The Affair: Week 4 (7 page)

She exhaled shakily and touched her lips to the crinkly hair on his chest. It felt like fingers clutched at her throat hearing him say those poignant words.

“Emma?” he prompted after a moment.

“Yes,” she whispered.

His fingers moved on her scalp. “If I’m only going to have you for a limited period of time, I want you completely, and on my terms. Will you see Dr. Parodas tomorrow?”

She should say no. She was crazy to be considering it. It was a level of intimacy far beyond their agreed-upon relationship. But the mental image she had of him staring up at the ceiling, believing himself to be protected by the darkness, plagued her.

He was so alone, even here, while she was pressed so tightly to him, skin to skin. She wasn’t his savior. She wasn’t much of anything but a very average young woman. And yet, there was that connection she felt to him, a connection she couldn’t entirely explain away by naïve imagination.

“Yes,” she whispered, forcing the word out of her constricted throat. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

He fell asleep before she did. Emma lay there, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, entranced by the sensation, lulled by his clean, spicy scent mixing with the subtle perfume of sex, the fragrance heady and delicious. Being in Vanni’s arms cast a spell around her. The last thought she had before drifting off to sleep was that perhaps her entrancement was why she’d agreed to sacrifice so much of herself, when he was offering so little in return.

* * *

She awoke in a warm cocoon to the sensation of her sex being cupped in a possessive gesture while a large hand stroked the curve of her hip lazily. Emma realized she lay on her side, facing the windows while Vanni lay behind her, his long, hard body curling against her backside. His cock pressed against her ass, the only thing separating her from his stiff, pulsing erection a thin layer of cotton. Morning light filtered around the luxurious drapes. His fingers moved slightly on her sex and she purred sleepily.

“I haven’t slept that well since I was a kid,” he said near her ear, the deep, raspy sound making the skin of her neck roughen. “But even so, all night I dreamed about this.” His fingers moved again subtly on her pussy. “Are you tender?”

She bit her lip. “I’m fine,” she whispered. In fact, her sex ached with a dull throb. She wasn’t used to having as much sex as she’d had yesterday, nor was she accustomed to Vanni’s forceful, all-consuming manner of lovemaking. His hand stilled between her thighs. She felt his warm breath on her neck when he exhaled heavily.

“You’re lying, Emma,” he said, sweeping the hand that had been cupping her sex up her belly. Emma swallowed thickly when she felt the warm dampness on his fingers. His cock flicked against her backside. She tried to turn to put her arms around him, to assure him that she was fine, but he stopped her with a firm hand on her shoulder. “Trust me,” he said near her ear, his voice a dark, seductive threat, “you don’t want to test me. I felt you flinch just now. I’m going to go jump in the shower.”

“No, Vanni,” she protested when he moved away from her. She turned over and reached for him, but he was already standing by the bed. He looked down at her, his face rigid, his blue-green eyes glittering.

“You’ll have to have an exam in less than an hour with Dr. Parodas. Do you really think it’s advisable?” he asked, his handsome mouth quirking, one eyebrow shooting up and giving him a devilish demeanor.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said slowly, but her gaze sunk down his ridged, sun-bronzed abdomen to the vision of his erection tenting his pajama bottoms. “There’s something I should probably confess to, since you were being so honest last night,” she mused, stretching luxuriously so that the sheet slid below her nipples. His gaze darted downward hungrily.

“What?” he asked warily.

“I knew it was apricots.”

When he didn’t respond immediately, her gaze slid up to his face. He wore a storm cloud expression.

“Dammit, Emma, you’re going to pay for that,” he grated out, pointing a condemning finger. He came down on the bed next to her, his mouth set in a grim line, and her heart began to race. She tried to reach for his cock, but he caught her wrists and pressed them to the pillows. She couldn’t help laughing softly, even though he looked so fierce. “Don’t you
dare
look so smug,” he breathed out, and her laughter faded even though her smile lingered. “And don’t say I didn’t warn you, either.”

He dipped his head, immediately spearing her lips with his agile tongue, sinking into her, taking his fill. Her flesh turned to warm, sweet syrup beneath Vanni’s angry, wild kiss, and she remained completely unrepentant.

