by Liz Meldon
“You…” My lower lip quivered, but I took a deep breath and made myself meet his eyes. I might have been naughty, but I could still be brave and own up to this crazy scheme. “You seemed like you were in a bad mood again.”
The words flew out of me, soft and quick, and when Dean said nothing, I wondered if he’d even heard them. Then, frowning, he released my wrists and planted his hands on the bed, still caging me in on either side of my head.
“What?”
“You’ve just seemed a bit upset this week, and I could hear you getting, uhm—” I clenched my eyes shut before he tapped my nose. Stupid uhm. I’d almost stopped saying it lately. With a sigh, I peered up at him, at his handsome face, the tension easing out of it as I spoke. “I could hear you getting upset again. You—you tap your pen, and you type really hard. Sometimes you jiggle your leg. We were having a really nice morning before you got on your computer, and I just thought I would…”
“And you just thought you would, what, distract me?” Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, but the beginnings of a smile had started to creep across his lips. He grabbed my chin when I tried to look away. “Belle, were you being a bad girl, on purpose, for my benefit?”
I nodded. Dean exhaled sharply, the last of his serious, stern Dom expression disappearing with it.
“Oh, Belle.” His voice like honey, Dean kissed my cheek. “That’s very sweet of you.”
As he settled down beside me on his back, I realized my hands were still up by my head, where he’d pinned them. Blushing, I threaded them together on my stomach, then brought my knees up to relieve the pressure on my lower back—and to lift my poor behind off the duvet. The whole area burned, but it was easy to ignore when my Dom suddenly offered an apology. To me. For his behavior.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted,” Dean told me, his hands mirroring mine atop his chest. “If I’ve been short with you, please know it’s not because of something you’ve done. I try not to let it affect us, but—”
“You don’t.” I rolled onto my side to face him, pillowing my head on my arm. “Really. You’ve never been short with me, either. I just notice it sometimes, when you think I’m not looking.”
I wished we were having this conversation in the pool. My ass seriously needed an ice pack—stat. Even though it was getting harder to ignore, I did, because this conversation mattered more than my discomfort.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” I insisted, finding the courage to offer a willing ear by focusing on his handsome face, his tentative smile, on the way my heart fluttered at the sight of both, “but you can, if you want to—if you need to talk to somebody, I mean. I can listen. I’m a good listener.”
“I know you are, Belle.” Dean stretched toward me, and I leaned forward so he could kiss my forehead, both of us grinning like idiots when we pulled away. My stomach looped when he set his hand on top of mine, thumb stroking me. “Thank you.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say something cool and collected in return—expecting, instead, something babbly and embarrassing. We stayed like that for a long moment, studying one another, the hum of the air conditioner filling the room, until Dean sat up and checked on his handiwork.
“Go on, fetch the cocoa butter,” he said with a sigh. “You’re all red and pretty down there.”
“Yes, sir.” Grinning, I scooted down the bed and scampered off, feeling as light and airy as the sun-soaked corridor outside his bedroom, sunshine streaking in through the four skylights along the way. Light and airy and helpful, I skipped along, like my plan had worked—like I had finally found a way to make my Dom feel good, to make him smile like he did when he lost himself in his art.
You let him spank you, the mean-girl voice at the back of my head muttered, calm down. No Nobel Prizes for escorts, remember?
And, just like that, all the light and airiness—gone.
Damn it. Swallowing thickly, I carried on toward the stairs, off to get the cocoa butter from the fridge, with just a little less pep in my step.
4
Dean
Sunday, March 10th
“Dean!”
Belle’s panic cut through the house, through my heart, like a knife. I shot up, pulse racing, and threw myself around my desk, stubbing my pinky toe on the corner.
“Fucking hell shitpissfuckballs ow,” I hissed, hopping a few times, then power-limping out of the office. She called my name again, her voice high-pitched and strained, and I picked up the pace. It was Sunday—she should have been lounging by the pool. Last I recalled, she had been lounging by the pool, wearing that ridiculous little string bikini that I’d bought her last month.
