Belonging

by Carolyn Faulkner

  Lawson moved them to the end of his bed, taking her with him when he put a knee on it, and positioning her beneath him, barely able to believe it when she made herself even more completely vulnerable to him, letting him slide between her legs as if they'd done this before, as if she thought he belonged there. As if she thought he was still worthy of her.

  And—although he cursed himself roundly for his own weakness—he couldn't stop himself from taking what she offered so sweetly.

  He'd let her wrists go when they'd fallen onto the bed, not wanting to crush them beneath his weight, and as he sought to find his home within her, she reached up to caress his craggy cheek, but even just the thought of it was more than he could bear.

  If she'd know that he was going to collect her wrists again, pulling them high above her head and trapping them there with one hand against the mattress, she would never have done it.

  "Please, Lawson," she begged without an ounce of hesitation, so sincerely that he almost actually believed her. "I want to touch you."

  "No," he said flatly, avoiding her eyes, concentrating instead on the access she had so freely granted him to her body, gratified beyond belief when he discovered that she was more than ready for him, so much so that he was very nearly brought to tears when he found that wetness on his fingertips, hiding his face against her breasts for a long moment while he got ahold of himself, then moving them as slowly and gently as he could up that slick groove of hers to the very top, again stunned by the swollen little pebble of flesh he found that only served to reconfirm how her body still felt about him and claiming it for his own.

  As much as he had enjoyed the sounds of her distress while he had been spanking her, this was unbelievably better and much more powerful to him. He quickly discerned the best rhythms and patterns that made her keen the loudest, settling into just those and watching her try to deal with what he was doing to her, bringing her to the edge over and over again—delighting in the fact that she didn't even know that was what he was doing—until he was the one who could bear the torture no longer.

  Lawson took himself in hand, burying the imposing head of his cock against her welcoming notch and catching her eye as he sank into her for the first time, watching her eyes go wide, seeing a fleeting moment of pain, for which he compensated with his fingers until it was no more than a momentary shadow over her bliss, enjoying his complete possession of her for as long as he could before he had no choice but to move, still holding her helpless beneath him as he found himself swept up in the maelstrom, making sure to bring her along with him, until she began to buck against him, as if trying to escape her fate.

  But he wouldn't allow her to. He couldn't.

  Knowing in the back of his mind that this was the only time he was going to do this, he took in every single sight and sound and feeling of every second of her unfettered response to him—how she scrunched up her face and clamped herself down on him, moaning, almost frightened at first, he could tell. But then, when there was only pleasure, embracing the experience—and him, he imagined, if he had been capable of giving her hands-free rein to touch him.

  Imagining what that would have been like—for her to freely touch him when he looked like this, as if she still did love him—sent him into the eye of the storm and he couldn't help but cry out as it shook him to the core, and he shuddered helplessly in his completion before collapsing down onto her.

  There was nothing he wanted more at the moment than to spend the rest of the morning holding her in his arms, cuddling her, caressing her to his heart's content, perhaps taking her again and bringing her to several more climaxes, if she was capable, and he had long suspected that she was.

  But it wasn't right. None of this was.

  He should never have let her stay, once he'd rescued her. He should have carried her bodily out of the house and put her back on the porch. She could hardly shimmy up the pipe again, and there weren't any others she could use to get into any other part of the house.

  Not that he would put it past the determined little cuss to find a ladder, but he'd hear that, for sure.

  A great tremor ran through his big body when he thought about what might have happened if he hadn't heard her cries for help, and that made him want to take her over his knee again. But he knew he couldn't do that, either.

  She was too potent for him. She'd deterred him from his path, made him falter in his plan to have nothing to do with her until she forgot about him and became involved with someone she could actually be happy with. Someone wonderful, someone whose ring she could be proud to wear and on whose strong arm she could be happy to be, who strode confidently down the aisle towards her, rather than shambling around as he did now.

  The plain truth was that none of that was him. He had long since come to that conclusion, and wishing that things were otherwise was stupid and cowardly and selfish.

  So, he forced himself to get up and get dressed—at least, what passed for dressed for him, anyway. A pair of jeans and what he less than affectionately referred to as his cowl, which covered the majority of his sins, anyway.

  "Get up," he ordered, not waiting for her to obey him as he made his way awkwardly, painfully downstairs.

  Fleur was inordinately, exhaustedly happy and content and would have loved to have stayed right there, in his bed, preferably in his arms—especially if he'd be willing to do that to her again.

  But he wasn't going to make it that easy on her.

  So, she got up, throwing on her blouse but not bothering with her bra or even taking the time to button it up, the same with her skirt. It was on her, but it was being held up more by sheer force of will than anything else.

  She practically skipped down the stairs, arms full of shoes and hose—and bra and panties, which she waved playfully in front of him as if he was a bull and they were red, but he turned resolutely away from her.

  "Get out."

  It was a refrain she was getting tired of hearing from him.

  She pouted prettily, but his back was to her and it was a wasted effort. "I don't want to."

