Because You Are Mine (Because You Are Mine #1)(8)
It was only when she’d been bewitched as she gazed at his artwork, or when she’d stared out the window at the skyline, or when he’d secretly spied on her while she sketched that night, utterly lost in her art, that her beauty was fully revealed.
And a more compelling, addictive sight he couldn’t recall viewing.
He paused presently in the foyer of the penthouse. She was there. No sound emanated from the depths of his residence, but somehow he knew Francesca worked in her ad hoc studio. Was she still sketching on the massive canvas? He suddenly pictured her perfectly, her beautiful face tense with concentration, her dark eyes flickering back and forth between her quickly moving pencil and the view. She became somber and formidable as a judge when she worked, all of her self-consciousness burned to mist by her brilliant talent and an uncommon grace that she didn’t appear to know she possessed.
She also was ignorant of her potent sexual appeal. He, on the other hand, was acutely aware of its promise and power. Unfortunately, he was equally conscious of her naivete. He could practically smell it surrounding her; her innocence intermingled with an untested sexuality, creating a heady perfume that had set him off balance.
Sweat gathered on his upper lip. His cock swelled to full readiness in a matter of seconds.
Frowning, he glanced at his watch and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He tapped a few buttons and walked down the hallway, veering off toward his bedroom. Thankfully, his private quarters were on the opposite end of the condominium from where Francesca worked. He needed to get her out of his mind. Purge her.
A voice answered his call.
“Lucien. Something important has come up, and I’m running behind. Can we meet at five thirty versus five?”
“Certainly. I’ll see you there in forty-five minutes. Hope you’re feeling thick-skinned, because I’m in a real mood.”
Ian smiled wryly as he closed his bedroom door behind him and locked it. “I have a feeling my sword is hungry for blood today as well, my friend, so we’ll see who requires the thick skin and who doesn’t.”
Lucien was still laughing when Ian hung up. He stowed his briefcase and withdrew a fencing uniform from his dressing room, laying out a plastron, breeches, and a jacket. He stripped quickly and efficiently. From his briefcase, he withdrew a key. Two large dressing rooms adjoined his private quarters. Mrs. Hanson—anyone save Ian—was prohibited from entering one of them.
It was Ian’s private territory.
He unlocked the mahogany door and walked naked into the high-ceilinged room. It was lined with drawers and cabinets on either side and was always kept meticulously neat. He opened a drawer on his right and withdrew the items he wanted before padding back out to his bed.
It was his fault for not realizing this useless desire was mounting to dangerous levels. Perhaps he would arrange to bring a woman here this weekend, but in the meantime, he needed to diminish the sharp edge of his sexual hunger.
He squirted some lubricant onto his hand. His erection hadn’t abated. Shivers of pleasure rippled through him when he rubbed the cool lubricant over his cock. He considered lying on the bed, but no . . . standing was better. He picked up the transparent silicone sleeve and grasped his heavy cock. He’d had the masturbator custom made for his dimensions, specifying he wanted the silicone to be clear. He enjoyed watching himself ejaculate. The manufacturer had followed his directions to perfection, the only exception being the addition of a dark pink circle around the top ring of the implement. Ian had thought the addition harmless enough at the time, so he hadn’t complained. The masturbator wasn’t a substitute. He could have any number of skilled, willing women give him head at a moment’s notice. Over the years, he’d learned the crucial lesson of discretion. He’d pared down his once-considerable list to include two women who knew precisely what he wanted sexually and understood the parameters of what he would give in return.
The masturbator’s use was purely practical. He owed the sex toy nothing after it’d served its purpose.
But today, a shudder of excitement went through him at the sight of the thick head of his cock penetrating the tight pink ring. He flexed his arm, pushing the snug silicone sheath along the swollen staff of his cock within an inch of the root. He moved his hand like a piston, appreciating how quickly the heat from his flesh mounted within the thick, cushy silicone.
Oh, yes. This is what he needed—a good balls-emptying orgasm. His abdomen, ass, and thigh muscles tightened as his fist pumped. The suction chambers squeezed and sucked at him as he moved, mimicking oral sex. He withdrew the sleeve all the way to the head of his cock and plunged into the warm, slippery depths again and again.
Usually, he closed his eyes and engaged in a sexual fantasy while he masturbated. Today, for some reason, his gaze remained fixed on the sight of his cock penetrating the pink ring. He thought of pink puffy lips in the place of the silicone ring. He saw huge dark eyes looking up at him.
Francesca’s lips. Francesca’s eyes.
You have no time or business seducing an innocent. Didn’t you once get burned doing that?
He was a reluctant dom, perhaps, but a full-blown sexual dominant nonetheless. He’d long ago grown to accept his nature, knowing it matched his solitary fate in life. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone. He was just wise enough to realize it was inevitable. He was consumed by his work. A control freak. Everyone said it of him—the media, members of the business community . . . his ex-wife. He’d resigned himself to the fact that they were all correct. Fortunately, he’d grown used to his solitude.