“I don’t want tan lines,” she’d said innocently, sauntering by the kitchen on her way out, towel thrown over her shoulder. I’d gawked like a caveman, like an ape, dropping the breakfast pan I’d been washing, sudsy water splashing everywhere. Honestly, I ought to be used to her naked figure by now; she pranced around the house half naked most of the time anyway, but god damn she just looked so good wearing next to nothing.
I’d wanted to throw her onto the dining table, pin her down, and rip those strings to nothing.
Then, of course, have my way with her. Thoroughly. Harshly. Things were nearly back to normal between us, which meant I could fuck her how we both wanted again. Now, if only I could say the same for my professional endeavors.
Unfortunately—or, perhaps, for the bikini’s sake, fortunately—work had called me away for most of the morning. Not only was I managing my own investments, luxury properties, restaurants, and the legion of staffers who reported directly to me, but I had conceded a few days ago and was currently neck-deep in Richard’s fuck-ups. Just a few spreadsheets, a few forms, a few expense reports. I had told my father I would help a little. Nothing crazy. Only on Sundays, so I wasn’t taking time away from Belle. I had never been very good at saying no to either of my parents, and my father was fucking relentless when it came to getting what he wanted. I’d finally broken down and agreed to do a bit of damage control.
What he had sent me—it was at least a month’s worth of work.
I still wasn’t sure if I would do it all, but this morning I had sat myself down and waded in. After all, I cared very deeply about the people my brother’s laziness affected. Not just my father, but the general managers of the resorts, the staff working under them—Richard held their livelihoods in his addict hands, and from what I’d seen, he either hadn’t realized what an enormous responsibility that was, or he just didn’t care.
Knowing my brother, I erred toward the latter.
But now something had happened to Belle, and I would never forgive myself if it had happened because I was once again bowing to my father’s wishes and fixing my older brother’s mistakes.
Never. I’d never forgive them, either.
As I raced down the stairs, my pinky toe screaming, I half expected to see Belle leaning heavily on the kitchen counter, covered in blood. Somehow. Shark attack in the pool—that was what her tone had suggested as she wailed for me.
Instead, I found her standing there, her eyes wide and panicked, her hands cupped—with a little bullfinch inside.
My gut response was to ask her why the fuck there was a bird inside my house, some five feet from my pristine kitchen—but her eyes brimmed with tears and her lower lip started to quiver as soon as I stepped off the last stair, so I opted for a softer approach instead.
“Belle,” I said gently, holding up a hand as one does to settle a startled filly, “what’s happened?”
“She was flying funny around the pool and then she hit the window and fell down and she got back up but then she wasn’t walking right and then she just stopped and I don’t think she’s breathing and we have to do something for her!”
“Oh, Belle,” I murmured. Normally the bullfinches stuck to their flock. Given the amount of glass encasing the first floor, this wasn’t the first bird to have flown into it by accident, but this little one was likely th
e first Belle had seen who hadn’t survived the collision. I moved closer, grasping a frantic Belle by the back of her neck. Yeah—the bird was definitely dead. But my submissive was looking at me with those big blue eyes, like I would just know how to make things right. With a sigh, I offered her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “All right, take a breath, Belle. Give me a second…”
I jogged into the kitchen and dug out a dish towel from one of the drawers next to the sink, then hurried back and held it out.
“Put her in here.”
Belle stroked the tiny brown bird’s wings, the feathers streaked with a faint red, then did as she was told. I made sure to cradle the bird just as she had, only wrapped in a towel this time.
“Now, go wash your hands.”
“But—”
I mustered a stern expression. “Right now, Belle.”
With a huff, she darted around me into the kitchen and went for the lavender dish soap. Honestly—picking up a bird with her bare hands. What was she—no. I knew what she’d been thinking. She had watched a helpless bullfinch hurt herself smacking into a window, and Belle’s instinct had been to help.
