by Liz Meldon
Belle then plucked the paintbrush from my hand, dipped it in her ceramic bowl of cobalt-blue paint—edible paint, please be from the edible collection under my studio desk—and went back to work. I folded my arms, watching her for a moment with the most absurd, lovesick grin on my face. Ever the professional, my Belle. She looked right at home with a brush in her hand, even if she was globbing the colour a bit.
Resist the urge to fix it for her.
Slowly, my gaze wandered from her messy hair to her paint-smeared cheek, then on down to where my shirt cut off at the middle of her thigh. No pants. My cock twitched appreciatively, swelling to life at all the filthy things I could do to her in that outfit.
Down, boy. The idea I landed on didn’t involve the appendage, as much as it adored Belle.
“Well,” I said innocently, “I’ll need to do something to keep me busy, I suppose.”
She hummed in agreement. “It’s nice outside. Maybe go for a run.”
“No, I think…” Smirking, I stepped around behind her, then sat on the floor and scooted back. Belle squeal-giggled when I forced her legs apart, lifting her by the hips so I could sidle right into place. My back nudged against the cupboard—and my nose nudged at her pussy.
“Dean!” Toes barely touching the tile, Belle swatted at me, wriggling about as she balanced somewhat precariously on my shoulders. “What are you doing?”
As loath as I was to admit it, I liked when she called me by my name. In fact, I didn’t even mind that she was breaking a house rule. Sir had a time and place. Hearing her giggle my name—it made our relationship more intimate, real.
“Just go back to painting,” I insisted, tipping her body back so I could see over her mound. She peered down at me, smiling incredulously, and the pink in her cheeks darkened when I wiggled my eyebrows. “Pretend I’m not even here.”
Belle squealed when I moved her back into place and smothered her cunt with my hungry mouth, dragging my tongue between her folds. I loved her noises. Every single one of them. I loved her taste. I loved the way she felt.
I just loved—her.
By now, I had a whole routine in place when it came to pleasuring my submissive orally. If I spent too much time on her clit right away, she’d come in about two minutes, and I much preferred to drag it out for as long as I could. I worked her slowly to start, arms wrapped around her thighs. A little lick here. A little lick there. A nibble. A flick. A dip inside her. I found my rhythm in slow, lazy teasing.
I had no clue if Belle was getting any painting done up there, but she certainly was making an awful lot of noise. Another long, languid sweep of my tongue, followed by a hard suck of her clit. Her body shuddered, and slowly, the longer I worked her, the more she leaned her weight on me for support. The more her thighs quivered. The higher-pitched her noises became. When she tangled her hand in my hair and rocked her hips against my mouth, I knew I had her. My motions quickened, and two sharp smacks to her pert little ass had her moaning, long and low, the title she was supposed to call me.
Good girl, Belle.
When I had her like this, all I wanted was to slip a thumb up her ass—just to test the waters. Anal hadn’t been strictly forbidden, but Belle had classified it as a soft limit. Given I had become quite the connoisseur of her cunt, I didn’t mind. Still, I had a feeling she would enjoy the fullness of both holes put to use. I spread her cheeks as her hips trembled, her juices sweet on my tongue, and then smacked her again. Another time. We could broach the subject slowly, gently. When and if she was ready.
As her gasps grew sharper, shorter, I wrapped my arms back around her legs and crushed her cunt against my mouth. While my jaw had started to ache, I put it to good use, tormenting her thoroughly, until I finally had her squealing exactly what I wanted to hear.
“Oh, god, sir, can I please, please, please, please come?”
I pulled back just enough to drag in a lungful of air and growl, “Yes, Belle.”
Nuzzling her clit with my nose, I made sure to lick, lick, lick her through her climax. My cock lay rigid against my abdomen—pouting, likely, as I so enjoyed the feel of her rippling around it whenever she came.
