by BETH KERY
She felt like he rattled her entire universe for the next several minutes as he fucked her. She watched him in the mirror, her mouth sagging open, as he crashed into her again and again, every muscle in his beautiful body rigid, his cock a well-lubricated piston driving into her drenched pussy at a relentless pace.
He wasn’t concerned for her pleasure, but watching him take his own, the delicious pressure his cock built in her, the clit cream . . . it was all too much. She broke in climax, shuddering around him, moaning uncontrollably. He cursed and slapped her bottom before he firmed his grip on her, holding her ass against him as he roared in orgasm.
They remained joined like that for what felt like minutes, although she suspected later she was wrong about that. Ian was typically so careful of spilling from the condom after sex. He certainly did stroke her back, hips, and ass tenderly for what seemed like a delicious eternity, though. Their breathing slowed.
Finally he withdrew, a harsh groan ripping at his throat as he did so. He helped her to stand, turning her in his arms.
His mouth closed over hers. Francesca shut her eyelids, giving herself as fully to his kiss as she had his lovemaking.
“Do you know what I want to do with you now?” he asked gruffly against her lips a moment later.
She licked his taste off her lips and looked up at him with a heavy-lidded gaze.
“What?” she asked throatily.
Something flashed in his blue eyes and she wondered if the flame in him hadn’t been completely extinguished. He shook his head once, as if to clear it, and grabbed her hand. They left the inner chamber, and he locked it behind him.
“Get dressed and wait for me,” he said. She watched, her expression one of mixed puzzlement at his behavior and admiration for the sight of his god-awful-sexy, taut bare ass—a sight she hadn’t been treated to as much as she would have liked. When he stepped out of the room a moment later, she was fully dressed. She stared at him in pleasant surprise.
He was wearing a pair of extremely well-fitted jeans that rode low on his lean hips, one of the tight white T-shirts he wore beneath his fencing gear, a leather jacket slung in the crook of his arm. Her breath caught at the sight of his lean, muscular body displayed to such stunning effect. She’d never grow tired of looking at him.
“What are you doing?” she asked incredulously.
“I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About going into work. Let’s go riding. I want to see you in action.”
Her mouth dropped open, a bark of laughter popping out of her throat. She couldn’t believe it. He was going to do something so spur of the moment . . . so spontaneous? Ian?
She put on her sleek jacket, excitement mounting in her, and went to pick up her new helmet and gloves.
“You’re in for quite a ride,” she told him before striding to the door.
“You think you’re telling me something I don’t know?” she heard him say wryly from behind her, causing her grin to widen.
How was it possible for this day to have started out so dull and dreary and end up so ecstatic? she wondered as she stood across the elevator from Ian a moment later. He looked drop-dead sexy in his jeans and jacket, his helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. He noticed her stare and smiled, slow, delicious . . . a little devilish. The elevator door dinged open in the garage basement, breaking her mesmerized stare on his gorgeous mouth.
She headed into the parking garage, familiar with it from her lessons with Jacob. A whole area of the garage was cordoned off for Ian’s vehicles. Jacob kept an office of sorts down there, along with all the tools and electronics he used for mechanical maintenance and keeping the vehicles clean.
She paused a moment later when Ian straddled his black motorbike with confident ease.
“Well? Climb on,” he said softly, noticing her staring at the motorcycle next to his. It was slightly smaller than Ian’s bike, but fierce-looking in its own right, featuring glittering chrome and a shiny black cowling with red racing stripes.
“Where did that come from?” she asked, dazed.
He shrugged, planting his booted feet on the ground and tilting up the bike between powerful thighs. How could he look as natural on a badass bike as he did wearing an impeccable suit ensconced in the lap of luxury? The sight of his hands covered by tight black leather made her inexplicably shiver.
“It’s yours,” he said, referring to the bike.
“No! I mean . . .” She paused, regretting her outburst. She looked at him, silently pleading. The afternoon had gone so well. The paintings. Ian’s agreement to try and not control her outside the bedroom, his gift of the jacket and helmet, and her returned, heartfelt one of pleasure, his forceful possession . . . her loving it. She didn’t want to ruin it by arguing, but a motorcycle. It was too much, wasn’t it? Especially after the paintings and her new biking gear.
Before she could word her protest, however, Ian superseded her.
“Okay, it’s mine. I have several bikes. I’m loaning this one to you for the time being,” he said, giving her a dry glance. “Can you accept that, Francesca?”
She grinned and stepped over to the bike, excitement frothing in her chest as she straddled the leather seat and gloated over the sweetness of Ian’s sleek machine.
Oh yes. This she could accept.
* * *
Jacob had told him that Francesca was a natural on a motorcycle when he’d consulted with him on the type of bike to buy her. He was glad to see just how correct Jacob had been. Watching her race down city streets, take tight turns, and zoom through country landscapes was a true pleasure. When he realized that the feeling he had watching was pride, he mentally laughed at himself. Why should it matter that he’d introduced her to something she loved? The important thing was that she’d found it . . . that she’d delved into another layer of what was undoubtedly a deep, rich vein of her many talents and glories.