“Now, run upstairs and fetch one of the shoeboxes from my closet,” I told her, pleased to find her less frantic now. “We’ll give her something safe to sit in, and…then we’ll see.”
Belle was off like a shot, zooming up the stairs, taking them two at a time before disappearing around the corner. In her absence, I examined the bullfinch—a Lesser Antilles bullfinch, if I remembered my avian taxonomy correctly. She was small, her feathers a blend of brown, orange, and red to help her hide in the fruit trees. Upon closer inspection, I found her beak cracked. If it hadn’t happened when she hit the window, then she might not have been eating.
And she certainly wasn’t breathing anymore.
“Tough day, old girl,” I whispered, stroking her velvety feathers with the towel. “We’ve got you now. You’re safe here.”
I looked up sharply at the sound of Belle racing down the stairs—carelessly, almost. Frowning, I bit back the urge to tell her to slow down.
“Is she breathing?” she asked, one of my coral Prada boxes in hand, the logo emblazoned across the lid in gold. “She hit the window so hard. Is she okay?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart, but I don’t think so.”
Heat flashed across my cheeks—sweetheart. It had just slipped out, natural as anything. I pressed my lips together as Belle breezed by, taking the shoebox to the dining table, seeming not to have noticed.
Every time I had said her name in the last few weeks, I’d really wanted to say sweetheart. She called me sir. Belle was my sweetheart—my inquisitive, kind, beautiful submissive who deserved such a sweet pet name. It suited her.
I’d been cautious, however, remembering that day in the pool when she’d expressed how much she liked the clear-cut division between escort and client. I hadn’t wanted to cross that line with her, put her in an uncomfortable situation, especially after the paddling incident. I had been so cautious. So vigilant.
And now—it had just happened.
I’d called her sweetheart, and our world hadn’t fallen apart.
Fuck it. I was going to do it again. Because, honestly, some of our lines had already blurred, and neither of us had done a damn thing about it.
And Belle was my sweetheart. Mine. Using her pet name, staking my claim, took us one step closer to me giving her—
It.
Her gift.
The gift hiding under my bed, still wrapped in the box. The gift that could make or break us. The gift that was entirely inappropriate for a client to give his escort—the gift that I’d bought two weeks in when I just knew Belle was meant to be mine.
I had every intention of giving it to her before the month was through, when she was ready. If she was ready, and if she accepted it—well, we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. I didn’t want to get my hopes up. Not yet.
For now, we’d start with the name. Sweetheart. My sweetheart.
Once she had the shoebox lid off, I set the dish towel inside, gently lowering the bullfinch in, careful not to jostle her. Belle hovered beside me, twisting her hands as she peered anxiously at her rescue.
“She’s not breathing.”
“No, sweetheart, I don’t think she is.”
As right as it felt to call her what I wanted, my heart ached when Belle burst into tears, her hands over her mouth, her shoulders shuddering. I wrapped an arm around them, pulling her close, and kissed her forehead.
“I know it’s just a b-bird, but she hit the window so hard, then got up and walked around a bit before she fell over again,” Belle said breathlessly from behind her hands, wet streaks cutting down her cheeks, “and I just thought…I just thought maybe…”
I knew exactly what she’d thought—that maybe she could do something to save her.
“I know.” I pulled her closer and she nestled under my chin, gripping the front of my T-shirt with both hands. As she continued to cry, I held her tight, not wanting to ever let go—not wanting anything else in the world to make her cry like this. If I could, I’d shield her from everything. I couldn’t, of course, but I would damn well try. My eyes closed briefly. Belle in my arms felt right. If I was being honest with myself, it had felt right from the first day we met, surrounded by lawyers, her delicate hand sliding into mine, those royal blues shyly gazing up at me as she smiled.
That had been it. I’d been done for—hook, line, sinker.
And I’d been falling for her just a little bit harder, day by day, since then.
Fuck me. Belle sobbing in my arms about a bird, feeling so deeply for an otherwise insignificant little creature, coming to me for comfort, for guidance, for support…
No denying it anymore—I loved her.
