Mr. Beautiful

by R. K. Lilley

  Calm, the first I'd felt of it since waking up alone, filled me at the sight I found in their bedroom.

  We found them curled together in a heap, Bianca burrowed into Stephan's naked chest, his face buried in her soft hair.

  They were beautiful together like that. It made my gut wrench to see it.

  What was one's normal reaction to finding the love of your life in bed with another man? Well, I had no trouble picturing what it would have been, if that other man had been anyone else. But Stephan was, of course, the exception to all rules and boundaries.

  "It's what we signed on for," Javier said quietly, eyes glued to them. "They're a package deal. There's no way we can claim we didn't have fair warning. And I'm not sad about it."

  "Bianca wouldn't be Bianca without Stephan," I said softly, my voice succinct.

  Javier nodded solemnly. "And clearly, he'd rather die than lose her."

  "I owe him everything." It was debt that was so integral to my being now that I felt it deep, a part of me that resided in the very marrow of my bones.

  "He doesn't see it that way."

  This was a rare moment for us to talk. "I hope you know that anything I have is yours. Anything, any want or need that either of you have, anything on this earth, know it's yours."

  "We know. Thank you."

  "Those aren't just words. I mean them literally."

  He smiled wide. "Oh I know. We're living in a mansion that you bought us. Doesn't get more literal than that. Aside from this, though, we're simple people. We don't need much to enjoy our lives."

  "Well, never hesitate to come to me if you require anything."

  He nodded, eyes back on them. "They need each other. I've never seen anything like it, but I know, for a certainty, that if one of them had died in that shooting, the other wouldn't have survived it. They met when they were broken and fixed each other. The things it took to fix them formed them together into something that can't, and shouldn't, be taken apart."

  "Perhaps you guys should stay at the house for a bit longer," I said wryly.

  They'd been staying at our house since the shooting. This was the first night they'd left our house for theirs. Clearly, that had been a premature development.

  "You see, I can't be without her, either," I said softly. "There has to be a peaceful way to share, and her leaving my bed for his is not it."

  Javier chuckled softly. "Yes, I can see that. So how should we do this? Shall we move back in tonight?"

  I glanced at him briefly before my eyes returned to my woman, locked in another man's arms. I couldn't stand the thought of disturbing her rest. She needed it.

  Javier sighed. "We can't just watch them all night. And that bed isn't big enough for four."

  I didn't point out that there were lots of other beds. I was pretty sure Javier hated sleeping without his injured Stephan as much as I despised the idea of my bed without Bianca in it.

  I was resolute, but not bitter or upset, not about this. I'd made the grievous mistake at the beginning, thinking that patience, and Stephan, were my lesson, the price to be close to her.

  Tolerating their closeness was something to be born, to be endured, is what I'd been foolish enough to think.

  They were not.

  They were my privilege.

  I tried to be reasonable and had settled on sleeping at their house, camping out in the closest guest room.

  That lasted for about an hour before I took up residence outside their door, back against the wall, arms folded over the top of my knees.

  I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, sleeping in fits and starts for a few more hours.

  I went back into the room when I heard their voices.

  They were still huddled together on the bed, speaking in low-pitched tones, faces close.

  They stopped when they noticed me looming over the bed.

  "James," Bianca said softly, rolling onto her back. "I'm sorry. Did I disturb your sleep when I left?"

  I shot her an exasperated look, turning my attention to Stephan. "We're heading back over to our house. You and Javier are coming with. Clearly we separated you guys too soon."

  He just nodded.

  I reached down and snatched Bianca out of his arms and up into mine.

  I nodded at him once, kissing the top of her head tenderly before I started to carry her back.

  "Are you upset?" she asked as I moved.

  "Yes, but not at either of you. It was an upsetting way to wake up, but I'll live."

  "I'm sorry. I just woke up, remembered, realized he wasn't in the house, and I had to see him, had to touch him, to reassure myself."

  "Trust me, I know the feeling."

  Our extensive security had come out in force with all the activity. We'd had to hire several extra people, all carefully chosen by Clark, and I was still getting used to the new faces. It was not an easy adjustment, especially now, as they all lined the path from Stephan's house to ours, a scantily clad Bianca in my arms.

  She wore nothing but a thin slip with a whisper of a thong underneath. I almost chastised her for it, with all of the security we had on the property, but I bit my tongue. She hadn't been thinking, she'd been reacting, and I could certainly sympathize with that.

  "Is she okay, sir?" one of them asked.

  My eyes swung to the young man that had said it. He sounded legitimately worried, as though he cared beyond the job. It raised my hackles a bit, but I smoothed them back down.

  I knew more than anyone did just how unreasonably jealous I could be when it came to Bianca. I was working on it, as it was a condition that was both bad for my relationship and my well-being.

  I told myself that the man was just doing his job, though a part of me didn't believe it.

  Joseph was his name, I recalled. Twenty-five, clean cut. Blond and handsome, in a nondescript kind of way. A blank slate of a man, exactly the kind I felt most threatened by.

  "She's fine. Give us some privacy."

