by Kery, Beth
“Do you want something to muffle your screams?”
She nodded, panting. She was cresting at the sensation of him throbbing deep inside her, his balls pressed tightly against her wet, overly sensitized outer sex creating an indirect pressure on her clit. A towel fell before her face, and she realized he’d reached above her to a shelf. He immediately began to fuck her again, grunting as he slammed into her. Her eyes sprang wide. She’d never been penetrated more deeply, and he took her relentlessly. The washer began to move, rattling against the wall as he plunged into her. He cursed heatedly in response to the noise, but he didn’t slow. She could barely keep herself in place for his possession. He cupped a buttock as he fucked her, prying it back, exposing her even further to his plundering cock and ruthless gaze.
She crammed the towel against her mouth, muffling her scream as orgasm ripped through her.
“That’s right. God that feels good,” she heard him say roughly as if through a long tunnel. He continued to fuck her without pause as she shook in release. Just when her spasms of climax began to wane, she felt him jerk his cock out of her. He groaned loudly, and she knew the sensation had been as unpleasant for her as it was him. She turned her head.
“Ian?” she asked, disoriented.
“Give me the towel.”
She blinked at the sound of his terse command. She lowered her knee from the washer, feeling sluggish and dazed, and turned around. Her satiated fogginess vanished in an instant. The vision of him standing there scored her, his pants and underwear bunched around his strong thighs, pumping his fearsome, glistening erection with his fist.
“The towel,” he prompted again between clenched teeth. His face convulsed. His body jerked. She hurried to hand him the towel, but was too late. He began to ejaculate, ropy white streams erupting from his cock and splattering on the tile floor. He looked so beautiful in that moment, so strong, and yet so helpless in the clutches of desire it caused her heart to squeeze unbearably. She hurried to him, cupping him in the towel from below and folding the edge over the head, so that the material absorbed his semen. She made soothing sounds as she gently pumped him in her towel-covered hand, using the fingers of her other hand to stroke the rigid, warm, convulsing shaft from above. His groan as he clutched her shoulders told her it felt wonderful, and for that stolen moment, it was all the knowledge she required.
His grip on her shoulders softened. His shudders waned. Slowly, she looked up to meet his face. The color in his cheeks made his eyes look even more blue than usual.
“I knew we’d have to return to the others,” he said gruffly, his breath still coming erratically. “I didn’t want that,” he glanced at the semen-damp towel she still held between them, “to be making you uncomfortable.”
A flash of heat went through her at the idea of his essence filling her while she mingled with the others, his come spilling into her panties, wetting her thighs . . . While she found it arousing in theory, she knew he was right. It would have been uncomfortable, not to mention potentially embarrassing.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She moved the towel, folding it to dry him as best she could before she pulled it away and set it on the washer. She bent for her panties, pulling them up over her thigh-high hosiery and into place. The mundane mechanics of the aftermath of thundering passion brought it home to her, what had just happened. She lowered her dress. Acting on an impulse, she suddenly grabbed the offending towel and tossed it into the washer, setting the mechanism to its hottest temperature and turning the machine on. It was stupid, and immature, and she knew it—as if she really believed she could wash away what had just occurred.
She kept her head lowered, avoiding his stare. “Do we really have to go back to join the others?” she asked thinly. How long had they been absent? It probably couldn’t have been much more than fifteen minutes, as focused and distilled as the twist of fury and desire they’d both been caught in had been.
He paused in the process of pulling up his pants.
“Francesca.”
She looked around slowly.
“I’ll take you straight to my bed now, if that’s what you want. I said we’d go back to the others for your sake, not mine.”
In a sweeping instant, it all came back to her. It didn’t matter how tender she’d felt toward him as he shook in climax. It didn’t matter that she wanted to give herself to him again and again. He’d left her. He couldn’t promise her a future.
He wouldn’t.
Where did you have to go that was so important that you left me without a word?
The question felt like it scalded the back of her throat, but she didn’t ask it. He obviously was not burning to tell her the answer . . . to give excuses. Her pride wouldn’t let her ask, especially when he clearly didn’t want to offer up the explanation.
“I want to go back with the others. Anne will worry if we don’t,” she said, her voice sounding hollow.
His eyebrows arched as he hastily began to refasten his trousers. “She’ll worry no matter what. But it’s your decision.”
She smoothed her dress and hair.
“I can go back in with the others first. I’ll tell them you went to the ladies’ room. You can go and freshen up before returning,” Ian said. He let his hands fall and she saw he looked as immaculate and gorgeous as ever, possibly more so than earlier, with the added color in his face.
“All right,” she said in a thick voice. It was difficult to say what she was feeling, given her impulsivity. Her rabid hunger.
“Francesca?” She met his gaze reluctantly. “You will still come to me tonight. I know what you need, and it wasn’t this. Not entirely. This was for me. I needed to know you belonged to no one else.”
“I belong to myself, Ian,” she said starkly before she walked to the door and unlocked it.
