Belle (Unbowed Novels Book 1)

by Liz Meldon

  Dean smothered the rest of my frantic rambling with a kiss, his hands threading through my hair. Ruining it. Ruining the blowout effect. Ruining me—and I welcomed every precious second of it. We came together like we had on the beach weeks ago, two titans of nature colliding. He kissed me deeply, fiercely, marking me for his own.

  Something he’d never need to do again.

  Because I intended to walk the rest of my life, my hand in his—collared.

  I was his.

  He was mine.

  And we belonged to each other, from this moment until the last.

  “Of course I’m in love with you,” Dean rasped before dragging his mouth along my jaw, over my ear, down my throat—searing the declaration into my skin. Permanent. A branding invisible to all but us. He cradled the back of my head in one hand, the other cupping my cheek none too gently. “I fell in love with you the first time I saw you in Candace’s directory, that fucking smile, and I’ve been falling more and more in love with you every day.”

  He clutched my face in both hands, tilting it up, our eyes locked. All my knots, my butterflies, had burst into fireworks, explosions that threatened to lift me up and carry me into the night. Dean’s words almost seemed to pain him, his gaze stormy.

  Maybe he was a sucker for pain after all, just like me—but only when inflicted by the right hand.

  “To me, the collar means love, sweetheart.”

  We clung to one another, Dean’s expression mirroring the way I felt inside—like this wasn’t happening, like it couldn’t be real. In two seconds, we would both wake up in his bed, and all this honesty would have just been some wonderful dream. Back to reality. Back to real life, where there were no fairy-tale endings for escorts, and Dean would get sucked into working himself to the bone for people who didn’t appreciate him.

  I blinked—and he was still there. We were still Hades and Persephone, dapper and elegant, only with a touch of mascara smeared across Persephone’s cheeks. Grinning, I tugged at his lapels, needing his fierce kiss again to ground me, to keep me from floating away. For I had become this buoyant, weightless creature, fueled by love, and if it weren’t for Dean’s biting kiss, for the way he pinned me to the bed, I might drift off and never come back to earth.

  Only we did come back—later. With my dress’s straps yanked down my arms, my right breast out, nipple puckered and damp from Dean’s mouth. My hair askew, dress hitched up, Dean’s hardness settled between my thighs. We eventually remembered where we were, what time it was, panting, hearts racing, eyes bright.

  “We could always stay here,” he rumbled, dragging his teeth from the hollow of my throat up to my lips. I twirled a lock of his sandy blond hair around my finger, considering it.

  “I want everyone to see my gift,” I whispered back, guiding his hand to my neck, to the pearls.

  It took us a little while longer to get off the bed—about the time it took me to come, Dean’s hand between my thighs and his mouth on my throat, my breast. By then, my makeup needed to be completely redone, as did my hair. While Dean looked disheveled, he righted himself within a minute, the tent in his trousers slowly deflating. We’d both agreed we could have done something about that, but one thing would have inevitably led to another and we never would have left the island, not until sunrise tomorrow.

  I, meanwhile, needed a solid twenty in front of the bathroom mirror again. My hair went into a ponytail, if only to show off the pearls, the rose-gold chain at the back. Because my cheeks seemed to have a permanent flush to them now, makeup was back to basics. No contouring. No layers of foundation or blush. A bit of colour on my eyes, my lashes, my lips. Dean stood in the doorway, watching, his mouth lifted in a sinful smirk, his gaze dark and suggestive.

  Every so often, I caught those storm clouds in the mirror, and desire flashed through me. Temptation. Another realm Dean lorded over.

  Darkness. Pleasure. Temptation.

  Love.

  “Sweetheart, you know that accepting my gift means you can’t escort anymore.”

  I stilled, lipstick halfway across my lower lip, and then resumed applying the desert rose tint. When the colour was even, I capped the tube and set it back in my makeup bag, frowning.

  In the heat of the moment, I hadn’t even considered what would happen to my job if I belonged to Dean.

  “I won’t share you,” he insisted, voice rough and thick as he strolled into the bathroom. He pressed up behind me, hands smoothing around my waist, mouth descending on my bare shoulder. “Not even with the clients who love you for your feet. You’re mine.”