  They dispersed like a silent cloud, and I tried to shake off my dark thoughts.

  I carried her up to our room, settling her in bed.

  "Can I get you anything? Are you hurting?"

  She was in considerable pain, she admitted, and I brought her pills and water. She downed them and lay down.

  I lowered myself carefully beside her, taking her gingerly into my arms.

  She (not gingerly) burrowed into me, plastering her lush body to my clenched one. It was as torturous as it was pleasurable.

  "I want you," she said into my neck, her hand snaking down.

  I stifled a groan and caught her hand, jaw clenched, body throbbing. "No. It's too soon, love. You need to rest. And heal."

  She must have agreed, because she fell asleep between one breath and the next.

  I, unfortunately, did not, though this arrangement was a marked improvement over the earlier one.

  It was the next morning, over breakfast, that I mentioned, "I think Clark and Blake are sleeping together."

  "I already guessed," Bianca said, without batting an eye. "They're totally in love. Just mad for each other."

  "How long has that been going on?"

  "Since the shooting, I think. Nothing like almost losing someone to show you how you really feel about them."

  No kidding, I thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MY RAVENOUS SELF

  It was some endless span of time later, after the shooting.

  Weeks that felt like ages. Time I'd spent agonizing and worrying.

  I'd adjusted almost completely to working from home, as I wouldn't even consider leaving her side while she recovered. My businesses suffered through some minor hiccups for this, but nothing catastrophic. All of it had become rather relative, besides.

  So what if a few other people helped me run things, and I lost control over some of the minute details that used to consume me? I couldn't even recall why it was so important to manage it all myself anymore.

  What was the worst th
at could be happen? I'd become slightly less filthy rich?

  We were dining privately, and Bianca was being very quiet. Too quiet. She was up in her own head again, though her worries were always the polar opposite of mine.

  She worried about me. My stress levels, my lack of sleep, my unmet needs.

  It was a difficult thing to grow accustomed to, as I couldn't remember the last time, pre-Bianca, that someone fretted over me.

  Not since my mother, I supposed.

  She cleared her throat and brought her level stare to meet my troubled one.

  "I heard you talking on the phone earlier, to your Detroit manager. It sounded as though the situation would best be handled if you went there in person. I think you should do it. You can't stay home with me forever. I'm perfectly self-sufficient now, and even if I weren't, I have Stephan and Javier next door, not to mention all of the staff."

  I didn't even consider it. She may have been ready for that, but I was not.

  "Maybe in a week or two," I told her, not meaning it, but using it as a subject ender.

  I went back to my food, feeling her presence acutely to my left. I was a focused man, but I could not be in a room with Bianca without at least half of my attention on her at all times.

  Her presence was a great gaping void in my concentration—my ultimate distraction.

  I caught her sigh out of the corner of my eye and turned my attention on her fully.

  She set down her utensils, sitting back in her chair.

  "Was it not to your liking?" I asked her, eyeing up her barely touched dinner. She'd finished only about a third of her filet and less than half of her vegetables.

  "It was very good. I just wasn't that hungry. I think you actually need to expend energy to work up an appetite."

  The words hungry and appetite coming out of her succulent mouth with that soft voice of hers was enough to make me hard, though it was a fact that it didn't take much these days.

  I looked at her, keeping my eyes squarely on her face.

  I'd taken one look at the little dress she was wearing earlier and decided wisely not to look at it again.

  My control was hanging on by the thinnest thread, and that dress, or more specifically, the body it revealed more than clothed, was more provocative than I could stand.

  It was overkill, really.

  Inflammatory, when I was already on fire.

  Still, if I let my mind wander for even a second, I could picture it perfectly—her body in that dress.

  It was palest peach, a lovely color on her, feminine and loose, with ruffles at the neck and hem, and so minuscule that it could have been a shirt. I had to force my mind away from any thoughts about her long, bare legs in it.

  It also exposed nearly her entire back, just one T shaped strap was all that covered her from her shoulder to the little dimples above her ass, which was torment for all kinds of reasons. One being that her back drove me mindless. The other being that it meant she was braless, and that drove me from mindless to madness incarnate.

  The neckline was decent enough, but the sides of the dress were cut severely, on account of the back, leaving the sides of both breasts exposed, so much so that the wrong movement could slip her clean out of it.

  I took a few deep, grounding breaths for control.

  I allowed myself one brief glance at her bare neck. Her choker was locked away, since the injury.

  The sight of her neck without it always made my fingers twitch restlessly.

  This also brought my mind to other things she'd lost during her long hospital stay.

  Like both of her nipple piercings, which brought my mind to her breasts, the absolute last place it needed to go.

  In spite of myself, I glanced at the white skin of one rounded tit where it nearly spilled out of the side of that damned dress.

  And felt myself begin to shake.

  I looked away, setting down my fork and knife, attempting to hide the fine tremor that ran through the entire length of me and seemed to be most apparent in my hands.

  "James," she said, voice quiet and solemn, almost chiding, like she knew what afflicted me.