  That was when he rounded on her, getting into her face. "GET. OUT. And I meant what I said before—don't come back. I don't want you anymore."

  Fleur reached out boldly and cupped the very obvious evidence his own body was presenting to the contrary. "Oh, I think you—"

  He slapped her hand away from him, hard, giving her a dead eyed stare that frightened her much more than he had when he was being deliberately terrifying, his voice completely devoid of feeling. "Miss O'Meara, I no longer love you. We are no longer engaged. We are no longer a couple. We are no longer even friends. Therefore, if I see you around here again—having warned you on multiple occasions that your presence is not wanted—I will have no choice but to call the police and have you taken to jail. And I warn you, if I see you around here again, I will press charges to the fullest extent of the law." Lawson crossed to the door and held it open, careful not to show himself in the doorway to any extent. "Please leave, or I will call them now to have you removed from the premises."

  Fleur's heart sank. When they had made love—even when he'd bothered to spank her—she'd gotten her hopes up that things might return to whatever might pass for normal between them now.

  But it was not to be.

  As much as she wanted to be brave and refuse to budge, in hopes that love would triumph over everything, she wasn't much interested in going to jail, and he didn't sound at all as if he was bluffing.

  And, despite what had just transpired between them, he was making it painfully easy to believe what he said about how he felt about her.

  So, hurt, embarrassed, and thoroughly humiliated, she gathered her things—as well as what little remained of her dignity—and walked past him, out the door.

  "You should really button up your blouse and pull your skirt down before you hit the street," he commented, still in a voice that betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  Without turning around or even pausing in the least, sh
e shot back, "What the fuck do you care about what I do or don't do?"

  There was a short beat, and then he answered, "You're right. I don't."

  And she heard the door click quietly shut behind her, but she refused to let the tears that filled her eyes fall until she was sure she was well out of his line of sight.

  And even then, she held them back, not willing to give him even just that much more of herself.

  CHAPTER 5

  "A re you all right? I haven't heard from you in a while."

  "I'm fine, thanks."

  Patsy didn't miss a beat. "Now, why am I having a hard time believing that?"

  "I wouldn't know," she answered demurely.

  "Did you go see him?"

  Fleur wasn't sure whether she wanted to talk about it or not, but she knew Patsy wasn't going to drag it out of her.

  She knew she didn't need to. They were close enough that anything that was bothering her came spilling out, whether she wanted to tell her about it or not.

  With a long-suffering sigh, Fleur confessed softly, fighting against the way tears filled her eyes, "Yes, last Monday."

  "Oh, sweetheart, and it didn't go well, did it?"

  "It—well, not at first, but then, well, I found out that I don't give a damn about the scars, because he—and we—you know—and it was so amazing—I don't even have words for it!" Although she was coloring, even though her friend wasn't, at discussing this very private topic, she knew that Patsy would know exactly to what she was referring, and that she would neither be shocked about it, nor would she judge them for having done what they did. "But then, afterwards, he was so cold, Patsy. So just—as if it didn't mean anything—as if I didn't mean anything to him, either." Her throat closed painfully around a sob. "Just like he's been saying all along. I don't think I can face that again. I know it makes me weak and that I should be stronger, that I should just ignore what he says and does to me because I still love him. But I find, to my deep shame, that I'm not. I can't keep demeaning myself, clinging to a man who treats me like that, who says terrible things to me, even if he thinks it's in my best interest to do so."

  "Fleur, honey, do you need me to come see you?"

  "No, but thanks, though. Poppa's not feeling very well, and I don't want to take the chance of disturbing him."

  "Is there anything at all I can do to help?"

  Fleur smiled wanly. "I don't think so, but thank you for the offer."

  "Well, you know I'm always here if you need me."

  "Thanks, Patsy. You're a great friend."

  "I know, aren't I?" she agreed outrageously, trying to get Fleur to laugh, but her efforts were met with silence. "Why don't we get together and go to a movie Friday night? I know I could use the distraction from work."

  Patsy had easily found a job at their regional hospital once she'd gotten home, where she was now the assistant floor nurse in a ward that dealt mostly with veterans.

  "I'll have to see—it'll depend on how Pop's feeling."

  "That's all right. I'll call and see how he is before I come over—you can decide then."

  Unfortunately, her father took a turn for the worse that very night. By the time Friday came, the doctor had already shaken his head at the two of them, who hadn't left his side since he'd gotten sick, in that grave manner they all must've learned at medical school, indicating that there wasn't any real hope that he'd recover, and she and her mother were really just waiting for the end to come, each of them holding one of his hands.

  When things had become serious, Patsy had helped them as much as she could, nursing him by night to try to spell the two women so that they could get some sleep, but neither of them wanted to miss a minute with him, and she understood that, although she did her best to remind them that they needed to take care of themselves, too, gently coercing them into eating small amounts of what the neighbors were dropping by and something to drink whenever she could get them to comply.