  I didn’t want to share him, either. As my gaze drifted across the mirror, from my pearl collar to Dean’s lips, I wondered if we ought to have a chat about his work life as well.

  Not tonight. While his situation was problematic for me on a personal level, because I couldn’t stand what his dad and brother had done to him, it wasn’t the same. At all. So, with a gulp, I nodded, a sliver of anxiety cutting through my happy glow.

  “I haven’t really put much thought into what I want to do after escorting,” I admitted. Ever since I’d started at Elysium, I had been living for the now, moving from one day to the next with no real plan, no real goals beyond paying off my debt, padding my bank account for a rainy day, and buying Real Adult furniture.

  “We’ll talk about it,” he murmured, kissing up my neck. “Maybe find you a good career counselor.”

  My eyebrows lifted. He wanted to help me plan my life outside of our relationship? “Really?”

  “Sweetheart, you’re twenty-three.” Dean nipped at my ear, his bite sharp, startling, and then chuckled when I swatted at him. “I think most people your age have no idea what they want to do with their life.”

  “So, what?” I turned in his arms, smoothing my hands over his broad chest. “You don’t want to keep me chained up in your penthouse, to be thoroughly used for your pleasure?”

  “Only if you ask me to,” Dean growled, tipping my chin up, craning my neck back as far as it would go while still holding my eye. He then flashed a dangerous smile. “And please, like a chained-up kitten would be for my pleasure alone…”

  I squeal-giggled when he hoisted me onto the counter, pushed between my thighs, and claimed me again—his hands brutish, his mouth savage…

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  House Rule #19

  The nature of Belle and Sir’s relationship is private, not for public consumption.

  11

  Belle

  We arrived well after the gala had started—later than fashionably late.

  And we were all smiles.

  After needing to completely redo my hair and makeup three times, I’d opted to keep things about as natural as possible. The dress spoke for itself, anyway, not even the slightest bit rumpled from Dean’s enthusiasm.

  Sometime after eleven, Dean and I strolled into Saint Thomas’s Sapphire Plaza Resort, my heels clacking across the grand entrance foyer. We were directed to an enormous ballroom facing the bay, a space which was usually reserved for gorgeous beachfront weddings, but tonight hosted the Annual Great Bay Gathering for the ultra-elite.

  Stunning arched windows overlooked a well-maintained terrace outside. Gold, silver, and red pervaded every element of the décor: the curtains, the tablecloths, the cutlery, the plates, right down to the toothpicks offered by the roaming waitstaff. Soft yellow light from the chandeliers overhead blanketed the room, tempered it, made the sea of influential faces somehow seem more approachable.

  Once we grabbed a flute of sparkling champagne each—champagne that cost more per bottle than my rent in New York—Dean pointed out the local wildlife, just as he had our first day on Ixora. Oil tycoons. Tech gods. Fashion mavens dripping in diamonds. Socialites and their inner circles. Weapons manufacturers, hotel moguls, restaurateurs who owned more Michelin-starred establishments than there were people in this room.

  With my arm looped around Dean’s, I took everything in without a
word—but I was still all smiles as I nursed my champagne. As far as I was concerned, I had the best dress—Renaldi couture, don’t you know—and the best Dom accessory. As I stood by Dean’s side, the light, airy bubbliness from earlier still clinging to me, I almost dared someone to sneer. With my pearl collar hugging me, cradling me, empowering me, I felt like I could take on literally anyone in this room—Richard included, wherever he was.

  When we finally wandered into the fold, however, I was shocked to learn I wouldn’t have to hold my own. Dean dazzled everyone we met, and while most of the men deferred to him, their wives and partners chatted amicably with me. We complimented each other’s outfits, gossiped about the circulating hors d’oeuvres, and chatted about our time spent on the islands. Most hungrily gobbled up my very sanitized stories about the last two months on Dean’s private island, wearing their jealousy for all to see.

