by Liz Meldon
My lips parted, and he fed me a quick sip, then another, the frigid liquid sliding down my throat, washing over my insides. It did nothing to quell the embers flickering back to life within me, the remnants of this morning’s many encounters sparking.
When I pulled back and licked my lips, he capped the bottle and set it on the ground, safely out of reach. The implication excited me, and my breath hitched as he caressed my cheek, then wove his hand into my loose blonde waves.
“Did you miss me?” I whispered, tipping my head into his hand, lifting a teasing brow. My smile faltered when he didn’t return it. Dean studied me silently for a moment, not an ounce of tease in him, before tightening his hand in my hair.
“Yes,” he murmured, then pulled me into an all-consuming kiss. Open-mouthed and deep. A kiss to claim, to consume, to brand—to mark me for his own. Possessive and hungry, a kiss I felt in my marrow. The kind that had me up on my toes, that made my heart skip a beat.
The kind that turned the embers back to flames, pleasurable heat soaring through me.
We had come together so many times already. I had come so many times already.
But I wanted him again.
Dean made me insatiable. And if the way he kissed me said anything—he was starving.
He kissed me like that for some time, slowly, deeply, tasting me like I was the only fine dining he would ever need. At one point, his hand slipped between my thighs, languidly massaging my sex as he swallowed every sound I made. Every moan. Every shudder. Every sigh. He made me feel like a rare delicacy—the sort no one would ever sample again, if he had his way.
I wanted that, just as badly as I wanted him.
And the realization didn’t send me running. It had my hands in his hair, my mouth open to him, my thighs open for him. After a rather intense month and a half, Dean knew my body. He knew where to go hard and soft in equal measures, where to linger if he wanted to make me whimper. I was his canvas, his fingers the brush, and he crafted a masterpiece right there on the landing. By the time his hand smoothed over my hips, beneath the shirt and up to my breasts, I was a panting, trembling mess.
My eyes fluttered open when he pressed his forehead to mine. I was still met with warmth, but need, too. Darkness. A hint of danger and promise.
“Dean…” We had forgone his Dom title—just for this morning. I’d cried his name when he forced orgasm after orgasm out of me, and it only spurred him on. He hadn’t corrected me. Not once. Maybe he liked the way it sounded. I certainly liked the way it tasted.
Even if I wasn’t calling him sir, I’d asked to come. Every time. Even if he was dragging the climax from my body, I still begged. In fact, that was the only bit of our dynamic that remained. What we had done this morning—none of it was planned. None of it was discussed, assessed, analyzed for safety. We were just two people who did what they wanted to each other—and it felt different. Right. Normal.
Not that the sex was standard, by any means.
Apparently, when given the chance to improvise, Dean and I erred toward the dark side. Rough and hard. Pain and pleasure. We slipped into our usual roles naturally, but without all the formalities. I submitted, but I also fought. I inflicted pain, too, and was thoroughly chastised.
I loved it. I loved our sex.
And maybe—maybe I loved…
“Belle.”
He had grown hard against me, his cock resting against my belly. The muscles along his jaw flicked when I stroked the silky head, smearing the drop of precum just as languidly as he had with me.
Stealing one more kiss, the kind that made my toes curl, Dean hoisted me up, large hands grasping my thighs. I reached between us and steered him into me, breath catching as he thrust up. Oh. My lashes fluttered closed. My head tipped back—and I didn’t give a damn that he had me pinned to the landing wall, that if I looked over my shoulder, I’d see straight down to the first floor.
In Dean’s arms, I wasn’t scared anymore—of anything.
He mouthed hot kisses along my throat, and I locked my ankles, resting them on the small of his back. One hand continued to grip my thigh, but the other ghosted around my back, trapping me against him.
I felt full again. Physically, this time. Full and stretched—but still whole.
“Dean,” I whimpered, arms curling around his neck, our foreheads finding one another. He finally rocked against me, moving at my unspoken command.
No. A plea.