No matter. I’d make her come again today. After all, it was my birthday, and somebody professed to love birthdays. My entire schedule had just shot right out the window, a fresh batch of wicked games dancing across my mind. Games of pain and pleasure. Games that would make her sob and mewl and beg me to come, and I’d deny her again and again until I was sure she was hanging onto her sanity by the skin of her teeth.
Then I’d bury my cock deep inside of her—and she would come around it as many times as I told her.
Because today was my birthday.
And I was finally going to savor every sweet second of it.
When Belle’s white-knuckle grip on my hair loosened, I scooted out from under her, ass numb from sitting on the tile, and caught my breath. I was seeing stars, but probably because all the blood had gone from my head to my dick.
“Oh my god,” Belle moaned, hunched over the counter.
I stood with a smirk. From what I could tell, she hadn’t accomplished much on the cake since I’d started, save a few sweeps of the cobalt across the top. Face thoroughly flushed, her hair sat skewed atop her head—like she had been pulling at it, perhaps just as hard as she had been yanking mine. Her climax coated her thighs, and I wanted to lick her clean.
“Thank you,” she said as she pushed herself up, still bracing on the counter, her toes curled. Our smiles mirrored one another, and I swooped in, pressing a quick peck to her cheek.
“You’re very welcome, sweetheart.” I gave her butt two little pats. “All right. Off for a run. Can’t wait to see the cake when it’s done.”
Belle slumped over the counter with another moan, paintbrush seemingly forgotten, and I sauntered off with my head held high, still painfully erect but grinning like an idiot.
Because I was the birthday boy—and my day was just getting started.
8
Dean
Sunday, March 17th
As soon as I spied that mega-yacht on the horizon, I knew today was fucked.
At first, I’d told myself not to jump to conclusions. While the silhouette was familiar, it could have been anyone’s mega-yacht. The Virgin Islands, both American and British, were full of the uber-rich this time of year. With the regatta taking place in Saint Thomas, plus all the American colleges giving the offspring of the pampered elite a week off, the islands were positively teeming with those who could afford such a luxury.
Hell, if I had more of an ego, Belle and I would have island-hopped on something similar. As it were, I much preferred my trusty little bowrider.
Perhaps mega-yachts had left a bad taste in my mouth, because the one person who I knew owned one had made my life a living hell for the last—oh, decade or two.
As I closed my laptop and sat up straighter on my lounge chair, squinting under the midmorning sun, there were a few blissful moments when I could pretend that yacht belonged to someone else.
Until it was within range for me to see the title painted across the side.
Big Dickie.
Because Enormous Cock was too obvious.
My jaw clenched as I set my things aside on Belle’s towel. The water was calm today, but that monstrosity was too large to dock at the pier. I let out a long angsty sigh and stood at the sight of a familiar figure strolling out from the second covered deck.
Hands in my shorts pockets, shirtless, I scanned the shallows for Belle. Her head resurfaced a few moments later as she popped up briefly to wash out her goggles before diving back down, still unaware of the shitstorm headed our way.
It had been such a wonderful Sunday, too. We’d fucked first thing, with me slipping into her from behind after ages of sleepy, cozy foreplay, and then again in the shower. For the first time since she had arrived, Belle had consented to breakfast on the second-floor terrace. I’d been sure to position our chairs far from the r
ailing, but it seemed her fear of heights had diminished a fraction, because she had been her usual carefree, gorgeous self, smiling and laughing and feeding me cantaloupe squares like this had been our life for years.
Unfortunately, Sundays also meant work—work that ol’ Big Dickie over there ought to be doing himself, but instead he was here, flaunting his mega-yacht and hopping onto a little speedboat to come rain on my parade. While Belle did her thing, chasing after turtles and exploring the calm waters along Ixora’s shoreline, I had plowed through emails, spreadsheets, and contracts for the last two hours. Give it another ten minutes and I’d have been ready to join her in the water, my own pair of fins and goggles waiting patiently beside my chair.
Well. So much for that.
I tracked Richard’s speedboat as it peeled away from the yacht, darting back and forth, making waves unnecessarily—an echo of my brother’s very existence. As per usual, he rode the thing too hard too quick; the engine would be shot before the end of this season, and it looked brand-new.
