The Beau & The Belle

  “Lauren?”

  I straighten and smile. “Oh, no. I can’t stay. I’m going to call my parents. Sorry about dinner.”

  I’m turning and heading back out onto the street when he walks around me and catches my shoulders, pushing me backward. His hand covers my entire shoulder. His biceps are flexing. He’s stronger than the fireman—cuter too. I want to burrow into his house like a little mouse and stay forever, which is exactly why I should leave.

  “I really can’t stay.” I sound like the girl in that rapey Christmas song.

  He smiles. “Yes you can.”

  “I didn’t burn my apartment down on purpose, just to be clear.”

  The concept makes him laugh.

  “I didn’t peg you as a pyro.”

  “I’ll sleep in a guest room so I won’t bother you, or maybe I’ll just go back home later? I bet the smoke is gone now.”

  “Your apartment is unlivable. You can’t even breathe in there.”

  “I’ll wear one of those masks.”

  “Great, I’ll buy you one tomorrow. Right now, you’re coming inside. Step.”

  I pick my feet up so I don’t trip on his doorway. We’re inside his foyer and he gently kicks the door closed. His hands are still on my shoulders. It’s time to be honest.

  “I think it’s only fair that you should know I’m currently wearing lingerie, like really, really revealing lingerie. Earlier, it seemed appropriate. Now, it just feels sleazy.”

  The house is silent. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “You’re wearing lingerie?”

  I pull aside the top of my robe so he can see the edge of the bodice. His grip tightens on my shoulder and then he looks up like he’s praying for help. I follow his gaze and admire the intricate detailing on his ceiling. This place is amazing, and I’ve only seen a tiny bit of it.

  “Now that that’s out of the way, I’d like a tour please.”

  “Now?” His voice sounds hoarse.

  “Yes, starting with the laundry room so I can put my clothes in the wash.” I smile and step back, giving him a friendly pat on the chest.

  Instead, our tour starts at the wet bar where he pours himself two fingers of bourbon, downs it, and then fills his glass again. Apparently, I’m adept at driving a man to drink. From there, we step into the kitchen where he takes off his suit jacket and tosses it onto the back of a chair. He yanks off his tie and unbuttons the top of his dress shirt. I realize I’m watching him with my mouth open. Drool is about to dribble out onto my chin, so I turn away and ask about the butler’s pantry.

  With each room we tour, Beau’s patience wanes a little more. 10 minutes in, I’m forced to take matters into my own hands and the tour becomes self-guided. I walk around and Beau trails after me lazily, offering input only when I insist. There are double parlors and a huge courtyard in the back. Upstairs on the second floor, there’s a master suite with a marble bath, two walk-in closets, and a large sitting area. I walk through the room, looking anywhere but the bed. The walls are painted a light color right between beige and gray. It’s calm and soft. A paint researcher spent their entire career designing that exact color. The crown molding looks original, as does the brick fireplace. No TV—I like that. I finger the books he has on his nightstand: Poe short stories and the complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. Darkness and mystery. He asks if I’ve ever read them and I look up. Our eyes lock across his bed. Do not look down. DO NOT LOOK AT HIS BED.

  I turn and break out in a mild sprint.

  “Show me the third floor!”

  He responds with a muffled laugh, or it might have been a curse—I scurry away too quickly to hear properly.

  The third floor has two guest bedrooms that open out onto covered galleries with breathtaking views of Dauphine Street. There are en suite bathrooms and opulent furniture. One of the rooms is painted pale blue with white, fluffy bedding. An ornate gold mirror hangs over the headboard. The other room is dark green and romantic. I drop my bag in the blue room and turn to find Beau watching me in the doorway, brow arched.

  “I’ll sleep here. It’s perfect.”

  “Are you ready for dinner now? I can order something.”

  I tell him to order anything but lamb then continue asking about the house. I have him describe to me in great detail how he renovated it. My clothes get tossed into the washer and then I ask to be shown the A/C unit, the water heater’s control panel.

  “Where do you keep your mops?”

  I’m like a prisoner on the execution block, using my last words to filibuster my way out of certain death. If I keep talking, we won’t have to deal with the fact that we’re alone in his house. I won’t have to acknowledge the lace currently covering my boobs.

  “Can I have something to change into?” I ask after he closes the entrance to the attic.

  “No.”

  I think I heard him wrong. “No?”

  “No. You cannot change, and you cannot ask to see the attic again.”

  My stomach hits the floor.

  “Okay. Okay. So that means we’re…”

  He steps closer and starts to undo the double knot on my robe. My hands hang limp at my sides.

  “Lauren?”

  “Yes?”

  “Breathe.”

  WE’RE STANDING ON the third-floor landing. The hallway is dark and quiet. The carpet runner is soft beneath my feet, but I forget about the details as soon as Beau works the knot free. It doesn’t take him nearly long enough—I should have done some intricate, convoluted sailor’s knot. The two sides of the robe spread apart, and cold air hits my skin between the corset and my panties.

