Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(22)

She folded her clothes and set them on an upholstered stool. Her reflection in the mirror caught her attention. Her image stared back at her, her eyes looking huge in her pale face, her long hair hanging damp. She looked a little scared.

So what if I am scared? she thought to herself. He’d said he was going to spank her and that it would hurt. She’d agreed to his apparent warped sexual practices because she wanted Ian so much.

It came down to which was greater: her fear or her desire to please Ian.

She walked toward the door and opened it. He sat on the couch, a tablet in his lap. He set the device on the coffee table when she walked into the room.

“I lit a fire for you,” he said, his gaze running over her from head to foot. He was still dressed in the same clothing he’d been wearing when he’d barged into the tattoo parlor—dark gray tailored pants and a blue-and-white button-down shirt. His long legs were crossed negligently. He looked utterly at ease. The light from the fire flickered in his eyes. “It’s cool tonight. I didn’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling awkward and uncertain.

“Take off the robe, Francesca,” he said quietly.

Her heart skipped a beat. She fumbled with the sash and drew the robe off her shoulders.

“Set it down there,” he instructed, pointing to the chair next to her, his gaze never leaving her. She draped the garment over the back of the chair and stood there, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her, studying the intricate pattern of the Oriental carpet beneath her like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Look at me,” he said.

She lifted her chin. There was something in his gaze she’d never seen before.

“You’re exquisite. Stunning. Why do you look down, as if you’re ashamed?”

She swallowed thickly. The embarrassing truth came unstuck from her throat. “I . . . I used to be overweight. Until I was nineteen or so. I . . . guess I still have the confidence of my former self,” she explained, her voice barely above a whisper.

A subtle of-course expression flickered over his bold features. “Ah . . . yes. But you seem so sure of yourself at times.”

“That’s not confidence. It’s defiance.”

“Yes,” he mused. “I understand now. Better than you might think. It’s your way of telling the world to go f*ck itself for ever having the gall to look down its nose at you.” He smiled. “Bravo, Francesca. It’s time you learned how beautiful you are, though. You should always control the strengths you have available to you; never let them languish or, worse, allow others to be the ones to control them for you. Come stand before me, please.”

She went to him on shaking legs. Her eyes went wide in confusion when he picked up a jar sitting on the cushion next to him. It was so small, and Ian had filled her senses so completely, she hadn’t noticed it before. He unscrewed the cap and put a small dollop of the thick white substance on his forefinger. Glancing up, he noticed her bewilderment.

“It’s a clitoral stimulant. It increases the sensitivity of the nerves,” he said.

“Oh, I see,” she muttered, even though she didn’t.

His gaze dropped between her thighs. Her clit pinched with arousal, his stare stimulant enough. “I’m very selfish when it comes to you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I always give a submissive pleasure if she pleases me. I’m not usually concerned if she feels it while she’s being punished, however. She might have to endure it to get her reward. I find I’ve . . . changed my tune a bit with you, however.”

“Submissive?” she asked weakly, her brain sticking on that part of his reply.

“Yes. I’m a dominant when it comes to sex, although I don’t require elements of bondage or dominance to get me turned on. It’s a preference for me, not a necessity.” He sat forward on the couch so that his dark head was inches from her belly, his nose near her sex. She watched as he inhaled and then briefly closed his eyes.

“So sweet,” he said, sounding a little undone.

She had no time to prepare for what he did next. He boldly plunged his thick finger between her sex lips and rubbed the cream thoroughly on her clit, his touch sure . . . electric. She bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out as concentrated pleasure shuddered through her. “Tonight, I’ll punish you, and I won’t lie. I’m going to enjoy it. Very much. But I want you to feel pleasure as well. Your nature will determine most of that, but this cream will help to swing things in the right direction,” he said as he continued to massage the emollient onto her clit. He glanced up and saw her bewilderment. “I won’t have you trained to fear this. I don’t want you to loathe your punishments. In a word, I don’t want you to fear me, Francesca.”

He dropped his hand into his lap. His gaze returned to the juncture of her thighs. His nostrils flared, and his face went rigid before he stood abruptly.

“Over here, please,” he said. She followed him to where he stood in front of the fireplace. Her feet stalled when she saw what he picked up off the mantel—a long black paddle. “Come closer. You may look at it,” he said when he took in her wariness.

He held up the paddle for her inspection. “I have them made by hand. I just received this one last week. Despite my insistence that I would never really use it to the purpose, I had it made with you in mind, Francesca.”