Beth Kery - Because We Belong

Christ. He hadn’t been expecting this; hadn’t read her unusual mood accurately. He wasn’t prepared.

She sealed her front to his and went up on her toes. She kissed him. Sweet. Addictive. Insistent. Desire didn’t hesitate, flooding into his blood, washing away his doubt . . . his anger . . . his pride. He should have walked away while he could, left to hunker down in solitude to silence that ache.

Once he tasted her, he knew he’d stay.

It was like keeping still in leaping flames, accepting what she gave him . . . knowing she saw his pain . . . letting her lick his wounds. He didn’t really consciously agree to it. It was just that he couldn’t move. He was paralyzed between pain and shame on one side, and rabid need on the other.

She moaned softly into his mouth, her taste permeating him. Arousal crumbled his last defense. He tightened his hold, spreading one hand on her lower back and the other on her hip and buttock. He bent down over her, forcing her back into a slight arch, grinding her against him.

She broke their kiss and pushed against him, straightening. He clutched her to him while she rained kisses on his jaw and neck. When she’d first pressed her lips to his, they’d been cool from the winter air. So quickly, she’d grown hot, feverish in her determination to give.

But he’d always struggled to take.

He felt her hands at the waist of his pants, unfastening them.

“Francesca,” he began hoarsely.

“Shhh,” she soothed, her fleet fingers working the buttons through the holes of his shirt, the anticipation tearing at him so much that he moved to help her. She ripped the last button free and whipped back both sides of his shirt. She pressed her face to him. He held her head against him, staring out the sunlit window, seeing nothing as her mouth moved over him, kissing, licking, biting gently. His skin roughened in pleasure. He tried to take her into his arms and lift her to the bed when she sucked and nibbled at a taut nipple. She resisted him, however, whispering “no” against his damp skin. He looked down at her in helpless arousal as she laved the sensitive flesh with the tip of a dark pink tongue. He delved his fingers into her hair and hissed her name.

As if in answer, she began kissing his ribs, her hands massaging his back muscles, scraping her nails down his spine until he shuddered. He groaned in agonized anticipation when she dropped to her knees before him. Christ. It’d been so long for him, he didn’t think he could stand the buildup to bliss. He couldn’t understand in that moment how he’d ever lived without it.

She released his cock and jerked down his clothing beneath it. Her cool fingers gripping his swollen flesh made him wonder if steam would rise off him, he was so overheated. She held him naked in her hand, his underwear bunched around his balls, stroking his length firmly, no shyness or reluctance, her motions sure and firm, even a little rough . . . just like a man liked it.

Just like he liked it. Just like he’d taught her.

She bathed the head almost delicately with her tongue while she jacked the stalk vigorously. She looked up and met his stare as she arrowed him between her lips. He inhaled sharply as she sucked, and his cock slid along her warm tongue. He read the message in her eyes and it made him want to shout. Weep. Punish her for making him feel so much. Come in Francesca’s sweet mouth and never stop. He furrowed his fingers into her hair and pulsed into the heaven of her, opting for the latter choice.

Sex was the way he’d learned best to demonstrate his feelings. He was just a man, after all. Still, wonder spiced his arousal. From where had this loving come on her part? This generosity? He couldn’t understand it. All he could do was drown in it.

He never blinked as he looked down at her, eating up her image even as she consumed him. His girth stretched her lips wide. Her cheeks hollowed out as she treated him to that strong, singular suck that used to keep him awake at night in recollection. His cock popped out of her mouth when she leaned back extra forcefully. She slapped the bobbing stalk playfully, gave him an eye-crossing stroke from balls to tip with her fist, and then reinserted him into her mouth. She dragged her teeth back and forth over the sensitive head gently before she firmed her lips, ducked her head, and sucked him deep.

He groaned and tightened his fingers against her scalp, clamping his eyelids shut. The image of her was too arousing. He flexed his hips, his taut movements matching hers. Still, he was careful not to be too demanding. She hadn’t done this in a while. Neither had he, and he wanted to stretch the exquisite moment . . . hang on.