Belle’s head breached the surface a little farther out than before, and my heart leapt into my throat—my brother was headed straight for her. Anxiety churned in my gut, and I hastily waved him to the left, stalking across the shoreline, beckoning him to follow. He did, eventually, after Belle zipped to the right, cutting through the water, waves sloshing in her face. The fear turned back to the usual angry knot, woven through years of frustration, that refused to leave me when it came to Richard. It was a miracle that it hadn’t manifested into something physical; Richard could give anyone an ulcer—anyone who saw through his bullshit, that is.
The maroon and gold speedboat pushed right up onto the shore—and would require one of us to push it out when he was ready to leave.
Me, likely, while Richard sat in the driver’s seat and barked orders.
A fair picture of our adult relationship.
“Hello, Deanie,” my brother called when he cut the engine. After popping his black sunglasses atop his head of tousled brunet curls, he hopped out of the front seat, barefoot, and strode across the sand toward me. Arms crossed, I stayed right where I was.
“Richard.” The surf surged after my brother, washing away his footprints. Good. Richard had never set foot on Ixora before—I’d prefer to keep it that way.
While I was tall, Richard had always been taller. Leaner, his frame wiry but firm. My hair erred toward our mother’s dark blonde, while Richard was a near replica of our father in his mid-thirties. He wore a white Lacoste tank and board shorts that matched his sleek maroon speedboat. The watch, which had belonged to our grandfather, was worth more than a house in suburbia and shouldn’t be within a mile of the fucking water.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” Richard mused, drawling in our father’s posh accent—like they’d just gotten off the phone. He then dragged me into a bone-crushing hug, my arms still folded across my chest.
“Should I be?”
Richard laughed, the sound deep and full like always, like he hadn’t a care in the whole world, the sound accompanied by the faint aroma of beer.
“I’m surprised to see you functional,” I remarked when he finally let go after holding me about fifteen seconds longer than necessary. It was a tactic; he did the same thing with handshakes. I took a few steps back up the beach, needing the distance, the slight elevation. “Isn’t today your holy day?”
St. Patrick’s Day. Not only were the islands crawling with regatta-goers and spring-breakers, but everyone would be out to celebrate the holiday—especially on the weekend. The carnage left on the streets tomorrow morning, empty plastic cups and crushed beer cans and discarded shamrock-shaped accessories, was reason enough for Belle and me to stay far, far away. Meanwhile, it genuinely shocked me that Richard wasn’t buried in booze, coke, and a woman’s cleavage by now.
In fact, he almost looked—functional. Not sober, not if his breath had anything to say about it, but he could fool the unobservant. He had been doing it his whole life.
“None of the good events start until two,” my brother mused, sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. “Figured I’d get business out of the way before pleasure.”
I snorted, unable to help myself. Business? Like Richard had ever cared about our family’s business. Sure, he enjoyed the privilege, the power, the prestige it offered, but when it came down to the nuts and bolts of the business itself? Ha.
The fact that I had been managing a large portion of his business this whole month spoke volumes to that.
“Ahh, and who is this gorgeous creature?” Richard turned on the spot, staring down Belle as she strolled out of the water, goggles on her head and flippers in hand. Glistening with seawater, she tossed both in the general direction of our belongings, the goggles managing to land on the towel. She looked positively adorable in her baby-pink bikini, which, mercifully, provided far more coverage than most in her closet. I didn’t need Richard ogling her like a starved man eyeing his first meal in weeks.
In fact, when I cast him a sidelong glance, that was exactly the expression I expected to find. Instead, I found something else—something sharper, more aware than usual.
When he grinned at me, eyebrows lifting, the knot in my gut tightened. His smile straddled the line between smug and dangerous. I had the sudden urge to order Belle back to the house, up to her bedroom and out of sight.
She would do it if I told her to—but for some reason I couldn’t.
