by Kery, Beth
“Why aren’t you angry anymore?” he asked gruffly, taking the caressing hand in his own and kissing the palm.
She gave him a fleeting glance as he worked the shirt off his arms.
“I don’t know,” she said, grasping behind her on the bed. She stood and slipped the black cashmere overcoat that he’d once bought her over her nakedness. He didn’t like it. Her naked body was a blessing to his eyes—curving, firm, exquisitely feminine, the very shape and form of his dreams. He looked forward to laying her on that bed and returning all the pleasure she’d just given him in spades. He caught her hand, scowling. She’d better not be planning on running off again—
“That’s not an answer, Francesca.”
She sighed, seeming to genuinely struggle to explain herself. “I meant it, I don’t know why I feel different. For all I know, I will be angry at you again sometime soon for leaving the way you did. But something . . . happened.”
“What happened?” he demanded, still holding her hand.
“I talked to your grandmother and she . . .”
“What?” he asked. He pulled her into his lap, disliking her distance. He opened the coat impatiently, exposing her naked breasts, belly, and thighs to his gaze, an admittedly cavemanlike gesture to demonstrate her availability to him . . . a probably useless but stark reminder of their intimacy. His love for her swelled when he saw her small smile. She really did understand him shockingly well. He opened his hand at the side of her jaw and tilted her face toward his in a silent prompt to continue.
“She seems to understand you better than I do,” she said, perhaps a little regretfully, her fragrant breath softly fanning his face.
His eyebrows tilted up. “I think we both know it’s not the same. She’s my grandmother. Not my lover.”
“Am I? Your lover?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.
“Always,” he said, brushing his lips against hers. “Whether you’re in my arms or not.”
He saw her swallow thickly and wondered if she fought back tears. Her voice was strong enough, however, when she continued.
“Anne reminded me of how you always need focus . . . have to have a clear picture . . . concise understanding. I don’t agree with you in thinking that Trevor Gaines is somehow important, Ian. I think you give him far too much significance.”
“I know you think that,” he replied evenly, his thumb brushing her cheek.
“But I do understand how comprehending your past is so crucial to you.”
Their stares held. Her dark brown eyes glistened. “I know you’ve been suffering, and I hate the idea, with everything I’m worth, of you doing it alone. I haven’t stopped being furious at you for shutting me out.”
“But?” he prompted quietly.
“But I’m tired of pretending that your actions are incomprehensible to me,” burst out of her throat. “Because I love you doesn’t give me the right to demand that you be different than what you are . . . who you are. Because I disagree with you, and because I believe you’re dealing with your grief in a self-defeating way doesn’t change the fact that I love you. And always will.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Ian wasn’t sure he breathed.
“If I were to be honest with myself,” she continued in a more measured, hushed tone, “I would have to say that it didn’t entirely shock me, your reaction over Trevor Gaines and your mother’s death. I may not agree with how you dealt with your grief, but I understand it. I understand you. I can’t go around pretending self-righteousness when your biggest crime was not grieving in the way I wanted you to grieve, in a way that was convenient for me.”
He studied her flushed cheeks and slightly averted eyes. He wanted to thank her, but he found it hard for some reason. His voice box had stopped working. He stroked her face, and maybe she understood, because she turned and kissed his palm.
“That doesn’t mean I think you should go off and obsess about Trevor Gaines,” she added with a sharp glance.
“I’m not obsessing about him,” he said, finding his voice. “I want to understand my origins, Francesca.”
“Granted,” she replied. “But I can’t agree with you that it’s a positive step, Ian. I think it’s a futile, senseless search into the past, one that’s compromising your future. I only have to look at you to know that it’s hurting you, not helping.”
“I disagree,” he said, despising the necessity to differ with her in this moment when she was being so much more generous than he deserved.
She studied his face. He met her stare, determined not to flinch in this, but it took more effort than he liked.
“You’re still not going to tell me what you were doing, precisely, are you?” she whispered.
“I can’t. Not you, above all else,” he said, unable to keep misery from entering his tone. What Lucien had said was true. He accepted that now. If he told Francesca about the dirty, ugly search in that hovel of a mansion, if he told her what he’d discovered thus far, she’d be furious . . . disgusted. She thought she understood him, but she wouldn’t understand that. He knew she would beg him not to go back to Aurore alone. He knew he would listen to her above all else . . . and he just might concede to her wishes.
She shut her eyes, and he sensed her pain. He was dimming her glorious, light-infused spirit. God, he hated this. He pulled her against him, her head against his face, and inhaled the scent of her hair. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he would go. He’d monitor her well-being from a distance, perhaps hire a bodyguard to protect her. He didn’t want to hurt her any more than he had, but he couldn’t say what she needed to hear. Not yet he couldn’t. But before he could utter a word, she struggled to get off his lap and stand.
“I don’t want to talk about all that right now,” she said with a breathless lightness that he didn’t buy for a second. Had she guessed what he was about to say?
“What would you like to do then?” he asked gruffly, taking her hand to steady her as she stood.
