Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1)

by Liz Meldon

  But Dean had me up and flipped over by the time the water reached me, surging across my wrists, my knees, my ankles. Huffing, I tried to wriggle away, crawl to freedom, only to be dragged back and thrown over Dean’s knee. He knelt in the surf, pinning my draped body in place, positioning me where he wanted—like I weighed nothing at all. Like I really was his kitten, small and malleable in his strong hands.

  I steadied myself on the sand, hands sinking deeper by the second, and then attempted to straighten up. Dean’s arm across my back was like lead, forcing me to stay just so—dangling over his knee, face only a few inches from the sand, and my butt in the air. The surf surged, crashing back into us, and I lifted my chin to avoid the spray. Then, unwilling to accept my lot, I yanked at his torn shirt as his fingers ghosted up my thighs, and pounded my feet against the sand.

  Dean responded by pinning them down with his other knee.

  He chuckled at my strangled moan of protest, then roughly tugged my dress up, exposing the rest of me to the moon, the stars—to his hungry stare. I yelped when his teeth raked across my skin, over the curve of my backside, clamping down on one globe as I squirmed uselessly in place. Another dark chuckle, the sound licking its way straight to my sex, his fingers trailing up my thighs, between them. I made no effort to open for him, but he found my slick folds anyway, sliding across them, flicking at my clit. Over my shoulder, I watched him, still smiling like the cat who’d caught the canary, and, as he met and held my gaze, Dean thrust two fingers into me.

  “Ah!” I tightened around the sizeable intrusion, but he met little resistance, my arousal drawing him in, beckoning those fingers home. Dean hissed softly, stroking my inner walls, caressing that little spot that made me twitch and whimper. My fingers curled into the sand, my hips rocking of their own accord, greedy and wanton.

  Wait. We had been fighting—and this felt like surrender.

  I tried to swat him away, but I couldn’t reach his arm, nor did my ineffectual smacks at his side, his back, have any effect. Dean retaliated, nipping at my ass again, hard enough to make me squeal and thrash about. His firm, sensual caress inside shifted to something harder, his fingers pumping in and out as I struggled, as I moaned in frustration. The surf continued to crash into us, salt water sloshing up to my chin, my lips. Fire crackled and spit in my depths, its heat coaxing me to clench, to grip Dean’s fingers with every harsh thrust.

  As if he wasn’t busy enough, the fingers of the arm locked over me started to play with my right nipple. Rogue agents, inching closer while I was distracted, they plucked and pinched, refusing to budge even when I grabbed him by the wrist and pulled.

  “No,” I half cried, half moaned, my traitorous thighs falling open slightly when his pace increased, each pump shuddering through my body. Dean’s smile turned mocking.

  “Yes, kitten.”

  My head fell with a moan, and I was forced to watch him cup me, knead me, as his two fingers drove me closer and closer to an earth-shattering, heart-stopping—

  He withdrew just before I could ask him for permission to come. I sagged over his knee, gasping, shaking, like a spring pulled too tight, ready to snap. Just as before, Dean effortlessly moved me, arranged me, lifting me off his knee and setting me on all fours as the surf retreated. For a moment, I stayed where he put me, hands and knees and toes dipping into the sand. Dress hiked up, yanked down, hair a mess from both the wind and my Dom.

  The sound of his belt buckle opening snapped me out of it. With a slight shake of my head, I started to crawl away, parallel to the water, until two firm hands clamped around my hips and dragged me back with the rush of the next tidal surge. As soon as he released me, I was off again, crawling faster, splashing water as I went.

  This time, when he caught me, it was with his belt looped around my waist. It cinched tight, forcing the breath out of me at first. Over my shoulder, I caught Dean’s smile—hungry now, positively ravenous—as he notched the leather on the third hole, then used the tail end to smack me. First the side of my thigh, then my ass, harder. I flinched, yelped, but when I tried to crawl away this time, I got nowhere. He just needed to grip the belt wound snugly around my waist with one hand and I was stuck. Bound. Trapped. Captured.

  Collared and loving it.

  Head down, I hid in my hair, not wanting him to see just how much fun I was having—wanting to maintain the charade, the façade, that had us both ensnared. Me dripping down my thighs, Dean hard as he ground against my ass.