  Like she held the cure if only I'd reach for it.

  She did, of course, but I wouldn't let myself reach. Not yet.

  It was too soon.

  She'd nearly died and needed time to recover, time unsullied by my selfish, unquenchable need.

  I didn't look at her directly, but needless to say, I was still hyper aware of it when she stood and moved to stand at my side.

  I took in a deep breath, then let it out, calming myself and taking her in all at once.

  She touched the top of my head lightly with her elegant fingers. "Oh, James," she sighed, tone gentle enough to make me ache.

  She stroked her hand into my hair, gripped it lightly, and started to pull.

  She leaned forward, pressing my tense head to her soft bosom, both offering support and taking succor.

  I shut my eyes tight.

  The image of me putting my ravenous self on her wounded self was a crystal clear picture in my head.

  Obsessively, repetitively, day and night, asleep or awake, I pictured this.

  It was very nearly too much to bear; this voracious, prodigious need of mine.

  I'd not gone through a celibate stage like this since I'd become sexually active, back in my teens. In the beginning of our relationship, when Bianca had left me, I'd come close, but this spell had since outlasted that one.

  It was an ordeal.

  I jerked off at least five times a day, to cope with the readjustment, but it was about as satisfactory as eating cardboard instead of steak.

  My traitorous hands moved to grip the bare backs of her thighs, keeping her leaning against me.

  After one inflamed, torturous moment, I tore myself away.

  She let me go, moving back to her seat.

  I looked at her, making my gaze go to the bandaged side of her face, which I usually avoided, but not now, because I needed that reminder of why I had to put her needs before my own.

  Her injury was still dressed from the latest round of reconstructive surgery, covering one side of her face from cheekbone to jaw.

  It was a sobering sight, not because it was grisly, in fact, I couldn't even see the actual wound, it was covered so thoroughly, but because it was a stark and clear reminder of what had almost happened.

  That reminder was dampening, which was what I needed at the moment.

  I finished eating, and Bianca quietly excused herself.

  I knew where she was going, and I forced myself to move in the opposite direction.

  If I followed her to her painting studio, watched her work on and around a canvas in that fucking dress, I'd surely snap and lose all restraint.

  She was not recovered enough for my unrestrained self.

  I tried not to follow her, to hover, as that was not what she wanted, but it was a constant struggle against myself not to check in on her.

  Instead, I took up residence in my home office and attempted to work.

  That lasted all of thirty seconds.

  That fast and my mind was wandering back to her and back to the image of my ravenous self on her recovering self, and I recalled rather urgently that I was do for another jerk off session.

  I had just pulled my erection from the oppressive confines of my pants when my office door opened with no preamble.

  This was unusual. Bianca never came to my office.

  She stepped inside, then shut the door behind her, not looking even slightly surprised at what I'd been up to, while I found myself flushing in embarrassment.

  Her eyes were unflinching on mine as she approached.

  I'd pushed my chair back from the desk in preparation for my after dinner jerk session. There was enough space between for her to fit.

  She did, facing me and leaning back until her ass was perched right on the edge.

  I raised my desperate eyes to her devastating ones.

  Our gaze
s never wavered as, at the bottom of my vision, she lifted her wispy little dress up to bare herself.

  With a sigh of defeat, I let myself look, but only for the briefest moment.

  No panties, as I'd suspected.

  My eyes, as they returned to hers, were pleading now.

  I couldn't fight her and myself.

  Myself was bad enough, but I'd never been any match for her.

  Not for one lovesick second since the first time I'd set eyes on her.

  "You need more recovery time, love," I told her, voice desperate, heart pounding.

  "Shh," she soothed, holding her arms out for me, her skirt falling back down to barely cover the essentials.

  With a shudder, I moved into her, sliding my chair close between her legs. I rested my cheek on her soft, bare thigh and attempted and failed to hold onto any vague shred of my once dependable control.

  She stroked her fingers through my hair.

  It wasn't long before I raised my head to take her in again. "Grip the edge of the desk with your hands," I told her roughly, unsteady hands lifting her skirt, letting myself look my fill at last.

  "I'm off the painkillers," she told me.

  My eyes jerked to hers, nostrils flaring as I caught what she meant me to. We both knew I wouldn't touch her impaired.

  "Why?" I asked, just to be sure.

  "I don't like them, and the pain is manageable."

  "You can't do that. You can't make yourself suffer on my account."

  "Don't put this on yourself. This is how I've always been. I never could stand to take pain medication, no matter the reason, so as soon as it becomes bearable, I stop."

  I shut my eyes tight and took a deep breath, so torn I was doubting myself.

  "Please, Mr. Cavendish," she breathed.

  She was ruthless.

  I was lost.

  I turned my head, burrowing my face between her legs, tasting her.

  My moan was almost loud enough to drown out hers.

  A taste turned into a feast, and I lapped at her, one hand pinching the tip of my cock to hold off on coming as my other hand delved between her thighs to finger her.

  She came undone fast, thank God, as I jammed two fingers into her and pushed my tongue repeatedly against the swollen nub of her clit.