Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(2)
“What have you gotten from your room to torture me with?” she asked teasingly, her head twisted to see what he held in his hands. She saw little, however, with his body blocking what he set on the top of a bureau. He turned toward her, still completely dressed. Her nipples prickled beneath his hot stare as he examined her, as ever his gaze striking her as cool and assessing and blazingly possessive at once.
“My room?” he repeated as he came toward her. Her clit twanged in conditioned excitement when she saw the small pot of cream he held in his hand. It was the clitoral stimulant that he always rubbed on her when he was doing something new to her . . . something challenging. Francesca had dubbed it a “wicked cream” because it was known to make her want in ways she’d never before imagined. It was known to make her beg.
“Yes. Who else would the room belong to?” she asked distractedly.
“You, of course,” he said, holding her stare and untwisting the cap of the cream. She watched his every move with tight concentration as he dipped a thick finger into the little pot, a dull ache mounting in her by the second.
“You are the only one who has a key,” she said as he withdrew his finger and a dollop of white cream. He placed a knee on the trunk at the foot of the bed and leaned over her supine, bound form. “Therefore it is yours.”
“I control the room, yes,” he said, reaching. She lifted her head off the mattress, holding her breath as he neared her spread *, her mouth watering uncontrollably, her nipples tightening into almost painfully hard points. He’d conditioned her body so exquisitely. “But the room exists for your pleasure,” he continued. She gasped, and her head fell back as he knowingly massaged the cool cream between her labia and onto her clit. “Therefore, it is fair to say it is both of our domain, wouldn’t you say?” he growled softly as he rubbed.
“Oh . . . yes,” she moaned. Already the cream warmed beneath the hard, agitating ridge of his forefinger. Soon, very soon, it would make the nerves tingle and burn. It would make it so that she did just about anything to climax. Despite her growing arousal, what Ian meant was not lost on her.
Before they’d met, that room had been for Ian alone, the ecstasy he gave other women a mere by-product of his personal pleasurable aims. He still was the master of that room, but for him to say the room was theirs was special, and she was touched.
He straightened and stood, screwing the lid on the pot as he looked down at her with a hooded gaze, his expression hot but also vaguely frustrated.
“Why do you look at me like that?” Francesca whispered.
His nostrils flared slightly and he turned away. “I was thinking there is nothing more beautiful than you on the face of the earth,” he replied, his back still turned to her. “And that . . .”
“What?” she prompted when he faded off as he picked up some items on the bureau.
He turned and walked toward her, and for once she was so preoccupied by his intensity and what he was telling her, she didn’t immediately try to ascertain what was in his hand or determine what he planned to do to her, like she normally would.
“Ian?”
“I wish I could . . .” He paused, his gaze once again trailing over her from face to bound legs and arms. “Keep you with me always,” he said after a moment. He came toward her.
“I am with you always,” she said. Sensing his dark mood, however, she strained to lighten the moment. “Just try to get rid of me, and you’ll discover how hard it is to escape.”
He gave her a swift smile. “It would be an utter impossibility for me to escape you.” She opened her mouth to continue the conversation—she sensed it was important—but he sidetracked her by setting the items he carried on the bed and reaching between her thighs. He rubbed her clit with a quick, expert touch. She gasped. She’d always wondered at the fact that he touched her even more knowingly than she touched herself, as if he were inside her head and could feel what she did.
“Is the cream starting to work?” he murmured.
“You know it is,” she accused between gritted teeth. He met her eyes and she felt his smile all the way in the pit of her stomach. God, she loved him so much. Sometimes she worried he didn’t realize how much . . .
“I’m going to put something into your ass,” he said quietly, still rubbing her clitoris.
“Okay,” she said, sensing the pointedness of his comment, but not the significance. He didn’t use plugs on her all the time, but it was certainly one aspect of their sex play with which she was familiar. He must have noticed her slight confusion, because he pulled his hand away—making her whimper in protest at his absence—and reached for something on the bed.
“This,” he said, holding up a four-inch plug with a base. It wasn’t that different than ones he’d used on her before, with one exception. The base and the plug itself were completely transparent.
“Is it all right?” he prompted.
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, even though she blushed.
Something leapt into his blue eyes . . . something she cherished. He quickly lubricated the clear plug. He watched her face as he carefully inserted it. She moaned softly and bit her lip. The stimulation of her anus seemed to make the clit cream go into full action. She tingled and burned. He pressed until the base came into contact with her skin. She felt beads of sweat pop onto her upper lip.