But what sort of a comfort was that, really, when she couldn’t trust herself? And wasn’t there an element of truth to what he’d said? Who knew, better than Ian, what she needed?
And she did need. Crave, in fact. Not only Ian, but the beautiful, raw, sometimes shocking intimacy they’d once treasured. That they’d just shared.
How could she possibly both desire this connection she felt to him and yet despise it at once?
Her pulse began to thrum again at her throat as she sensed him behind her, silently following in the shadows.
* * *
Lucien and he stood at the corner of the large room near the bar, a fair distance between themselves and the rest of the chatting group. Anne had put on a classic jazz selection, which further muted their conversation.
“Don’t tell me you’re not interested in finding out more about Gaines,” Ian said, scanning the room. Francesca was still in the ladies’ room.
“You know that I am. I’m more interested in locating our siblings, though. The ones who already know about their biological father anyway. Like this man, Kam Reardon, that you told me about.”
“They deserve to know. All of them. If no one in their life has told them, then we should.”
He felt Lucien’s stare on his profile. “Forgive me for saying so, Ian, but the knowledge doesn’t seem to have sat well with you. If you’re an example of what might happen, I think it’s a terrible idea to spring the truth on innocents.” Ian met his half brother’s stare angrily, but Lucien didn’t flinch. “Take it from someone who knows. There’s no joy in telling someone that Trevor Gaines’s sickness was one of the reasons they walk on this earth. Watching how you reacted makes me think we should bury his name along with his worthless corpse and never mention the likes of him again.”
“You don’t really believe that,” Ian grated out. “You’re curious. You certainly listened when I told you everything I’ve found out about him so far. There’s more to discover. Reardon has answers, I’m sure of it. I just haven’t been able to locate the bloody bastard and I had to leave before I co
uld,” Ian said, taking a drink. Francesca entered the room. He regretted the telltale glow of her cheeks and her hesitant smile as she joined the others, and yet he wouldn’t have changed anything. He was glad her flushed cheeks and slight embarrassment following their absence was there for everyone to witness.
Savage that he was.
And yet . . . he had no real right to mark her as his, he thought as he ground his teeth in acute frustration.
“Do you plan on telling Francesca what you were doing in France?” he heard Lucien murmur and knew the other man was also watching Francesca’s entrance.
“No. And please don’t tell her, either,” Ian said, sounding harsher than he intended. He met Lucien’s stare. “She would try and talk me out of it.”
“So would Elise, if I were on your mission,” Lucien said. “Do you know why you haven’t told Francesca what you’ve told me?”
He shrugged. “You understand what she can’t.”
“I do understand. I’ll admit . . . I am curious about Gaines. How can I not be? And I want to be involved in contacting any of our brothers and sisters who are interested in making the connection. Maybe there is a chance of us finding some blessing among all the senselessness. I doubt it, but who knows?”
“We’ve become friends,” Ian said, his gaze still stuck to Francesca.
“True. There’s been one sliver lining. But my point is, the reason you aren’t telling Francesca what you’re doing isn’t because she won’t understand. I think you know she might understand perfectly well, but still try and talk you out of it. It’s because she’s the only one who has the power to change your mind that you’re not telling her, and you know that. So you’re stubbornly not telling her so you can continue with this obsession.”
“Obsession?” Ian spat.
He blinked, realizing that Lucien looked uncomfortable. Concerned? He glanced over to the others and saw Anne, Elise, and James looking over at them worriedly, while Francesca seemed startled. He’d shouted, when he hadn’t meant to. What the hell was wrong with him? He inhaled, trying to regain his splintering control. He clamped his mouth shut, waiting for their observers to look away. “Have you told Elise what I’ve told you?” he asked Lucien in a more level, quiet voice after a pause. “Have you told her you plan to visit Gaines’s estate with me when the time is right?”
“No,” Lucien admitted. “But the only reason I haven’t is because she’d probably tell Francesca while we’re here at Belford. Even though you didn’t tell me you were dead set against Francesca knowing until just now, I’d already guessed it was true. I’ll probably tell Elise when we’re on the plane back to Chicago.”
Ian scowled. “It’s the same reason I haven’t told my grandparents. They’re crazy about Francesca. They’d probably tell her . . . beg her to save me or some foolishness like that.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke as they watched the others talking near the leaping fire. Ian tensed when Gerard approached Francesca, but then she looked up and stared directly at him, her dark, shining eyes striking to the core of him, as always. She turned away when Elise said something to her.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Lucien asked quietly from beside him, and he knew his half brother had seen Francesca’s charged glance across the room. Or was Lucien literally asking him if he had control of himself—if he was in his right mind? Ian chose to believe the former, finding the latter question too disturbing to consider.
“No,” Ian rasped, taking a drink. “But I can’t stay away from her.”
“I think you’d better decide who’s in your blood more. I, for one, pray it’s Francesca and not Gaines,” Lucien said pointedly before he picked up his drink and went to join his wife.