  Devon had made himself wonderfully useful, too, dealing with the day to day, mundane tasks that neither she nor her mother could bring themselves to address, often joining Patsy in nagging them about eating and making sure that Fleur, especially, felt taken care of.

  Patsy wasn't the only one who had noticed that, just days before this happened, and about the time when Fleur had begun to show signs that she was starting to recover from Lawson's arrival home, she seemed to have experienced some kind of setback and had again withdrawn to her room, refusing all social invitations.

  "What did you do to her?"

  A few days ago, Devon had arrived at Lawson's house with his grocery delivery, which he usually put away for him, but this time, he simply piled the bags on the table and confronted him.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You saw her again, didn't you?" he accused, getting closer to the bigger man.

  Lawson moved slowly but with a deliberately casual air to lean back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. "And what business would that be of yours if I did?"

  "Plenty!" he bluffed. "I'm sure you'll be glad to know that she's withdrawn again, just like she did the first time you hurt her. She's living in her room and barely ever comes out of it, according to her mother."

  Lawson gritted his teeth. "It can't be helped. And for your information, not that you have any kind of right to know, she came to me and damned near killed herself trying to get to me. What she did was damned close to breaking and entering, and she was just lucky that I didn't sic the police on her pretty little ass."

  "So you yelled at her and scared her again, instead, and deliberately tried to make her miserable. Congratulations. You succeeded. You must be so proud of yourself for the shitty way you've treated her since you got back." Devon took a breath and said to hell with it, coming out with exactly what he was thinking. "You know, you're not a monster because of how you look, Lawson."

  He stood in front of the man he'd considered a brother since he was born, whom he'd looked up to all his life, his hands involuntarily flexing into fists by his thighs, although he couldn't quite bring himself to take a swing at him, even for Fleur's sake. Even debilitated as he was, he knew that his cousin could put him down without really trying very hard.

  But regardless of the potential danger he was putting himself in, Devon couldn't keep himself from saying, "I don't intend to let you hurt her again, Lawson. If you do, you'll have me to answer to."

  The big man just snorted. "All she needs to do is stay away from me. I guess she must be desperate for some male attention if she's willing to get it from me."

  Wanting to punch him, Devon turned on his heel, instead, grabbing his hat on the way out. "The next time you need something, call someone else to get it for you." He felt guilty for saying that to him—they were family, after all—but, if he asked, he knew that Sawyer's Market—as well as a lot of other places in town—would deliver out to him, as they did for a lot of their customers.

  That was when Devon began to spend a lot more time around Fleur, wanting to be supportive of her in any way he could while she was going through such a bad time with her father, on top of everything else. They were both there—Patsy, who might as well have been her sister, and Devon, who was becoming something more than a friend—when her father took his last breath.

  He was the one who stepped up and made all of the arrangements for them, and who, on the day of the funeral, acted as the son the O'Mearas had never had, remaining close to both the Missus, who was comforted by her two other daughters and all of her friends, but Fleur in particular, always there to offer his hand or his arm or his shoulder for her to lean or cry on, standing next to her during the services, both church and graveside.

  It was at the very end, in the graveyard, when everyone was dissipating, heading back to her house to mourn the deceased and eat the incredible spread they knew that the O'Meara women, themselves, as well as their friends and family, would have made available afterwards, that she saw him, standing tall, all by himself, near a small gro
ve of trees.

  He tipped his hat at her, inclining his head, and he knew that she had seen him, but she turned away from him, and he watched as his heart was slowly shredded by her spurning of him—even though he knew that he was the cause of it and that he should welcome her behavior—seeing her tuck her arm into his cousin's to lean on him heavily as he walked her to and helped her into a waiting car.

  He'd done it, and he guessed he should be happy. She wouldn't be turning up uninvited at his house again. He'd accomplished the goal he's set for himself more than a year ago, while he was still in the hospital, when he'd come to the realization that, aside from perhaps being able to walk a little better than he did then or use his arm a little more, things were never going to get much better for him, especially in regard to how he looked. There was really no covering that mess up.

  That was when he'd sent the letter to Devon asking him to help him separate himself from Fleur. He knew it was the coward's way out, having someone else do what he should have been man enough to do for himself, but that was the heart of it.

  With everything that had happened to him and all of the things that he knew he could no longer do—which, at that point, included some very intimate functions that every man expects to be able to do—he didn't consider himself to be much of a man. Oh, his doctors had said that his lack of ability in that area was most likely due to both the constant pain and the heavy medications he was taking to ease it, but he wasn't at all sure that he believed them.

  They'd told him he'd regain the full use of his arm. Being able to lift it to just above a forty-five-degree angle did not qualify as regaining the full use of it, as far as he was concerned. Nor was he able to even begin to get rid of his limp. They all told him he was expecting to recover much too quickly—and much too completely, considering the severity of his injuries—that these things took lots of time and lots of effort, but he couldn't see that he'd made much progress since he was brought there, and he came to realize that, the bottom line was, he couldn't be for Fleur what he knew he needed to be. He could no longer be what she deserved.