  But beyond that, the people here were—well, nice. To be fair, I didn’t have to swim with the sharks. Nobody wanted my business, my money, my expertise. Dean was left to field most of the tough inquiries, and to his credit, he handled it all beautifully. He kept the conversations light, seeming only to skim the surface of what could be very complex shoptalk. In fact, he even boosted his brother, insisting that the business elite, all clad in perfectly tailored tuxedos, their polished shoes catching the light, direct their more complex questions to Richard.

  I was so proud of him.

  He was Dom-Dean here—cool, confident, self-possessed, and strong. He wilted before no one. He remained unbowed against a barrage of inquiries about the changes inside the Donahue empire. His expression gave nothing away. His cheeks dimpled when he smiled, but his gaze remained steadfast and unreadable. Dean played his secrets close to his chest for a full hour, brilliantly enduring all the barbed questions, the doublespeak from men who gambled millions like it was nothing, the probing from steely-eyed tycoons eager to find a chink in the Donahue armor.

  Here I was, making pleasant, albeit vapid, small talk with wives and girlfriends and mistresses, thinking that I couldn’t have loved Dean more. And then this new side of him surfaced, this business-savvy, utterly in-control man of the real world. The carefree, warm, velvet-tongued Dean who gave me tours of the islands, who went hiking in national parks, who waited patiently while I tried on bikinis—he was nowhere to be found tonight. Dean moved like a god, like the Dom I loved, surrounded by all these extraordinary people.

  I was a smitten kitten, so enamored with the man by my side that my cheeks physically ached from smiling. And not some forced smile, not the kind I used to wear for clients. Sure, both hurt my cheeks, but I welcomed the pain here. I welcomed the burn, the quivering muscles. It was the pain of a woman in love, and whenever I caught Dean studying me, he wore a silly little smile himself—like we were the only two people in the room, like the rest of these circling vultures didn’t faze him one bit.

  I had a feeling that by the end of the night, I’d love him even more.

  And more again tomorrow.

  And the next day.

  Love wasn’t finite. Being with Dean had taught me that it was complex and limitless.

  In a year’s time, maybe five, ten, fifty—I couldn’t wait to see how the love multiplied, to see how full my heart would be then, when now it was so close to bursting.

  By the time Dean led me away to the dance floor, I was ready for a repeat of this evening’s performance. Me, perched on some counter, legs wrapped around him as Dean pounded me through two climaxes, his hand in my hair, his mouth everywhere.

  For now, one hand settled on my hip, the other supported my hand as he steered us into a slow, easy waltz. Surrounded by other couples, I let him take the lead, guiding me through the unfamiliar steps until we found our usual rhythm. Dominance. Submission. Surrender—to the music, to each other, to the dance itself. My smile had softened, and I couldn’t tear myself away from those eyes, from his hooded stare that pierced right through me.

  That reminded me, even here, encircled by all these elegant people, that I belonged to him.

  I moved in closer, brushing up against him, feet moving without a thought. Dean ought to remember that even here, he belonged to me, too. My lip caught between my teeth, my hips found him, my breasts pressed to the hard planes of his chest. How we managed to move, to float across the dance floor so desperately close: it came down to his guidance, his ability to persevere even as my hand wandered down his shoulder, ghosting across his lapels, tracking the buttons of his freshly pressed shirt, until it reached leather—

  “Kitten,” Dean whispered thickly, his grip tightening, “behave.”

  Desire fluttered through me as I peered up at the flint, the steel, the granite of my Dom’s stare—and smiled. His expression hardened, and I stood up on my toes, lifting my mouth so that it brushed his ear as I uttered two damning words.

  “Make me.”

  A spasm skittered along his jaw, and I eased back with an innocent grin—all the while knowing he saw it, the mischief simmering just below the surface. We had put in our required time. We had chatted up the crowds. We had laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. We had posed for pictures with people who smelled of money. Midnight had come and gone; it was a new day—and I wanted my Dom all to myself.

  Selfish. Greedy. Needy.

  I could be all those things, especially when I felt, very clearly, what that attitude did to him.