I couldn’t command him, not when he owned me, mind, body, and soul.
The first rule of escorting—I’d broken it.
And I didn’t care anymore.
Wrapped snugly in each other’s arms, we made slow but intense love on that landing, breath mingling, mouths never more than a few inches apart. We rarely kissed during our scenes, but here, it was like neither of us could get enough. His kiss was a drug, and I was already addicted. Whenever he so much as brushed my lips, I was open and pliant beneath him. I was a willing captive in his grasp—and I needed so much more.
My climax snuck up on me. Like a great whitecap breaking against the shore, it crashed over me so suddenly, so swiftly, that I cried out. Clinging to Dean, I rode the wave, hips grinding against him as he smothered my noises with another desperate kiss that had me seeing stars.
His kiss turned sharper, harsher when he came shortly after, pounding through the final few thrusts, our symphony of sounds reaching a crescendo, filling the house.
Panting, gasping, holding one another, we settled together, Dean pressing slow, seductive kisses to my neck.
“Sorry I didn’t ask for permission,” I whispered, adoring his little chuckle. Dean nibbled at my earlobe, then planted a firm kiss beneath it.
“I’ll let it slide this time.”
We grinned at one another, and I brushed my fingers through the caramel-blond locks that had fallen over his forehead.
“Thank you, sir.”
Dean watched my lips as I spoke, his gaze warm again, his smile soft. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. The first time he’d called me that, I had been bawling over a dead bird. Anyone else would have made me feel like an idiot, because, after I’d distanced myself from it, I could acknowledge maybe I’d had a bit of an overreaction. But Dean had been so accommodating, so gentle that day. I’d thought the pet name might stem from that persona—that of the soft, caring Dom who hated to see his sub cry. Two weeks later, it had stuck.
And I really, really, really liked when he called me sweetheart.
With my legs still wrapped around Dean, my hips had finally started to ache. I cupped his face, that gorgeous strong jaw, and kissed him—a hard, firm peck, our mouths closed—and then slid my eyes pointedly up the stairs behind him. Dean’s eyebrows lifted.
“Are you telling me what to do, kitten?”
Oh, I liked that one too. Kitten. It made me feel bold and mischievous.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
“No, I thought not.” Grinning, he ducked down for me to grab the smooth, narrow neck of the glass water bottle, then hoisted me up a little higher, cock still buried where it belonged, and carried me upstairs to his shower, then back to his bed—where I belonged.
7
Dean
Friday, March 15th
I hated waking to an empty bed now.
Especially an empty, Belle-less bed. Ever since she had spent that first night, she just hadn’t left—and I hadn’t wanted her to. Waking up to that sleepy smile, her royal blues warm and inviting, her supple, naked figure just begging me to do horribly wonderful things to it…
Well, it certainly made getting up harder. In fact, I hadn’t climbed out of bed at my usual 6:45 start since she’d moved in. No 7 AM workouts. No breakfast prep. As soon as I was up, in more ways than one, I had Belle in my arms, happily smothered by her wild blonde mane, and we usually ended up dozing another hour away together. Sometimes fucking. Sometimes just spooning, sleepy conversations murmured, punctuated by h
er giggles—giggles that made my heart so fucking happy. It had been bliss, honestly. As I crawled in beside her each night, I couldn’t imagine waking up without her.
I couldn’t imagine a future without her anymore.
But here I was—without her. At just after six, a gentle dawn light spilled into the room, my near-sheer white curtains doing little to dampen it. Brow furrowed, I sat up, naked beneath the covers, and scanned the room for Belle. Not in the chair by the balcony. Not on the balcony—though that would have been a shocker, given, well, heights. I even checked the bathroom, but that was dark and quiet too.
Where on earth—
Something clattered downstairs.
Ah. Had she snuck out—to make me breakfast in bed? No. As much as she complained about not being allowed to cook, the little minx would be lost if I ever handed over the spatula. She was hopeless in the kitchen, and while bumbling amateur cooks usually made me want to rip my hair out, Belle triggered my inner Dom like none other. Her struggles encouraged the protective, assertive, supportive, patient side of me to the surface. I liked to encourage her when she tried, but in the end, nine times out of ten, I always salvaged her attempts into something edible.