“Lunch?” she asked. He blinked. Amusement pulled at her puffy lips. “Mrs. Hanson packed me enough for a platoon. I have it in the refrigerator. Then we can take a nap afterward?”
He couldn’t resist her small smile . . . so hopeful, so unintentionally yet blatantly seductive. He couldn’t resist her, period, and therein lay the crux of the problem. If he’d been able to resist her, he’d have been in contact with her since the first moment he fled to northern France to begin his search.
“Lunch sounds fantastic,” he said, standing and taking her into his arms, pleasure rippling through him at the sensation of her naked breasts against his ribs. He leaned down to seize her mouth, and he hoped she read all of his gratitude as well as his desire in that kiss. “But if you think we’re taking a nap afterward,” he said wryly next to her lips a moment later, hitching her body up higher against his so she could feel his growing arousal. “You’ve got another think coming.”
He saw her gaze flash up to meet his. Her laughter was like a warm, sunny day between bitter, lashing storms. There was no doubt. He was a selfish bastard. Of course he’d snatch at these stolen moments with her, greedy for every precious, golden second.
* * *
Much to her chagrin, he fastened his pants while he helped her put together their meal in the kitchen. When they returned to the bed, he insisted that she remove the coat she was using as a robe and eat her lunch naked.
“The vision of you is more sustenance than the food,” he said gruffly, halting her when she tried to pull the sheet up over her breasts. He acceded to allowing her to leave the coverings on her legs for warmth, but insisted she leave her sex exposed. She’d found plates, utensils, cups, and napkins in the kitchen and split the enormous sandwich and fruit for their lunch. As she leaned against the fluffed pillows, however, and nibbled at her sandwich, she found she’d lost her appetite. Ian stared with focused intensity at her
mons, even as he distractedly ate. Finally, he gave up the pretense of eating, took a swig of cold milk and set aside his plate. Her breath caught when he turned and firmly parted her thighs.
“Oh,” she whimpered when he used his fingers to also part her labia. He leaned toward her, grabbed her plate in a seamless movement, and shoved it onto her bedside table.
“Have I ever told you that you have the prettiest pussy in existence?” he growled softly, nostrils flared, staring his fill at her pink, exposed flesh and clitoris.
“Once or ten thousand times,” she managed, repeating her familiar response to his similar questions in the past. Everything beneath his intense gaze prickled and burned.
He pressed on her clit with the ridge of his finger, both of them watching. The vision of his thick, masculine finger embedded in her delicate flesh was mesmerizing. She gasped in pleasure at his quick, concise caress on the sensitive flesh. He slid easily in the well-lubricated valley. When he moved his hand, she bit her lip in disappointment. He trailed his fingers over her hip and belly, spreading a thin coat of the juices he’d found in her cleft along her skin. She looked into his face. His small smile told her how much her wetness pleased him. He glanced at her plate on the table.
“You didn’t eat much. I was distracting you.”
“You were,” she said softly, blushing. “But that doesn’t mean the distraction was unwelcome.”
“Maybe.” He reached for the small bunch of grapes left on her plate. “But you should eat more, nevertheless.”
“I don’t want any more,” she said, reaching to caress the succulence of his bulging biceps, but he halted her gently, settling her hand on the mattress.
“You will eat more. I’m not the only one who has lost weight.”
“You should eat, too, then,” she countered with mock stubbornness.
He leaned back on the pillows with her and brought her into the circle of his arm. She smiled when he plucked a grape and pushed it against her lips. When she refused to part them, his smile widened at her playful challenge. He persisted in his mission, running the moist grape against her mouth, rubbing her with the fruit, tempting her . . .
He grunted in approval when she finally parted her lips enough and he pushed the fruit into her mouth, his finger lingering on her tongue. He lowered his head, watching his actions avidly. She closed her teeth around the intruder, scraping his skin erotically as he slowly removed his finger. She felt his cock swell next to her hip.
“Good girl,” he teased, plucking another grape while she chewed and swallowed the sweet fruit, suddenly ravenous for more.
He pushed another grape into her mouth, pausing to let her suck on his finger. She drew hard and felt his cock jump.
“If you had any idea what I think about doing to that sweet mouth of yours—what I was thinking about doing earlier—you wouldn’t tease me so much with it,” he grated out as he retrieved another grape.
“I have a pretty good idea what you’d like to do,” she said honestly, flavor bursting on her tongue as she chewed. “I want you to do it. You know that.”
He stilled in the process of lifting another grape to her lips, his gaze narrowing. “Do what, precisely?”
A light blush spread on her cheeks. “You know,” she murmured. His lifted his eyebrows expectantly. Was he serious? “Lose control more than just a little bit while you’re in my mouth. Not . . . hold yourself back like you usually do.”
“Most women wouldn’t say I hold myself back in the slightest, Francesca. Just the opposite, in fact.”
“Oh. I see,” she said, her cheeks growing hotter yet. Was she depraved because she liked it when he lost himself in the moment and was focused entirely on finding pleasure in her flesh?
