“Look at me.”
I stop squirming and flick my gaze his way, bracing myself for some speech about how he’s not capable of love and how this was never supposed to be an emotional arrangement.
And he would be correct.
It wasn’t supposed to be an emotional arrangement.
“I told you it’s not something you could give me,” I say. “Because that’s not something you can just do for someone. It has to happen naturally. And you may have given me everything I could possibly ever dream of, but that’s the one thing you can’t.”
We’re locked in a gaze, and I wish he’d say something.
“I’m okay with that,” I lie, wishing this conversation had never happened.
“Are you? Or are you just saying that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes,” he sits up, keeping me in his lap. “It does matter.”
I wait, straddling him and feeling his bulge between my legs. He should be tying me up now, flipping me over, and plunging inside me until we collapse. That’s what we do. That’s what he likes.
Dane says nothing as his fingers drag beneath the waistband of my panties as he sits up and presses his mouth onto mine. My eyes close, and I focus on the softness of his lips and the slow, gentle exchange. He slides my robe off my shoulders and unfastens my bra, taking his time. With his hands sliding down my bare back, he grabs my hips and slides me underneath him.
Our lips fuse even still. Soft, tender kisses I haven’t got the courage to question.
He reaches to his nightstand and clicks off the lamp before pulling the drawer. I assume he’s reaching for a toy or something, but instead, I heard the rustling of a foil packet in the dark. He pulls his engorged cock out in one fluid movement then sheaths himself before returning to cover me.
And that’s what he’s doing.
He’s covering me.
The cocoon between his arms feels safe, protective, and warm. My legs spread, widening for him as he readies himself at my entrance. He captures my bottom lip in his as he plunges inside me, releasing a soft groan that reverberates through his chest and onto mine. My hands slide up his back.
This is the first time I’ve ever actually touched him during sex. My hands are free, and he’s not scolding me. His skin is soft and smooth, and his muscles ripple beneath my palms as his entire body moves in rhythm with mine. Dane’s hands curl into fists, gripping the sheets behind my head as he pushes himself deeper inside me.
I gasp, digging my fingers into his back.
His lips leave my swollen mouth and travel to my neck, and I brace myself for bites that never come. Instead, he peppers soft kisses over every square inch until I’m covered in goose bumps. When he returns to my open, waiting mouth, his hands slide down my arms until he finds my fingers and interlaces his with mine, lifting them above my head.
I’m still safe in this cocoon, but he has my hands, pinning them as he kisses and makes love to me.
That’s what he’s doing.
He’s making love to me.
This feels like love-sex.
I could stay here forever like this, soaking in the heat of his body as it weighs me down. I’m not even concerned with coming right now. My body craves his closeness, that elusive connection with Dane that always felt as if it were within arm’s reach seconds before he’d yank it away.
For an entire hour, Dane makes love to me, and for an entire hour, nothing else matters.
We finish just as emotionally spent as we are physically, and he lingers inside me for a moment longer than usual before rolling off. He heads to the bathroom, and I turn over, covering with sheets and sinking into a pile of pillows as my body shakily recovers.
Dane returns a few minutes later and climbs under the blankets. I fully expect him to keep to the opposite side and be out like a light within seconds, but the warmth of his hand on my stomach sends me reeling. He pulls me into him, into his arms.
He doesn’t say a word.
I stir the next morning with my face flush against his chest, waking to the sound of his beating heart against my ear.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DANE
Bronson drives us to work Tuesday morning. I typically use this time to reflect, maybe answer a few emails, gather my thoughts, or admire the country landscape before it morphs into a sea of buildings.
But today I’m taking in a different view.
Bellamy glides her hand along her skirt, picking off a stray piece of fuzz. Her long legs are crossed, and she’s staring straight ahead. We haven’t spoken much this morning besides a few pleasantries at breakfast while I read the news on my iPad, and she chatted with her sister about which courses she would be taking come fall.
“I loved a woman once.”
Bellamy’s attention snaps in my direction.
“Only once.”
She angles herself toward me.
“She was my sub,” I say, squinting out the dark window at the cars we pass. “But then she became much more than that.”
Her hands fidget in her lap.
“The woman destroyed me. I played with fire, and I got burned. I promised myself I’d never do that again.” My hand slides into my pocket, covering the red Cartier box I tucked away that morning.
“If this is about last night…you don’t have to say anything…I know you just did that because–”
“Please. Let me continue.”
She buttons her full lips and nods.
“I’m a powerful man, and love is a powerful emotion. I don’t know that I’m quite ready yet to put myself out there or to throw around a word that makes people do crazy stupid things.” I slide the box out and set it across my lap. “The only thing I do know, is you do something to me, Bellamy. Even when I’m dominating you on the outside, I’m submitting to you on the inside. While I’m not quite sure what to make of that, I do know one thing.”
I place the box in her lap.
“I’m not ready to let you go yet. I’m not done with you yet.”
Bellamy cracks the box open and pulls out the golden Cartier bangle. I lift the matching golden screwdriver.
“This bracelet,” I say. “Symbolizes commitment. It sanctifies our inseparability.”
“Is it an item of ownership?” She examines the sparkling, bezel-set diamonds.
“This is different.” I twist the screwdriver in my fingers, the only device that can unlock that bracelet from her wrist as soon as it’s fastened. “This is separate from that.”
“Fine,” she says. “I’m not done with you yet either.”
She slips the bangle over her wrist and holds it out for me to secure. I twist the flat screw and tighten it, leaning over to steal a kiss the second I’m done.
We soar down the interstate in the back of my limo, and I take her hand in mine, eyeing the gold bracelet as the diamonds glint in the early morning light.
“I’ve never been in love before,” she says, breaking our peaceful silence. “And I’m not saying that I love you, Dane. But I think I very easily could fall in love with you...that is, if you let me.”
I squeeze her hand.
“So all I’m asking,” she continues, “is that you’re gentle with me.”
I press the top of her hand against my lips, the corners of my mouth lifting. “You have my word.”
EPILOGUE
BELLAMY
ONE YEAR LATER
Puerto Vallarta at night is vibrant.
Puerto Vallarta in the morning is serene.
Puerto Vallarta in the middle of the afternoon, on a sandy beach with ocean waves crashing behind a makeshift altar is breathtaking.
My gauzy ivory dress whips around my legs as I carry a bouquet of calla lilies down a sandy aisle scattered with pink rose petals.
Dane stands under the canopy, his hair soft and free from product as he dons an untucked white shirt and cuffed linen pants. I smirk imagining Beckham picking out his clothes and helping him get ready. I could easily get used to casual, relaxed Dane, but I’m sure I’d miss his buttoned-up counterpart. All I know is I’m madly in love with every faceted side of that man.