So, she wasn’t a cook, and I didn’t mind, but I couldn’t see another reason as to why she’d be downstairs. And that crash—it had sounded like one of my metal mixing bowls.
Something was afoot. The bedroom smelled like vanilla.
After relieving myself in the bathroom and washing my face, I headed down the hall, padding along on the balls of my feet, looking absolutely fucking ridiculous—a six-foot-two ass-naked man tiptoeing—so she wouldn’t hear me coming. Something else clattered, the vanilla scent growing stronger, the commotion followed by Belle’s very innocent little oh, darn it; I grinned. Hearing an expletive tumble from her usually demure mouth that night on the beach—fuck had it ever pushed me into oblivion.
I stopped at the top of the staircase, peeking over to the first floor. Sunrise painted it in warm hues, and the light over the stove illuminated the open kitchen area. Just as I’d suspected, there she was, doing something at the long stretch of countertop closest to the stairs. My eyes narrowed.
Was that a…cake?
And my paintbrushes?
Wearing one of my shirts again, buttoned up this time, Belle looked positively scrumptious, her hair tossed back in a messy bun, a bit of blue colouring smeared on her cheeks—and now, when she wiped at it, her forehead.
The movement of wiping at her forehead, however, had made her look up, and the moment she saw me, she jumped.
“Oh—no!” She lurched over the cake, arms around it, hiding it as best she could. “Don’t look! It isn’t ready yet!”
“Belle, what on earth are you doing?” I sidled down the stairs, arms crossed, fighting an enormous smile as she continued to shield her work from my prying eyes. “It isn’t even seven in the morning yet…”
“I’ve been up since three,” she admitted weakly as I stepped off the last stair. “Stop—right there. Don’t… You’re going to ruin your surprise.”
“I think that ship has sailed, sweetheart.”
“Oh…” Her disappointment made my chest tight. “Right.”
“What are you doing?” Strolling into the kitchen area, I finally noticed the stack of baking bowls in the sink. The dishwasher hummed, its heat warming my legs in passing.
“It’s…” Belle set the paintbrush down, six bowls filled with different shades of blue and grey scattered around her. She’d used nearly all my lemon and vanilla extracts; the bottles sat empty next to the full sink. She scratched at her messy bun, then hastily pulled her hand away, fingers stained blue. “It’s for your birthday.”
I blinked back at her, shocked.
“I wanted to surprise you,” she added, shyly almost, picking at her blue-stained nails. She then turned toward me, cocking her hip against the counter. “Happy birthday?”
I hadn’t told her it was my birthday. I rarely ever told anyone. Clearing my throat, I leaned in and stole a quick, firm kiss, then looked at her cake. She had somehow managed to find the glass turntable at the back of a cupboard.
“How…did you know it’s my birthday?”
“The dossier,” she told me with a shrug. Right. Of course. We each had a copy containing all pertinent information about one another.
“Ah. Yes, well—”
“I can’t believe you weren’t going to say anything.” Belle nudged my arm, grinning, her shyness forgotten. “I love birthdays!”
Her smile managed to lift my spirits. “Of course you do, sweetheart.”
I, on the other hand, hadn’t properly celebrated a birthday in years. Frankly, they had lost their sparkle. For the most part, I worked straight through them, and then, around midnight, my staff would creep into my office with some delicacy from the kitchen, a sparkler stuck in the top, and they’d all sing happy birthday while I counted down the seconds until I could get back to whatever task they had interrupted. The whole affair only lasted about five minutes, if I was lucky, and then the dessert—tart, cake slice, macaron, once a whole croquembouche—sat in my office’s mini-fridge until I forgot about it and eventually gave it to my assistant.
But the look on Belle’s face, the enthusiasm with which she professed her love for birthdays—maybe I didn’t mind them so much today.