A laugh broke free of his throat. “It’s a good thing one of us does,” he murmured, pushing the grape between her lips. Despite his stated confusion, she felt his cock stiffen even further next to her hip. The conversation was arousing her, too, for some reason.
“It’s just . . .” She hesitated as she chewed, meeting his stare. “I know you often hold yourself back until the end.”
“With good reason,” he said, frowning. “I would never want to hurt you.”
“I know, and I don’t want to be harmed,” she assured, adding hesitantly. “But you could be freer with me. Once in a while. It wouldn’t cause any lasting harm. I . . . it . . .”
“What, Francesca?” he asked tensely, the grapes forgotten.
“It turns me on when you use me for your pleasure.”
For a moment, he just pinned her with his stare. Then his mouth shaped a curse. He whipped the blanket off her legs, exposing her full nudity.
“I know you’re trying to tempt me into coming again in that sweet mouth, but it’s not going to work, lovely. Not until I’m ready, it’s not,” he said grimly as he lowered on the bed and rolled over until he was between her spread thighs, belly down.
“I wasn’t trying to tempt you into anything,” she said, laughing breathlessly.
He gave her a half-amused, half-impatient glance. Her breath caught when he lowered his head to her spread pussy.
“Bend your knees and spread your thighs more,” he ordered. She slid her feet along the sheet toward her shoulders, highly aware of his stare on her pussy.
“Ian?” she asked shakily when he plucked another grape. Her eyes widened when he pushed the dusky purple fruit between her labia and pressed it against her clit, up and down, around and around. He pressed hard. The grape’s skin broke, cool juice running over her feverish flesh.
“You said it yourself. I need to eat, too,” he said gruffly before he lowered his head between her thighs and began to feast with a suddenly ravenous appetite.
Chapter Ten
“Oh God,” she muttered, her eyes rolling back in her head. Her fingers threaded into his thick dark hair, holding him against the very core of her while Ian worked his magic. He pushed at the back of her thighs and her feet came off the bed. She abandoned herself to pleasure, her consciousness drowning in it. His mouth and tongue were wet, firm, and delicious on her sex. The whiskers on his moving jaw agitated the tender flesh of her inner thighs, the low-grade burn amplifying her arousal. Despite her rapture, Ian’s focus on making love to her was even more intense. When the pounding started at the cottage front door, it penetrated her awareness before it did Ian’s.
“Ian, stop,” she gasped. She scraped her nails against his scalp to get his attention. He rubbed her clit with a stiffened tongue and she moaned, pushing her to him despite what she’d said. The knocking resumed. She heard someone call Ian’s name. “Ian, it’s your grandfather. Ian.”
He opened his eyes and lifted his head. Her clit twanged in deprivation from pleasure and acute longing when she saw how beautiful he looked, his lower face slick with her juices, his eyelids heavy with arousal, the slits of his blue eyes burning with a barely banked flame. He blinked and for a moment he seemed to come back to reality. His nostrils flared and he inhaled, undoubtedly catching her scent. He gave her pussy a blazing glance and cursed before he rolled off the bed.
“I’ll go and see what he wants,” he said, grabbing his shirt and shoving his arms through the sleeves. He wiped off his face with the napkin near his plate. “You stay here. And don’t you dare get dressed,” he grated out with a hard glance before he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Despite his pointed warning, she did get up and scurry into her clothing, James’s voice resounding from the nearby living room leaving her feeling self-conscious. Besides, she could hear what he was telling Ian.
The front door slammed closed. A moment later, Ian walked into the bedroom. She sat at the edge of the bed, putting on her boots. His gaze ran over her clothed body. He frowned.
“You heard?” he asked.
She nodded.
“I’m sorry,”
he said, retrieving his socks and shoes and sitting on a chair to put them on. “I left my phone at the house because I didn’t want to be disturbed coming out here. But you know how Lin gets when she’s on a mission. There’s been a couple glitches with the press conference tomorrow, and I need to get back and deal with them. She couldn’t reach me, so she called the house phone and spoke to Grandfather. After I deal with those things, I really should work on a statement for tomorrow.”
“It’s okay. I understand,” she said truthfully, tying the lace on her boots. She could just imagine the gargantuan task laid before Lin of coordinating a press conference on a day’s notice from across the ocean.
“You’ll come back with me?” he said, standing.
She gave him a knowing, wry glance. It wasn’t really a question. He didn’t want her out here alone. She sighed, not feeling up to arguing with him after their intimate, stolen moments together.
“Okay. I can firm up the sketches I’ve done so far up at the house,” she conceded, putting on her coat and standing to grab her things. He finished dressing and waited for her near the door. He remained unmoving when she approached. She stood before him and looked up at him solemnly.
He touched her cheek. “I hate it when we have to part.”
She blinked, recognizing he was speaking about their interrupted lovemaking, but so much more.
“We don’t have to be apart,” she said softly, feeling his stare and stroking finger in places beyond the flesh. “Not in any permanent sense of the word. Not unless you choose it.”
“I didn’t choose any of this. Fate did. I’m just trying to deal with the fallout.”