He’d always known how free she was with her love, how unselfish, but today, at that moment, the truth cut at the heart of him. The pleasure sliced just as deep. What right did he have to always take what she offered so innocently, so wholly?

He stilled his flexing hips, restraining himself, but she grabbed a buttock with her free hand. She pushed, and he opened his eyes. She ducked her head, swallowing his cock, jerking slightly as the tip squeezed into her throat. Her nostrils flared. She moved her head back, pulling at him so strongly he gritted his teeth.

She pleaded with her eyes.

His groan felt like it ripped at his throat. He held her head in his hands, his thumbs bracketing the tops of her jaw, and thrust, taking what she offered so sweetly. If she gave, did that mean he deserved? He didn’t know. He didn’t care, he was being flayed alive by her mouth, by her love. Time stretched as he stared down at her, rapt, and she made love to him with fierce precision.

It was too fucking sweet.

He thrust deep and erupted, almost immediately jerking his body back in order to free her throat, ejaculating on her tongue. He held her to him, fucking her tight, wet mouth with his convulsing cock, giving her his seed and whatever else had been ripped loose from inside his spirit.

His body tightened in one last blast of searing pleasure.

He sagged, staggering slightly, and quickly righting himself, lest his cock impale her. He slid out of her mouth during his dazed fumbling. She grabbed his hips. A ragged laugh left his raw throat.

“What?” she asked, confusion and the beginning of a smile starting on her slick, swollen mouth. He’d left a white drop of semen on her bottom lip when he’d stumbled. Her beauty seemed to flash like a bright headlight on his already disoriented brain, stunning him.

“You actually act like you could steady me,” he said, referring to their disparate size and weight.

She kissed the tip of his glistening cock. He groaned roughly at the erotic vision she made.

“I can steady you,” she said, holding his stare. His smile faded. She rose before him, took his hand and led him over to the bed.

“We never even took off our coats,” Ian said wryly under his breath as he helped her remove her T-shirt a moment later. He didn’t know how she’d done it: given him the most intimate, heart-wrenching, balls-emptying experience of his life while they were almost both completely dressed and wearing winter coats. They sat at the edge of the mattress, Ian in only his unbuttoned pants, Francesca almost nude, their coats and discarded garments forming a pile at the bottom of the bed. He pulled the T-shirt over her head, and she seemed to notice his furrowed brows.

“What is it?” she asked

“Why?”

“Why what?” she wondered, pushing his shirt off his shoulders and pausing to sink her fingers into the muscle, rubbing until he closed his eyes in pleasure. It’s one of the many things he loved about her. She was such an innate sensualist, always curious to experience, touch . . . taste. Yet another reason it was such a blessedly good thing that they both enjoyed it when she was restrained during sex. Her touch tended to erase all of his typical control.

“Why aren’t you angry anymore?” he asked gruffly, taking the caressing hand in his own and kissing the palm.

She gave him a fleeting glance as he worked the shirt off his arms.

“I don’t know,” she said, grasping behind her on the bed. She stood and slipped the black cashmere overcoat that he’d once bought her over her nakedness. He didn’t like it. Her naked body was a blessing to his eyes—curving, firm, exquisitely feminine, the very shape and form of his dreams. He looked forward to laying her on that bed and returning all the pleasure she’d just given him in spades. He caught her hand, scowling. She’d better not be planning on running off again—

“That’s not an answer, Francesca.”

She sighed, seeming to genuinely struggle to explain herself. “I meant it, I don’t know why I feel different. For all I know, I will be angry at you again sometime soon for leaving the way you did. But something . . . happened.”

“What happened?” he demanded, still holding her hand.

“I talked to your grandmother and she . . .”

“What?” he asked. He pulled her into his lap, disliking her distance. He opened the coat impatiently, exposing her naked breasts, belly, and thighs to his gaze, an admittedly cavemanlike gesture to demonstrate her availability to him . . . a probably useless but stark reminder of their intimacy. His love for her swelled when he saw her small smile. She really did understand him shockingly well. He opened his hand at the side of her jaw and tilted her face toward his in a silent prompt to continue.

“She seems to understand you better than I do,” she said, perhaps a little regretfully, her fragrant breath softly fanning his face.