  I sucked in a soft breath at the sound of his zipper, at the brush of clothing as he pushed his shorts and briefs down his thighs. That breath shot out of me, sharply, when he slapped my inner thighs, one and then the other. I knew what he wanted—he wanted them opened wider. He was going to take me like this, belted, captured, on the beach after midnight with no one but the moon to hear me scream.

  Heat pulsed through me at the thought. I bit my lip. Please don’t let him know how badly I want him to do that.

  Determined to stick to my character, I didn’t move. I stayed perfectly still, the water rushing up to me—until he smacked again, one cheek and then the other, harder, sharper, the sting intermingling with the need between my thighs. I gritted my teeth, wondering just how far both of us were willing to take this. Dean could go harder. Much harder. So, I yielded, adding a slight arch in my back, parting my thighs just a little. Unsatisfied, Dean pushed my right one open another few inches, then filled me with a single, brutal thrust.

  My cry echoed across the water. Eyes wide, mouth hanging open, I fisted my hands in the sand, the sea surging. My inner walls clung to him, like I had been designed to fit him, to cater to his cock. Faintly, over the crash of the waves, I heard Dean’s short, brisk breaths as he stilled, perhaps giving me the courtesy of time to adjust to him. I whimpered, dropping onto my elbows as the water rushed away.

  He started to move with the surf’s next surge. Gripping the belt with one hand, Dean rocked his hips, even the slightest movement forcing lightning bolts of pleasure through me. As sea water charged the shore, I propped myself up on my hands again, begrudgingly, lifting my chin at the crash. A shiver skittered down my back when he slowly, achingly, eased out of me, only to pound back in a breath later. I cried out, jolting forward as far as the belt would allow, breasts bouncing.

  After a brief reprieve, he did it again. And again. And again. Each time, the lapse between shortened, until finally he found his rhythm—the one that would send me careening over the edge in about a minute if I wasn’t careful. I moaned with each harsh thrust, wishing the belt had been around my neck instead, but still delighting in it, this little addition to our routine. Over my shoulder, I found him grasping it with one hand, the other hanging at his side. I’d expected to meet his dark stare, his teasing smile. Instead, Dean had his head thrown back, lips parted, eyes closed as he lost himself in me.

  Maybe he hadn’t been angry about tonight after all.

  I yelped when the next crash of surf hit, splashing up my arms, spattering my pebbled nipples. My sir took me brutally, his hips relentless, his cock pumping deep inside me, grazing all the places that made me squeal. I stomped the tops of my feet on the sand, whining, as heat licked its way across my sex, my core—so wonderfully close to the kind of orgasm that would have me seeing more than just stars. Suddenly, all ability to think straight vanished. I was lost in a sea of promise so exquisite that I would let myself drown again and again. I closed my eyes tight, head dropping forward with a sob, my sex rippling around him. Almost—there. Almost—

  “Don’t you fucking dare come without asking,” Dean snarled. My eyes shot open when he spanked me, each pitiless smack of his palm inciting a new kind of blaze across my skin. Vainly, I tried to wriggle out of reach, only to earn another two spanks on each side. The belt tightened around my waist when Dean gripped it with both hands, his pace quickening, the slap of flesh to flesh drowning out the crashing waves.

  “Please, sir,” I whimpered. “Please, can I come?”
<
br />   I couldn’t hold out. So—close. So—right there.

  “No.”

  I collapsed onto one elbow, bobbing along with his relentless rhythm, and peered up at him. No? Had he just said no?

  His smile was back. That dark, mocking sort of smile that made me want to cry in despair and scream with need. Dean cocked his head to the side, issuing an unspoken challenge.

  “Please?” I whispered. His smile sharpened.

  “No, sweetheart, you can’t.”

  I folded down with a sob. “Please—”

  “What is it about no,” another two smacks, “that you don’t understand?”

  “Sir, I c-can’t—”

  “You can.” He dragged me back up by my hair, not letting go until I braced myself on my hands again. The surf surged. I cried. Dean hammered into me.

  He had never told me no before. He had never denied me. I—I didn’t know what to do.

  Not come. That was what I was supposed to do.