Maybe I just wanted her by my side while I told Richard to get the fuck off my island.
What? One could dream.
“Belle,” I said tightly, offering my hand as she padded across the surf, water rushing over her feet, “this is my brother Richard.”
I went to her so that she wouldn’t have to stand on the toasty dry sand. Our fingers threaded together, and I resisted the urge to dip her into a kiss that would make it obvious for anyone in a ten-mile radius that Belle was mine.
Richard’s gaze crept across her figure, obvious as sin. To her credit, she didn’t shy away. In fact, Belle stood next to me with her head held high, even under my brother’s pervy perusing, her shoulders back.
“Oh, hi. Nice to meet you.” She didn’t offer him her hand, but she did flash a brilliant smile—one I realized in a heartbeat was fake. When we first started all this, I had tried to discern between the phony and the genuine expressions. Escorts needed to act their way through most client interactions, and I so enjoyed Belle because she didn’t. As much as I had tried to memorize her reactions, all the varieties of smiles she had in her arsenal, I hadn’t been as sure as I would have liked to be when all this started. By now, I just assumed they were all real for me.
Rightly so.
Because this smile, this phony, forced, too-wide smile that didn’t reach her eyes—it was an obvious fake. To me, at least. Richard, accustomed to women fawning over him, seemed to lap it right up.
“Belle—a pleasure.” He swooped in to kiss her cheek, which Belle offered, but she didn’t move forward to meet him. Not so much as a step.
My hand tightened around hers. She squeezed back. Richard, meanwhile, had pulled his sunglasses off his head and was currently running a hand through his chocolate-brown curls—a move that highlighted a toned bicep. Belle’s lips twitched, her smile stretching wider.
“And we worried that Deanie came out here all by himself for two months,” he said, chuckling, “like some hermit, or a disgraced celebrity the tabloids froth after.”
“Well, you would know the tabloids, Dick.”
My brother smirked. “Haven’t seen any strange boats around, have you?”
“Just yours,” I replied tersely.
“Oh!” Belle shifted so that she stood partially in front of me, our clasped hands resting on the small of her back. She wrung out her braid’s tail with the other hand, water dribbling on my brother’s toes. “Are you visiting for Dean’s birthday?”
For the first time sinc
e he’d stepped onto my beach, Richard faltered. His slightly pursed, I’m-a-model-in-my-spare-time look fell, replaced with a blank, clueless expression that had me rolling my eyes.
He’d forgotten.
He’d fucking forgotten that I’d turned thirty-one just two days ago. Even our father had managed to send an email from his office account—Adelaide had done a video message with Mum and the cats.
True to form, Richard recovered from his brief fumble like it never happened. That sharp grin returned as he stared down his nose at Belle, one hand fisted around his sunglasses.
“Well, not exactly, but we spoke on the day, of course.”
“Of course,” she said curtly.
Belle’s smile turned pinched, as if biting the insides of her cheeks, and I held in a chuckle. My birthday had been a nonstop sex romp. After she had finished the cake, which had been a touch heavy-handed with the lemon but still perfectly edible, I’d insisted she nap for a few hours. She’d need her strength for the day ahead, and by god I’d milked every last ounce of it from her. While I had only climaxed a handful of times, Belle had struggled to walk by nightfall, her legs jelly and her ass cherry red—beautiful. Just stunning, from head to toe. We’d eaten her cake under the stars, nestled together on a huge beach blanket, pillows piled high, surrounded by empty champagne bottles. It had been my best birthday ever.
And if Richard had actually called me, I imagined that wouldn’t have been the case.
Not that he would have done it, mind you. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d even spoken on the phone.
“I’d hoped we could have a chat, Deanie,” my brother said, smoothly transitioning from the mildly irked playboy—perhaps at the discovery that he couldn’t charm Belle as easily as the rest—to the haughty martyr in the blink of an eye. “I’ve been drowning in work lately, as I’m sure you’re well aware, and I thought that maybe we could figure something out, something a little more permanent, while I’m here.”
