Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(17)
If you’re not like your pervert father, how come you want to do what you want to do this very second?
He grimaced at the silent, sarcastic question. He should get up from this bed, perhaps go for a late-night run. He could delve into more of the research he’d collected about Trevor Gaines, try to connect the disparate clippings of information he’d gathered, looking for a meaningful outline . . . do anything to focus his mind away from the computer that sat on the desk.
For the next minute, he remained on the bed, stiff and unmoving, an invisible battle warring inside him. A sweat broke out on his temple at the effort he expended.
Still, no amount of rationalizations and silent bids for self-control could stop him from rising from the bed and grabbing his computer. He was what he was, and this, at least, he could not control or banish. With a sense of grim inevitability—not to mention a wild hunger combined with a healthy dose of self-disgust—he sat on the bed and opened the video.
It was the equivalent of masochistically flailing himself, but he did it anyway, knowing from experience it was impossible to resist the urge. Maybe Reardon was right. Maybe he was like his father.
Moments later, he stared, utterly transfixed by the image of Francesca’s sublime face as ecstasy overcame her.
He continued to watch even after he’d climaxed. He received no real satisfaction from his masturbation, but it did make him feel. It was the equivalent of cutting his own skin, one of the few things that penetrated his numbness.
He only roused when his emissions cooled on his belly and he experienced vague discomfort. He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he cleaned up, once again reminded of Kam Reardon’s nasty insinuation.
Once again thinking of Kam Reardon, period.
Of course.
Reardon was another one of Gaines’s biological children. Perhaps his mother had lived somewhere near here. One thing was certain, the people in the local village insinuated that Kam had lived illegally on the Aurore property for a while now. Reardon, out of all Gaines’s ill-gotten children, would likely know more secrets and insights about Gaines then anyone. He was bound to give Ian some answers.
He tossed aside the towel and left the suite with a newfound sense of grim purpose.
* * *
The next morning, Francesca hurried down the hallway toward the penthouse entrance, eager to greet her visitor.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she said when the elevator door opened before she even saw Lucien. “I really didn’t want to interrupt, though, with Elise just returning home.”
“I figured you might feel that way, so I brought her along,” Lucien said, stepping off the elevator along with a stunning blond woman with large sapphire eyes.
“Elise,” Francesca muttered, torn between discomfort at her sudden appearance after such a significant break in their friendship and the genuine happiness she felt at seeing her. Elise’s warm, gamine grin was, as always, a striking contrast to her elegant beauty. It also went a long way in helping Francesca forget her embarrassment.
“Don’t be mad at him. He couldn’t shake me,” Elise said, eyes sparkling as she glanced up at Lucien. “I latched onto him and wouldn’t let him come without me.”
“I’m so glad you did,” Francesca said, a smile breaking free. The two women hugged. Francesca blinked several times when they broke their embrace and she looked at Elise’s beaming face. “I understand you just came from your parents? You must be . . . exhausted.”
Elise’s lips trembled in amusement. She’d shared stories with Francesca in the past about her . . . colorful, trying parents. Louis and Madeline Martin had been a large part of what Elise had fled when she’d come to Chicago, looking for a way to make her life worthwhile. It wasn’t always easy for a gorgeous heiress who had been handed every material luxury on a platter to make a meaningful existence, Francesca had learned. With Lucien’s guidance and love, and Elise’s determination and talent, she’d done just that, however.
“Exhausted is one way to put it. Louis and Madeline always extract their pound of flesh. But how are you?” Elise asked pointedly, her brows bunching as she studied Francesca.
“Fine. I’m fine,” Francesca assured. “Just . . . very happy to see you. Both,” she added, looking up at Lucien. She looked down, faltering at the sight of their compassionate gazes. “I’m so sorry for . . . you know . . . avoiding your calls. It had nothing to do with you. It was wrong of me. I know that, now that I’ve seen you two again . . .”
“None of that, now,” Elise chastised softly, taking her hand, the naturalness and elegance of her gesture humbling Francesca further. “We’re friends. Lucien and I know how much pain you’ve been in.”
“Thank you,” Francesca said earnestly, hoping Elise understood the depth of meaning behind the two inadequate words. “Come inside and sit down. I’ll get us something to drink.”
A half hour later, the three of them sat together in a salon, Francesca in a winged-back chair and Lucien and Elise on a couch across from her, their hands lightly clasped together in a prizing, comfortable gesture. Their commitment to each another was almost tangible to observe. She was glad to see them both so happy, but still . . . her chest ached dully at their steadfast, touching exhibition of love.
After Lucien had finished talking, she set down the club soda with lime she’d been sipping and leaned back with a sigh.