from my nipples to my clit.

  “Apricots.” My voice didn’t falter; I swore I saw a flicker of pride in his eyes. Dean bucked his hips against me, over and over again, yanking my hair
back as he abandoned the single, poignant thrusts for something more consistent—but no less rough.

  “Use it,” he growled, the bathroom filled with the sounds of slapping flesh, with my little squeaks and whimpers. I tried to shake my head, the movement restricted by his fist.

  “I don’t want to.” I exhaled sharply as his pace quickened, every glorious muscle in his reflection taut as he pounded into me. “I don’t n-need to… Oh, god, sir—”

  Dean snapped an arm around my waist and buried his face against my neck. He pulled me back somewhat to spare my hips, all the while murmuring my Belle softly against my skin. With my head wrenched back, caught in his grasp, all I could do was stand there and take it. Take him spearing me again and again, harder than ever before. Take his teeth on my throat, his hand around my hair. Take Dean, my glorious Dom, using me for all I was worth—

  I cried out, the last thought pushing me toward the edge. Heat soared through my body, paint chipped and cracked and smeared.

  “Sir, can I—can I please come?” I whimpered.

  “Christ, Belle,” Dean hissed, dragging his mouth up my neck, his pace relentless. “You fucking better.”

  With one hand still propped up on the mirror, prints smeared everywhere, I reached back with the other and clutched at his form-fitting tee—navy blue patterned with little pineapples. It had made me laugh earlier this morning. Now, I fisted my hand in the material, not caring when the seams stretched in protest. Not caring that I’d twisted it, maybe even ripped it as Dean forced me closer to the abyss. One last brutal thrust sent me plunging into darkness, my eyes snapping shut as I came, fireworks spiraling behind the lids.

  In the abyss, there was no pain—only pleasure. Waves upon waves of pleasure lapping across me, through me, pooling in my core and surging all over again when Dean refused to let up. The physicality of it overwhelmed me—the force of my climax, Dean’s cock filling me, his breath on my neck, his fist around my hair, his dominance all had me squealing out my thanks.