Because We Belong (Because You Are Mine #3)(51)
If Francesca didn’t come, would he have to resort to watching her image on his computer screen again? Lucien had accused him earlier of being obsessed by Trevor Gaines and his ugly history, but personally, Ian considered himself obsessed by the image of Francesca surrendering to ecstasy . . . of giving herself so trustingly. He craved the image especially now, when she shut herself off from him even while she desperately sought to find relief for the fire that burned her from the inside out. He was familiar with that particular brand of fire. It scored him daily since leaving her. He wouldn’t watch her suffer unduly if he could offer her even a modicum of relief.
Knowing he was the one who had altered her expression from one of complete trust and love to one of anger and doubt made the vision of her former faith on the computer screen a hundred times worse. It also made the image that much more compelling, not to mention sadder.
His head jerked up at the furtive knock at his door. He quickly shut down his computer. She didn’t say anything when he opened the door, just walked into the room. She’d changed out of her eveningwear. Instead of being dressed for bed, however, she wore jeans and a fitted T-shirt, her long, glorious reddish-gold hair still loose and waving down her back. It was the attire he most associated with Francesca—the garb of a free-spirited artist. He hadn’t seen her dressed thus since his return, and seeing her now caused an amplification in the dull, familiar ache in his chest cavity. Her face looked pale when she turned to face him, her gaze fierce. He recognized her defiance as being that of a woman who had been wounded but not conquered.
He closed the door quietly and locked it. Still, she didn’t speak as they stared at one another in the thundering silence.
“Well I’m here,” she said stiffly. “I’d almost prefer it that you were triumphant instead of your acting like it was inevitable that I’d come.”
He raised his eyebrows. “It would give you comfort to call me smug?”
“It would give me comfort to dislike you.”
“You don’t dislike me?” he asked, dropping his hand from the knob on the door and walking toward her.
Her large eyes moved over him warily. Her lips trembled. “You left me,” she said hoarsely. “What woman doesn’t hate her lover for that? Especially when she shows up at his door after the fact, begging.”
“You’re not begging,” he stated firmly. “I offered to give you what you need.”
“And nothing else,” she smiled bitterly. “And what is it you suppose I need? To be punished for showing up here? I’ve half a mind to agree it’s what I deserve.”
“No,” he said, hating to see her this way. Francesca was not born to be a cynic. He palmed her jaw and smoothed his thumb over her pale, smooth cheek as if he could erase her sadness . . . her desperation. “You’re tearing at yourself, bloodying your spirit. You think you want to escape the bonds that hold you secure, but in reality, you need to be held tighter.”
A muscle jumped beneath his stroking thumb. She stared up at him, a wild, angry longing in her dark eyes. “Why should I let you bind me tighter when you’ll leave again soon, and I’ll be alone, fighting against the bonds . . . bleeding once again?”
“Because I’ll try my damnedest to come back.”
“Promise me.”
He blinked at her harsh demand. “I can’t.”
She made a muffled sound of misery in her throat, killing him a little. He touched his forehead to hers. “I want to be with you more than anything, Francesca. But I can’t do that until I feel . . . whole. Please understand.”
He took her into his arms and clasped her to him, tight, inhaling the scent of her hair. “There is no other woman for me. If I can never feel myself worthy of you, then I’ll never want another. If I can’t find a place at your side, it means I’ll go through life alone. Please understand that. This isn’t about me abandoning you. I’m the one who feels cast ashore alone while the rest of the world floats away.”
He felt her shudder. She shook her head, her face rolling against his chest. Her arms slipped around his waist. “But I’m here. I’m right here.”
“I know,” he said, using his hand to tilt back her face. She stared up at him with shiny eyes. He brushed her lips softly with his own, absorbing the slight tremors that went through her body . . . cherishing them. “And you’re suffering. Let me bring you relief.”
She pressed closer to him, her light clothing allowing him to feel her firm, feminine body, her tension . . . her heat. Her eyelids closed. “Yes,” she said. “I need help. I can’t seem to . . .” Her voice broke, and he covered her mouth with his, hating to witness her misery. It hurt like a burning lash whipped against his insides to know he had done this to her—because of his need, he’d trained her to his touch, taught her to meet his needs, to exceed his desires. He’d told her once that there probably wasn’t a handful of men on the planet who could dominate her sexually, and he’d meant it. She possessed such a strong, fierce spirit, she would only—could only—submit to a true mate. He’d recognized before that he was incredibly fortunate to be one of the few men to whom she could submit, but there, in that moment, he recognized how blessed he was . . .
. . . and how damned.
He kissed her deliberately while he began to undress her, gentling her when she grew frantic and strained against him, taming her when her hunger grew wild and she bit at him, tempting him. She made a rough sound of protest when he broke their kiss in order to pull her T-shirt over her head, but then his mouth was back on hers, drinking her sweetness, using his hands to unfasten her bra and massage her breasts, his fingers to coax her nipples into hard, delectable crests that made his mouth water.