  Or come and be punished for it. No. I couldn’t do that again. I couldn’t. I’d die.

  But this was torture. All that heat, the crackling fire lapping at my insides, every part of me on edge.

  “Sir,” I wailed, stomping my feet again—like a brat throwing a tantrum. Dean chuckled, dragging one finger up my back before threading his hand in my hair.

  “All right, Belle.” He gave a little tug, forcing my head back. “If you can last one more minute, you can come as much as you want without punishment.”

  “O-one minute?” I gasped. Sixty whole seconds? That was an eternity!

  “That is my only offer.”

  I whimpered and nodded as best I could, then tried to distract myself with the stars. Only, as soon as that minute started, Dean pounded harder.

  “Sir!” My betrayed cry ricocheted off every piece of the island, accompanied by the faint echoes of his laughter. This wasn’t fair! I stopped feeling the water, the wind. I couldn’t see the stars anymore. I was adrift—adrift in the River Sir, where all good submissives go to surrender. There was just me and him, us, alone in the black. Through the haze, through the fire scorching my insides, I counted. Forty seconds to go. Twenty. Ten. Five. Three. Two. One.

  “Good girl,” Dean murmured, slowing at last, the hand in my hair moving straight to my clit. “Come for me, sweetheart. I want to hear you scream.”

  I twitched and moaned as he played with me, but it wasn’t until both his hands found their way back to the belt, his hips slamming into mine, that I finally imploded. I gave him my screams, some incoherent blend of his name, his title, and oh god leaving my mouth as I plummeted into bliss.

  “Good.” Two more smacks, my pleasure-addled body a rag doll at his disposal. “My, don’t you look pretty, coming so sweetly all over my cock—under the moonlight. Don’t you think that’s poetic, kitten?”

  “Y-yes,” I sobbed, hiding in my hair again.

  “Yes, what?”

  Dean gathered my blonde waves and yanked them back, driving an arc into my neck as tears rolled down my cheeks.

  “YesIthinkitspoetic.”

  “What was that?” He jerked my hair. “Sir can’t hear you when you don’t enunciate.”

  “Yes,” I cried, my body sated yet starving, desperate for him to grant me my freedom—to let me go, to stop pounding into me, but also to let me come again a dozen times over. “Yes, I-I think it’s poetic.”

  “I wish you could see how perfect your cunt looks with my cock fucking it.”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Maybe next time I’ll put you in front of a mirror—and you can watch.” His voice hitched, his pace stuttering. “Would you like that, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, sir, please, please, please I want to watch you take me—”

  “Say it right, Belle,” Dean growled. His cock pulsed inside me, and as he slammed in one last time, stilling, I gave him what he wanted—what we wanted.

  “Please, sir, I want to watch you fuck me—”

  “Fuck!”

  A second burst of pleasure drowned me just as Dean’s first consumed him. We collapsed into the surf, me on my elbows, his hands planted on either side of my head, blanketing me without smothering me. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. The belt—too tight. I heaved in a ragged gasp, but before I could reach back, Dean was up and removing it. He tossed the strip of fine Italian-crafted leather aside, then heaved me up, supporting me with a hand across my chest, open-mouth kissing my neck.

  “Such a good girl,” he whispered, panting, both of us fighting to catch our breath. I clutched at his wrist, his elbow, and leaned into him—light as air. If he let me go, I’d float away.

  “Thank you, sir,” I murmured back, turning just enough to kiss his cheek.

  “A very good girl, sweetheart.”

  I closed my eyes, smiling.

  “My very good girl.”

  I nodded, fearless in his arms. “Yes, sir.”

  Slowly, we untangled ourselves. Once free, I pulled my too-tight dress over my head and threw it back up the beach, then sucked in a lungful of salty sea air. Beside me, Dean kicked off his shorts and briefs, but left his torn shirt, the fabric billowing in the breeze.

  Then, just as I was about to suggest a quick dip in the water, he scooped me up and threw me over his shoulder—like I really was his kitten—and carried me back to the house without a word.