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BECAUSE WE BELONG

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Francesca walked out of the dressing room carrying a blouse, jeans and underwear, pausing when she saw Ian enter the suite. Her fiancé met her gaze, somber as a judge, and locked the door. A smile pulled at her lips.

“I was about to shower,” she said.

His eyebrows went up, his bland expression conveying dry disbelief.
You’re doing no such thing
, she could just imagine him thinking. Francesca chuckled. She knew what he intended every time he locked that door. His actions would have made her smile—not to mention her heart begin to pound faster—at any time, but today, it made her uncommonly happy. He’d been so preoccupied and worried about his mother’s health, tortured that he’d made a wrong decision in regard to her medication and care, convinced there was something else he
should
be doing, but wasn’t. The care and protection of his mother had been ground deeply into his very bones since he was a child too young to be forced to consider such matters. He couldn’t escape the heavy responsibility as a man. Sadly, Helen Noble was making little to no improvements. Ian had been making frequent trips to London, crowding his already packed work schedule.

“Lucien and Elise are coming for dinner. We don’t have time,” Francesca reminded him.

He walked toward her. She wondered how long it would last—that shiver of anticipation she experienced—every time she saw that hungry gleam in his blue eyes and that predatory stalk. They’d been together now for over half a year, and her excitement had only grown. His recent preoccupation and worry only made that need to join with him sharper and more imperative.

“I called Lucien and asked them to come an hour later,” he said calmly as he removed the garments from her hands and set them on an upholstered chair.

“And Mrs. Hanson? She’s busy making roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.”

“She’s turning down the temperature in the oven. I told her I needed a nap.”

She studied him as he came toward her again. His lie to Mrs. Hanson, the housekeeper, was a true one. He looked as arrestingly handsome as usual, wearing a white and blue striped dress shirt open at the collar and dark blue trousers—casual wear, for Ian—but the months of worry over Helen Noble had taken their toll. His facial muscles were drawn tight from tension and there were shadows beneath his eyes. He swore he hadn’t lost weight, and his clothes hung on his tall, fit frame as appealingly as ever, but Mrs. Hanson and she agreed that he looked thinner. He’d been trying to diminish his anguish through his already rigorous exercise routines, the result being a leaner, harder . . . impossibly more intense man. She reached up and touched his jaw as his arms encircled her waist.

“Maybe you really should rest. It would do you good,” she said as he pulled her against him. A jolt of arousal awakened her body at the sensation of his masculine contours fitting against her so perfectly.

“It would do me much, much more good to watch your beautiful face while you’re tied up and helpless,” he said quietly before he leaned down and kissed her.

She opened her heavy eyelids a moment later, drugged by his potent kiss and the sensation of his body hardening against her.

“Helpless against what?” she murmured next to his plucking lips.

“Helpless to resist me.”

“But I . . . don’t. . . . want to . . . resist you. You know . . . that,” she managed between kisses, her body melting against him as he leaned over her, demanding every existing modicum of her attention. He lifted his head and his hand slid down her arm. He grasped her hand and led her toward the bed.

“The ropes will just reassure me,” he replied.

“Ropes?” Francesca asked, dazed. He’d used cuffs to bind her during foreplay and sex, and padded restraints and whatever else he might improvise with on the spur of the moment, including his own hands. But
ropes
?

“Don’t worry,” he said once he’d led her to the edge of the bed and encouraged her to sit. He leaned down and nibbled at her lips fleetingly . . . but convincingly, Francesca decided. “The ropes are made of silk. Do you think I’d ever put anything next to your beautiful skin that would mar it?” he asked near her ear a moment later, his low, rough voice causing goose bumps to rise along her nape.

She just stared up at him, enraptured by his small Ian-smile.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, she lay completely nude horizontally at the foot of the large, luxurious four-poster bed, her hips and body near the perpendicular angle of the edge. She’d watched in amazement and growing arousal as Ian had meticulously—and knowingly—bound her wrists to her calves in an elaborate, precise design of black silk rope twists and knots. She lay on her back, her knees bent toward her chest, her thighs spread wide. He’d instructed her initially to hold her calves, the pressure of her gripping hands pressing her folded legs into her body. Then he’d begun to bind her, forearms to calves and then calves to thighs.