  “Wait for me on the terrace,” he murmured, his tone gravelly, rich—delicious. My sex clenched. My stomach flip-flopped, heat surging, stinging my cheeks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ever the gentleman, Dean escorted me off the dance floor, then kissed my cheek before disappearing into the crowd. I couldn’t imagine what he needed to fetch for a little moonlit-terrace canoodling, but the possibilities had me wet before I reached the glass door at the far side of the ballroom.

  Much to my surprise, and relief, I found myself alone outside. The day’s heat had dissipated, leaving the air cool and dry. Goosebumps rippled across my arms as I strolled to the far end of the terrace, headed straight for the cast-stone balustrade made of the same material as Dean’s staircase. Visions of him taking me on those stairs danced across my mind as I leaned onto the smooth, flat railing. The bay was beautiful at night, the water peaceful, the twinkling lights of yachts and hotel verandas soothing my pounding heart, my racing thoughts.

  Thoughts of my sir, what he could possibly be getting to make our night a little more interesting. Dean, pinning me to the stone railing, forcing me to count the lights across the bay—making me come, even as I protested, scandalized, while twenty feet away, behind a thin glass pane, the upper class nibbled on canapés and drank their weight in champagne.

  I closed my eyes at the sound of the door clicking shut, at the even footfalls crossing the cement terrace. My breath hitched when I felt him, his hand smoothing down my back—hurriedly, like he couldn’t wait, squeezing my backside like he’d been dying to pinch it all night.

  Squeezing—not like he usually did. My eyes snapped open, and with the next gentle gust, the kind to rustle the shrubbery below the terrace, to make the torches along the shore flicker angrily—I smelled it. Bourbon. Bourbon and cigarette smoke, and cologne that was faintly sweet, whereas Dean’s was always musky and full.

  Heart leaping into my throat, I whirled around and clutched at my pearls—literally—when I found Richard Donahue gazing down at me, thin lips parted, eyes dark and hooded.

  His hands on my waist.

  “Oh. Hi,” I managed, shoulders tensed as I squirmed as far back as the railing would allow. Given that my first encounter with Richard had been a disaster, his reputation from all of Dean’s stories well-deserved in my mind, I had no doubt this second one would go just as poorly.

  That day on the beach, I’d thought Richard and Dean resembled one another. Yet here, looming over me, staring down like he wanted to eat me, Richard couldn’t have looked more different. Taller, leaner. Fouler. Sur
e, he was classically handsome. Women everywhere probably tripped over their own feet just for a flicker of his attention.

  But he was rotten—right down to the core.

  You could purge that rot. Fix it. Heal it. From what Dean had told me, it didn’t seem like Richard cared to.

  Dean’s soul was jewel toned. Venetian rose. Azalea. Indigo. Ocean blue. Jasper red. I’d known that from the beginning. Richard radiated—nothing. His white linen suit, the shirt open two buttons too many, seemed an apt reflection of the nothing that was inside. Not purity or goodness, that white. It was just empty. Blank. Cold.

  “Belle.” He tipped his head to the side, and my mouth set in a thin line. He hadn’t earned the right to say my name like that—to purr it, whisper it, like we were about to tumble into bed. Richard brought one hand to rest on the railing, leaving the other in his pocket, providing me an escape route. When I went for it, he blocked me with his body, chuckling, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Relax. I just wanted to formally introduce myself.”

  “We’ve met already,” I said with a sniff. Or are you too drunk to remember? I clamped down on the insides of my cheeks as his smile sharpened. Oh, he remembered. He just wanted the chance to be gross about it.

  “Yes, we’ve met, but not formally. Not,” he pushed up against me, his enormous figure stiff as steel, “properly.”

  “Ugh, get off me.” I shoved at him—to no avail. He barely moved an inch, but when Richard shoved back, I bent over the railing. Pain radiated up my spine, the alabaster digging into me; he swooped in, Richard digging into me.

  “No.” He caught my wrist when I tried again, trapping me there, his cock hard against my stomach. “I know who you are—what you are. I know what my brother likes. How would you like to earn a little more before you go back to that sex dungeon you work at? I can assure you that my bank account, among other things, is far larger than my brother’s—”