“Why don’t we bury her somewhere on the eastern trail?” I said, finding my words at last. They might have been thick with feeling, my throat tight, but I got them out. I remembered who I was to her. I was her Dom—and a Dom took charge in a situation like this.
Slowly, blinking those watery lashes, Belle looked up at me, her cheeks pink, and I smiled.
“The finches make their nests along that trail. We’ll put her out there—so she can watch the sunrise with them.”
Belle considered it for a moment, nibbling on her lower lip, and then nodded. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
I held back a chuckle when she wiped her tears away on my shirt—as if doing so without even realizing that she’d done it. Begrudgingly, I let her go, then went for the shoebox lid; the dish towel was organic cotton—it could be buried too.
“Wait.” Belle held her hand out over the box, and when I stopped, she tucked the corners of the beige towel in too. “Maybe we could give her a nicer coffin?”
“Is Prada not to her taste?”
She looked up at me sharply, the edges of her mouth twitching. “No, it’s just not very unique.”
“Right.” I set the lid down on the table again, nodding. “And she was a very unique little bullfinch. Shall I go get my paints?”
I’d been joking—but then Belle sank into the dining chair in front of the box, that hint of a smile gone, and muttered, “Yes, please.”
Well then. I guess we were painting a bird coffin today.
Before I left, I planted another kiss on the top of Belle’s head, pulling her hair behind her shoulders and needlessly wiping her cheeks dry one last time. She leaned into my touch, but her focus was on the bird. So, without a word, I darted upstairs, ignoring the call of my office completely. Fuck work. Belle needed me—and together we were going to make the best damn bird coffin the world had ever seen.
Or, at the very least, make one that looked less like a shoebox from the back of my closet.
When I returned a few minutes later, arms full of paint and brushes, Belle had wrapped the bullfinch and removed her from the shoebox. The little bundle sat in the middle of the table, out of the way, and I made a
note to have this afternoon’s cleaning crew do two rounds of detail work on the first floor.
Together, we decided to paint the shoebox to look like the bullfinch, which meant the basecoat was a blend of tawny and russet. Belle worked on that while I chose the detail colouring—mahogany, sienna, ash grey, bronze, sandstone, and marigold. At first Belle insisted I do all the shading, but with some pointers, she managed just fine on her own as well.
“I know I’m being silly,” she said about an hour later, sweeping marigold across the lid. “I know it’s just a bird, and I’m being—”
“It’s not silly,” I told her without looking up, dabbing at the shoebox’s corner to smooth an edge. “You’re not silly, Belle.”
She could be giddy and excited over little things like turtles or Swiss chocolates, but I had never considered her silly. Beyond that, silly suggested frivolity, and to me, Belle’s feelings had never been and never would be frivolous.
As I worked, I felt her studying me briefly before going back to the lid—and that was that. We finished up the bullfinch’s coffin in a timely hour and a half. After, we left it to dry, and Belle changed into a black romper I’d never seen before. Fare thee well, string bikini. Until we meet again…
While I’d tried to swing lunch as we waited for the paint to set, Belle hadn’t been interested. In the end, however, I managed to persuade her to nibble on some chopped carrots and cucumber, and by the time she finished, we could touch the shoebox without smudging our efforts. Belle set the bullfinch inside, reverently lowered the lid into place, and carried it out while I grabbed a metal shovel from the storage shed.
She lagged a few paces behind me as we walked the trails, saying nothing until I asked if she liked the spot I chose at the foot of a leafy tamarind tree. Standing beside me, she gave the tree and its whispery, bright green leaves a once-over, and then nodded.
“Yes, this is good.”
I dug a small grave, about four feet deep, careful not to tear any of the larger roots I met along the way. When I was finished, Belle handed me the shoebox and I gently placed it at the bottom. Together, we filled the hole, the dark earth painting our arms and knees. Sweat dribbled down my back, and I wiped at my forehead, smearing dirt there, too.