She was trussed up good and tight, although she was not uncomfortable. Unless the erratic pounding of her heart and the mounting need for friction on her exposed, naked sex counted as discomfort.

She watched Ian anxiously as he returned from the room at the right side of the suite, their private sanctuary—the room that was typically kept locked and contained all manner of instruments for bondage, punishment and pleasure.

“What have you gotten from your room to torture me?” she asked teasingly her head twisted to see what he held in his hands. She saw little, however, 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. To whom else does the room belong?” 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 pussy, her mouth watering uncontrollably, her nipples tightening into almost painful hard points. He’d conditioned her body so exquisitely. “But the room exists for your pleasure,” he continued. She gasped at her held fell back as he knowingly massaged the cool cream between her labia 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 byproduct of his personal pleasurable aims. He was still 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 do.

“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.

She jumped when Ian abruptly shoved the heavy wooden trunk away from the foot of the bed and leaned down over. The tip of his tongue flicked over the top of her lip, gathering her sweat, before he kissed her with barely restrained passion.

“I have never loved anything or anyone the way I do you,” he said gruffly when he sealed their kiss.

“I love you, too,” she whispered feelingly. A shudder of pleasure went through her as his fingertips found their way beneath her bent knee and he began to finesse a nipple. He put his hand on her shin, gently pushing her knee toward the other one, exposing her breast. His dark head lowered. She stared up at the elaborate crystal chandelier over the bed blindly as he kissed the nipple with warm, firm lips before he took it into his mouth and sucked, sometimes gently . . . sometimes not. Her ass muscles tightened reflexively around the plug and her clit pinched in achy pleasure. By the time he lifted his head, both of her nipples stood at attention, reddened and hard. He gave the left nipple one last gentle pinch. She whimpered in mounting pleasure and he released her.

“Have I ever told you that you have the most beautiful breasts in existence?”

“Once or ten thousand times,” she replied.

“They deserve even greater praise.”

The air between her spread thighs seemed to lick at the moisture gathering there. She watched, her breath coming erratically, as he straightened. Her heart lurched in excitement when he began to unbuckle his belt. When he’d lowered the zipper, he reached into his white boxer briefs and removed his cock, releasing the long, thick, veined shaft so that the base fell against the waistband of the briefs. His penis bobbed before settling, the heavy, swollen head causing it to fall at a slightly downward angle as it protruded from his body. Her mouth watered instinctively. Her pussy became even damper. The sight of his cock had once both intimidated and aroused her. After months of making love with Ian, however, only excitement remained.

As if he knew precisely the reaction he was having on her, he stepped closer to her face and pressed his thighs against the bed. She turned her cheek against the edge of the mattress and opened her lips. He leaned closer and delved his fingers into her hair. She no longer needed him to direct her to meet his need. Not in this, she didn’t.

She strained her head, bathing his warm, rigid length with her tongue. He tightened his hold in her hair and she took the fleshy, firm crown into her mouth, her lips stretching around it, squeezing him. She gave the slit a firm polish with her tongue, making his fingers tighten in her hair, before she slid the shaft into her mouth and sucked.

“Jesus, that’s good,” she heard him say roughly from above her as he pulsed his cock in and out of her mouth. “You always seem so hungry for it . . . as hungry for me as I am you.”

Her increased fervor was an assurance that what he said was true. After a moment, she closed her eyes and let him have complete control, trusting in him completely. Her attention narrowed to a concentrated channel, every sense pinpointed on him—his familiar, delicious taste and scent, the arousing texture of his cock, how his flesh became even more rigid and swollen with every thrust and draw of her clamping mouth. She loved the way his fist tightened in her hair, his unspoken demands not harsh, necessarily, but as always, unapologetically firm. Ian relished in pleasure, and she’d come to adore giving it to him without reservation.