Ian grimaced at the admonishment. As if it were a simple matter of his choosing Francesca over a disgusting pervert. He’d thought Lucien would understand—and in all fairness, maybe he did. Better than most could anyway. Lucien felt the taint of Trevor Gaines all right. But it wasn’t a poison in his system like it was Ian’s . . . something that needed to be purged at all costs. He must cleanse himself of the filth before he could claim peace.
Before he could ever hope to claim Francesca.
* * *
It took him a lot more effort these days to force his mind into the tight focus that used to come as easily as breathing. Especially tonight.
Would she come?
He sat at the desk in his suite, still wearing his tux pants and shirt, his tie loosened, scanning various documents Lin had sent him for his perusal. His interest in Noble Enterprises had increased ever since he’d returned to England, although it was still a shadow of his former focus on his company. Perhaps it was because he’d been thrown back into the midst of the details as he asked Lin question after question about Francesca’s recent activities in Chicago, and subsequently was exposed to all of the details of the Tyake acquisition.
He paused, opening up a document that Lin had sent him in an e-mail with the subject heading: Noble Enterprises purchase of Tyake goes public. He hadn’t opened it earlier because he’d already been aware that the story had broken, but he did so now to fill the time. Immediately a black-and-white photo of Francesca walking off an elevator at Noble Towers popped onto the screen, his grandfather at the periphery of the photograph. The headline mentioned something about the Noble family gathering for the Tyake acquisition, although it was mentioned in the first paragraph that Ian himself was notably absent. He took note of the date of the newspaper publication then fleetly typed a query to Lin.
If Francesca didn’t come, would he have to resort to watching her image on his computer screen again? Lucien had accused him earlier of being obsessed by Trevor Gaines and his ugly history, but personally, Ian considered himself obsessed by the image of Francesca surrendering to ecstasy . . . of giving herself so trustingly. He craved the image especially now, when she shut herself off from him even while she desperately sought to find relief for the fire that burned her from the inside out. He was familiar with that particular brand of fire. It scored him daily since leaving her. He wouldn’t watch her suffer unduly if he could offer her even a modicum of relief.
Knowing he was the one who had altered her expression from one of complete trust and love to one of anger and doubt made the vision of her former faith on the computer screen a hundred times worse. It also made the image that much more compelling, not to mention sadder.
His head jerked up at the furtive knock at his door. He quickly shut down his computer. She didn’t say anything when he opened the door, just walked into the room. She’d changed out of her eveningwear. Instead of being dressed for bed, however, she wore jeans and a fitted T-shirt, her long, glorious reddish-gold hair still loose and waving down her back. It was the attire he most associated with Francesca—the garb of a free-spirited artist. He hadn’t seen her dressed thus since his return, and seeing her now caused an amplification in the dull, familiar ache in his chest cavity. Her face looked pale when she turned to face him, her gaze fierce. He recognized her defiance as being that of a woman who had been wounded but not conquered.
He closed the door quietly and locked it. Still, she didn’t speak as they stared at one another in the thundering silence.
“Well I’m here,” she said stiffly. “I’d almost prefer it that you were triumphant instead of your acting like it was inevitable that I’d come.”
He raised his eyebrows. “It would give you comfort to call me smug?”
“It would give me comfort to dislike you.”
“You don’t dislike me?” he asked, dropping his hand from the knob on the door and walking toward her.
Her large eyes moved over him warily. Her lips trembled. “You left me,” she said hoarsely. “What woman doesn’t hate her lover for that? Especially when she shows up at his door after the fact, begging.”
“You’re not begging,” he stated f
irmly. “I offered to give you what you need.”
“And nothing else,” she smiled bitterly. “And what is it you suppose I need? To be punished for showing up here? I’ve half a mind to agree it’s what I deserve.”
“No,” he said, hating to see her this way. Francesca was not born to be a cynic. He palmed her jaw and smoothed his thumb over her pale, smooth cheek as if he could erase her sadness . . . her desperation. “You’re tearing at yourself, bloodying your spirit. You think you want to escape the bonds that hold you secure, but in reality, you need to be held tighter.”
A muscle jumped beneath his stroking thumb. She stared up at him, a wild, angry longing in her dark eyes. “Why should I let you bind me tighter when you’ll leave again soon, and I’ll be alone, fighting against the bonds . . . bleeding once again?”
“Because I’ll try my damnedest to come back.”
“Promise me.”
He blinked at her harsh demand. “I can’t.”
She made a muffled sound of misery in her throat, killing him a little. He touched his forehead to hers. “I want to be with you more than anything, Francesca. But I can’t do that until I feel . . . whole. Please understand.”
He took her into his arms and clasped her to him, tight, inhaling the scent of her hair. “There is no other woman for me. If I can never feel myself worthy of you, then I’ll never want another. If I can’t find a place at your side, it means I’ll go through life alone. Please understand that. This isn’t about me abandoning you. I’m the one who feels cast ashore alone while the rest of the world floats away.”
He felt her shudder. She shook her head, her face rolling against his chest. Her arms slipped around his waist. “But I’m here. I’m right here.”