He glanced sideways and saw Francesca at his side as they reentered the city on Lake Shore Drive that evening. She gave him a thumbs-up and he could just picture her grin behind the black visor of her helmet. Something about a motorcycle highlighted her natural physical strength, her fresh, vital energy . . .
. . . a jean-encased ass that made him want to drag her back to the penthouse every time he looked at it, which was pretty much constantly.
He signaled and called for her to pull over at a parking garage near Millennium Park. A few minutes later, they strolled out of the garage onto Monroe Street, between the Art Institute and Millennium Park. The clouds had scattered, and it was turning into a pleasant, crisp fall night.
“Where are we going?” she asked him, grinning from ear to ear, a tendril of rose-gold hair brushing her cheek. He pushed it off her face and took her hand.
“I thought I’d take you to dinner.”
“Excellent.” Her enthusiasm made her sound adorably breathless. He yanked his gaze off the windswept, glowing vision of her with effort.
“You’re a fantastic rider,” she said. “You look so natural on a bike. How old were you when you first rode?”
“Eleven, I think,” Ian said, his eyelids narrowing as he tried to recall.
“So young!”
He nodded. “When I first came to England from France, I had a tough time making the transition—a whole new world. A whole new way of life. My mother gone,” he said, his lips pressed into a grim line. “It was hard to acclimate. I have a cousin who is older, so I always called him uncle. Uncle Gerard figured out one day that I loved engines. When I discovered an old broken-down motorcycle in the garage at his estate, which was nearby my grandfather’s home, I begged him to let me rebuild it. My fascination with motorcycles began. My grandfather joined in, and I began to bond with both Uncle Gerard and him.”
“And you started to come out of your shell?” Francesca asked, studying him as they walked along.
“Yes. A bit.”
Some strains of music resounded in the crisp, clear ai
r when they reached Michigan Avenue. Ian noticed a crowd on the sidewalk.
“Oh, Naked Thieves are playing in Millennium Park tonight. Caden and Justin are in that crowd somewhere,” Francesca said.
“Naked Thieves?”
She did a double take. “The rock band? Naked Thieves?”
He shrugged, feeling a little foolish, although he knew he didn’t show it. From the expression on her youthful face, he definitely was supposed to know who Naked Thieves were. His gaze fixed on her curving pink lips, and he forgot his fleeting embarrassment.
“How can you not know who Naked Thieves are? You’re an icon among young people, but it’s like . . .” She shook her head. Her laugh seemed both sad and incredulous. “It’s like you came out of the womb in a suit, briefcase in hand.”
That stung a little. He, of all people, would have loved a childhood—a true youth—summer afternoons that stretched on forever without a care in the world, teenage rebellion against helicopter parents whom he supposedly couldn’t stand, and in reality, loved like crazy and knew would always be there for him . . . escaping to a rock concert in the park with a gorgeous girl like Francesca.
“What are you doing?” Francesca asked when he pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket.
“Calling Lin. Since you want to go to the concert, she’ll be able to procure us last-minute tickets for the seated section.”
“Ian, the seated section has been sold out forever. Trust me, Caden and I tried to get tickets.”
“We’ll get some,” he said, locating Lin’s number.
He paused and looked up when Francesca put her hand on his forearm. The setting sun and the reflection from her hair gave her cheeks and lips an extra-rosy hue. Her dark eyes shone with just the hint of a challenge.
“Let’s just go sit on the lawn.”
“The lawn,” he repeated dryly.
“Yeah, you can’t see much, but you can hear pretty well. And anybody can go,” she said, grabbing his hand and urging him toward the park.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“Oh stop being so British.”
A sharp retort flew to his throat—a knee-jerk reaction. He really wasn’t used to having people speak to him in the way that Francesca did without a blink of an eye. He saw the excited sparkle in those nymph eyes of hers, however, and exhaled his protest. He could get used to being teased and subtly reprimanded—very easily—if it was her doing it.
“I really do spoil you,” he said as they walked toward the writhing mass of youth ahead of them. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else. I want you to know that.”
He came to an abrupt halt when she spun around, went up on her toes, and kissed him on the mouth. He caught her scent and taste, and his surprise faded. Her soft moan when he deepened the kiss was as delicious as the rest of her. Her face struck him as sublime as she looked up at him with a heavy-lidded gaze a moment later.
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she breathed.
Maybe because you’re the sweetest thing that’s ever happened to me.
The flash of regret he experienced as they entered the packed park a minute later surprised him.
He should have said the words out loud.
He wasn’t at all sure that he could have been so unguarded and honest, however, and that truth bothered him more than it ever had in his life.
* * *
“Best. Day. Ever,” she emphasized, brimming over in enthusiasm as they entered Ian’s bedroom suite later. “First my paintings—thank you again for that, Ian. I’m still stunned. Then that motorcycle ride—what an awesome bike—and then Naked Thieves in the park!”
“We could hardly hear anything at the concert. It sounded like someone screaming bloody murder to static,” Ian murmured amusedly as he held up his hands in an expectant gesture. She turned so he could remove her jacket. Despite his dry comment, she’d noticed his small smile and knew he wasn’t as unimpressed by the experience as he let on.