  Barefoot and spent, I padded downstairs at 5:30 that morning in search of a bottle of water. For the first time since I’d arrived, I hadn’t crawled naked out of my bed—but Dean’s. Chilled by the blast of the AC, I had slipped into his ripped button-up tee, the one he had so casually tossed aside before hauling me into the shower. It smelled like the beach, like a heady combo of Dean’s sweat and his musky cologne, a blend that drove me wild.

  And I liked that it was torn. He hadn’t tossed it in the garbage, just on the floor. Maybe he wouldn’t throw it away.

  I wrapped the shirt around me as I stepped off the last step of the first alabaster staircase, rounding the landing and carrying on down to the second. Just beyond the lounge area, one of the glass doors was only partially closed. Grinning, I tiptoed across the tile and finished the job. No wonder the air-conditioning was going crazy this morning.

  As I clicked the lock into place, then scanned the first floor for any wayward geckos or iguanas, I couldn’t help but flush at the memory of when I had last passed through that door. Only four hours ago, Dean had carried me inside, over his shoulder, naked—full caveman mode engaged. We’d gone straight up to the glorious shower in his master bath, but for the first little while, there hadn’t exactly been much freshening up going on.

  More like ravenous lovemaking against the tiled wall. On the little bench seat. Bent over, bracing myself on the glass as he—

  I shivered, my smile hurting my cheeks as I double-checked all the corners. Not an iguana in sight. Geckos, the rascally little things, would be harder to track down in such an enormous house. A silent house this morning, save for the air-conditioning—and the hum of the fridge, which settled as I made my way around the walnut dining table.

  I ought to hurt more than I did. Dean and I had played a lot in just a few short hours—a lot. In the shower. Over the chaise chair next to his balcony. On the floor—apparently I was a sucker for getting onto my hands and knees for him—in bed, over the bed, tied up to the bedpost. I should have been sore and exhausted. Instead, I was still floating along, content.

  Pleasantly full, if you could even feel like that after a sex marathon. Full and complete and whole. And happy. Blissfully, stupidly, happy.

  Fridge door propped open, I pushed through the containers of leftovers and snagged one of the cold glass bottled waters at the back. Rather than guzzle it down right there, I closed the fridge and all but skipped over to the stairs, eager to get back to bed. Dean’s bed. Not my own—maybe for the rest of the month. I just couldn’t imagine crawling back under the thin duvet in the guest room while Dean slept just a
few doors down.

  I wouldn’t push it, of course. Our individual bedrooms were the one bit of privacy we both had from each other, but if he invited me in again, I wouldn’t say no.

  “Belle?”

  I flinched, stumbling onto the bottom step and clutching the bottle to me, so not in the mood to clean up scattered shards before 6 AM. Peering up, heart hammering, I spied Dean leaning over the glass wall that lined the two staircases. Hair tousled, bleary-eyed, he looked like he had rolled out of bed the second he woke up.

  “Are you all right?” he rumbled. I bit my lower lip, grinning; his voice had a croaky purr first thing, one that made me shiver—made me wet.

  “I’m great.” I lifted the bottle as evidence. “Just thirsty.”

  We set off in unison, me climbing up, him sauntering down, and met on the landing in the middle. As soon as I rounded the corner, I inhaled sharply: Dean was buck naked, sporting a sun-kissed glow all over, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he had been tanning in the nude without me. Six-pack on display. The sharp, defined V-cut of his hips. Thick cock hanging between his thighs, not exactly standing at attention, but not entirely disengaged either. Beneath his ripped shirt, my nipples pebbled. This man. My very own bronzed Adonis, strolling down the stairs with the grace and ease of a king—the lord of all he surveyed, myself included.

  We gravitated toward each other without a word, like two halves finding their way back to the whole. Dean backed me up against the shiny alabaster landing wall. Roughly a foot thick, it came up to my mid-back and had a rounded edge rather than a sharp corner like the stairs.

  Our hips met first, mine arching out to greet his, molding to him as his shaft became more alert.

  “May I?” he murmured, holding out his hand as I pressed back against the wall. Without hesitation, I gave him the bottle, watching as he cracked it open, then brought it to my lips. His eyes were warm first thing in the morning. Not full of schedules and dark deeds, the thousand other tasks a man like Dean Donahue had on his plate—just warm. Comforting. Commanding, even so. Perhaps that was just his natural state.