Hers was in July.
I already had gift ideas in mind.
Only a handful involved bondage.
Shaking my head, I leaned down, slowly rotating the turntable to give her work a closer inspection. “Belle…did you bake me a layered cake? And is that—fondant?”
It looked just shy of three tiers high, and I knew in an instant that the exterior wasn’t buttercream. The fondant rippled and split, only smooth in a few patches—clearly handled by someone who had never touched an ounce of fondant in their life. But it was obvious that she had tried. Very hard. And—oh, it made my eyes sting with feeling.
Fucking hell, Belle was turning me soft.
“I’ve been researching it for two weeks,” she admitted, her enthusiasm and smile infectious. Her eyes practically shimmered. “I snuck my list of ingredients to Jackson when he dropped off the groceries, and then last Sunday he brought me everything I’d need. We hid it all in the pantry.”
I smoothed her flyaways down, impressed with her ingenuity. “I wondered why you were so keen to unload the bags.”
And she had suggested ideas for a lot of our meals this past week, most of which could be made from whatever we had in the fridge. At the time, I’d just been pleased with her enthusiasm for meal-prep when she usually showed none. Clearly it had all been a ploy…
Minx.
“One of the layers didn’t rise as much as the others for some reason,” she continued, brow puckering slightly, “but I just put it in the middle. I’m sure it’s fine.” Belle slowly spun the turntable back around to what I assumed was supposed to be the front of the cake. “It’s a vanilla lemon layer cake.” She hesitated, her little frown deepening. “I wanted to be more adventurous, do something with bourbon, but I didn’t know… I don’t really bake, so…”
For someone who didn’t bake, she’d had the foresight to use the ring molds, which were also in the sink, and the house smelled spectacular. So what if one layer hadn’t risen as much as the others? Just looking at her, I was so fucking proud—I wanted to take that cake, as is, and show it off to anyone who would put up with me.
“Lemon and vanilla sounds delicious,” I told her, drawing her to me with an arm around her shoulders. I kissed her temple, breathing in her natural scent, now paired with her efforts in the kitchen. Exquisite. “Thank you, Belle. I can’t wait to try it.”
Really. My sister Adelaide had labeled me a food snob years ago, and the title had stuck, but I intended to eat every crumb of that lemon and vanilla cake. Lick my plate clean, too, even if something was off with the recipe.
Still, one thing didn’t quite a
dd up.
“And,” I grabbed my paintbrush, holding it up in front of us, “this?”
“Oh, I hope you don’t mind. I cleaned them all before I used them, and I’ll put them back when I’m done. I forgot to add a brush to my list.”
There were four brushes of varying sizes in one of the cupboards, specifically tailored for the culinary arts rather than the actual arts. I bit my tongue. It didn’t matter.
“I wanted to paint it like the painting in your office,” she admitted. “You know—the ocean?”
Initially I had thought she’d just bought blue fondant, or maybe used blue dye, but now I noticed the brushstrokes; she had struggled her way through the fondant setting process, and then decided to paint it. Ambitious, my girl. To her credit, she had chosen the colours well, and she appeared to have just started layering them. I wanted to tell her, however, with the scheme she had chosen, that she ran the risk of it looking muddied if she did too much.
But no. I wasn’t here to critique; this was Belle’s project, and she was doing a spectacular job. She would feel much more accomplished if she did it all by herself.
“It’s lovely,” I said with another kiss to her temple. She stood up on her toes to plant one on my lips, then nudged me away.
“So, go back to bed,” my submissive ordered, the bossy little thing. “I don’t want you to see it until it’s finished.”
I didn’t want to go. I wanted to pull up a chair and just watch her work. Belle had a beautiful tousled, slightly rumpled look to her that I could stare at for hours—then ruin as I fucked her over the counter.
“But I’m awake now.”
“Well, go away,” her cheeks pinked when I arched an eyebrow, “sir. You can see it when it’s finished.”