“That’s just because you don’t know the songs,” she said, refusing to be anything but happy.
“Is that what they call that noise?” he asked mildly as he laid her jacket on the back of a chair and Francesca turned to face him.
“You seemed to have a nice enough time.”
He caught her challenging expression and shook his head. She laughed. She referred to the fact that they’d spent a majority of the concert making out, both of them getting so steamy and aroused that Ian had abruptly declared it was time to leave unless they wanted to get arrested for public indecency.
He’d surprised her when they’d first entered the park and found a rare open patch of earth. “Hold on for a few seconds,” he’d said. “Don’t sit yet.”
She’d watched, curious and amazed, as he’d approached a particularly well-stocked group of picnicking young people who were sitting twenty or so feet away. He spoke to them and pointed to a few items. Money had changed hands. A moment later, Ian had walked away, leaving the people looking bemused and very pleased. He obviously hadn’t given them a small amount of money for his prize—two blankets, a couple bottles of chilled water, and a napkin-covered paper plate that she’d discovered later contained four pieces of delectable fried chicken.
“I’m thinking you liked your first rock concert ever,” she teased, recalling a truth he’d told her as they lay cozily beneath one of the blankets, the wild crowd just feet away seemingly miles from their insulated, private world.
“I liked touching you,” he replied simply, making her cheeks heat in pleasure. His gaze dropped over her. “Why don’t you go and get ready for bed?”
She shivered at the sound of his low voice and the heated gleam in his stare. She headed toward the bathroom.
“And Francesca?”
She turned to face him. Her brows pulled together in puzzlement when he didn’t speak for several seconds.
“It was for me, too,” he finally said.
Her bewilderment deepened.
“The best day ever.”
She stood there watching as he disappeared into his dressing room, her heart throbbing in disbelief and something much more profound at his unexpected honesty. From the dark, fear-shrouded recesses of her brain, a memory rose to taunt her. She hated the dread that tainted the wondrous feeling she’d experienced at Ian’s words.
I offer you pleasure and the experience. Nothing else. I have nothing else to offer.
How long could something so amazing endure given that she shared the experience with a man who so reluctantly shared himself . . .
. . . given that she’d risked her heart to an enigma like Ian Noble?
* * *
The next several weeks passed in a blur, everything cast in the glow of Francesca’s deepening feelings for Ian. She grew used to his moods, understanding that often when he appeared distant, he was in fact processing massive amounts of information, planning for his various companies on multiple levels, making decisions in a startlingly concise and rapid manner. He continued her lessons in the bedroom, Francesca flourishing under his tutelage. Ian was as demanding and intense as ever—perhaps even more so—but as she gained comfort with sexual submission and her trust in him grew, their exchanges altered, somehow becoming sweeter, a true give-and-take of power, caring, and pleasure. She suspected that the deepening level of intimacy in their exchange was responsible for the richer experience, and wondered if Ian felt it too.
He taught her lessons outside the bedroom as well, coaching her on fencing, which she took to with pleasure. They spent several Sundays poring over the basics of investing, Ian challenging her to come up with a feasible plan for her money given what she’d learned from her lessons. She’d showed him two options on two separate occasions. Ian’s polite queries and slight frowns had made her go back to the drawing board both times. On her last investment-planning presentation, she’d earned a small, proud smile and knew she’d finally learned something valuable about how to handle her own
finances. Thus, Ian taught her not only about passion and love but some basic lessons of life.
He wasn’t the only one who taught, either. With Francesca’s encouragement, he continued to be spontaneous once in a while, to live in the moment . . . to experience life like a thirty-year-old instead of a jaded, weary man several decades his senior.
The problem was, he never really came out and told her in so many words how he was feeling about her—about them—and she was too shy and afraid to tell him she’d fallen in love with him. Wasn’t that precisely the opposite of what he’d said their relationship would be about? Would he think her a naive fool for mistaking lust and infatuation for something much deeper?
The thought haunted her. She pushed it back repeatedly when she spent time with him, not wanting to ruin the moments she had, worried she’d waste them by ruminating about anxieties that weren’t for now, but the future. It was a little like doing a high-wire act, always striving to keep her balance on the narrow edge of their passionate affair, constantly worried she’d find herself falling away from Ian . . . or him flying away from her.
One cool late fall evening, that jarring moment came.
Francesca worked in the studio at the penthouse, anguishing over the last final detail of the painting. She pulled her hand back from the canvas, her breath sticking in her lungs as she studied the tiny black figure—a man in an opened black trench coat, walking along the river, head lowered against the cold Lake Michigan wind.
Would Ian notice she’d inserted him again into one of her paintings? It made sense to her somehow, she thought as she wiped off her brush. He’d twined himself indelibly into almost every thread of her life.
Her heart swelled as she studied the painting.
Finished.
By tradition, once the word hit her brain with a note of finality, she would never put paint to that particular canvas again. Feeling ebullient with her accomplishment, she hurried out of the studio in search of Ian. It was a Sunday, and he’d opted to work in the library rather than go into the office.