  This feels extreme. I feel like I’m a gift being unwrapped slowly. We need to be in a bedroom with the doors closed. I need it to be pitch black, and there should be music playing so I can’t hear every one of my pained breaths. His finger brushes across my bare collarbone and I sigh. It’s so embarrassing I want to clamp my hand over my mouth.

  “I’m smoky,” I protest. “I want a shower.”

  “After,” he says, his voice husky and raw.

  He’s on me, standing only a few inches away so when my robe parts a little more, his suit pants brush across my bare legs. I reach up and touch his chest. His skin burns me through his dress shirt.

  “Don’t,” he says, taking my wrists and forcing my hands back to my sides. “Let me touch you.”

  I fidget on my feet. I resist the urge to squirm. I’m not being tied down, but I might as well be. If he’s not going to let me touch him then I have nothing to distract me from his touch. His fingers skim my collarbone again and then he gently pushes the robe aside. The terrycloth drags across my hypersensitive skin, and my nipples press against the satin bodice.

  “Please hurry up,” I cry.

  He chuckles and bends down to drop a kiss right above his hand. “You think after all this time, I’m going to rush this?”

  Why wouldn’t he? Every other man I’ve slept with went straight to the main attraction. Foreplay consisted of a few grunts, a grope, and a squeeze. Nothing has prepared me for this.

  One hand stays on my waist, gripping me against him. The other does the exploring, dragging down and opening the robe even more. I’m covered in white terrycloth and then a breath later, the robe slips down my shoulders and Beau has a perfect view of my chest from my neck to my waist. I can’t look down. I can’t see what he’s seeing. His expression tells me everything I need to know.

  His hold on my waist tightens.

  He exhales slowly. “Fuck.”

  I squeeze my eyes closed and he presses a kiss to my cheek, another to the edge of my mouth. He tells me I’m beautiful, but I can’t process the words. I’m so close to saying mercy.

  He chuckles, and I realize I said it out loud.

  “You want to stop?” he asks, dropping a kiss to my chin then to the middle of my neck. He reaches the small dip at the top of my collarbone and adds a hint of tongue, and I didn’t know I could be kissed like that anywher
e but my mouth.

  My hands shake at my sides. I want to grip a fistful of his hair and hold him there against me.

  “Again,” I beg.

  Lips press against my heated skin and I feel feverish. I press onto my tiptoes and bring my chest closer to him. I’m an offering, a human sacrifice. Here, take it, all of it. It’s yours if you want it.

  There’s a method to his madness. The same attention to detail I spent on the tour of his house, he’s now spending on me. His hand blazes the way down my body and his lips follow behind. His hand traces along the top of my corset, and I think I’m starting to sweat. My panties are wet. He takes the lace between his teeth and I breath deep.

  Our food arrives. We both hear the doorbell ringing.

  The delivery man shouts through the door, “Leavin’ it on the doorstep if nobody answers!”

  We don’t say a word about it. They say the average human can go three days without water and three weeks without food. If Beau keeps doing what he’s doing, with the occasional trip to the tap, I figure I can last a month.

  But I’m done standing still. His hand drops to my chest and he rolls his palm across my nipple, hardening it even more. With a bloodthirsty groan, I jerk my hand up and dig my fingers into his hair.

  His mouth drops and his lips circle my breast. I’m being kissed through lace, and there’s never been a sensation so exquisite. I tell him so and he groans, dragging his tongue across my nipple. My hips are against his hips. Terrycloth and the fine wool of his pants separate us, but I still roll against the impressive hardness I feel there. It’s tit for tat, a hip roll for every kiss. I can tell I’m driving him wild too, but then my robe slips to the ground and I’m wearing what feels like nothing while he’s still in his suit pants and dress shirt.

  I push him off me and take two steps back.

  I drag in breaths like a boxer between rounds. I need to splash water on my face. I need a corner man to slap my cheek and tell me to keep my head in the game.

  His shirt sits askew on his chest. Random buttons have been pulled free. I see a smattering of dark hair and tan abs.

  “Take your shirt off.”

  He drags his hand across his lips and smiles. “A minute ago you wanted to see my attic.”

  His joke falls on deaf ears. I’m going to rip his clothes off him like a rabid animal if he doesn’t start to strip, and quick.

  I take another step back. It’s a taunt and he responds, lifting his hands to his shirt. One button is unfastened. Then another. His body is the stuff of legends—coiled muscle, lean lines. All that time he spends in the gym has really paid off. I’m going to send the owner a fruit basket in the morning.

  He yanks his arms out of the sleeves and the garment drops to the floor. I hate that we’re in a dim hallway now. I want to look at him under a magnifying glass surrounded by bright fluorescent lights.

  His hands touch his belt and I’m on him in three quick steps. My hands aren’t dexterous. I haven’t tugged a man’s belt free in years, maybe never, but he doesn’t reach down to take over. He grows harder as I finally succeed. His suit pants slip a little on his hips and there are two sharp lines forming a V, leading down, down, down.

  I fall to my knees.

  He tries to convince me to get back up.

  The soft carpet digs into my skin.

  “Lauren…”

  If he’s trying to convince me to stand up, he shouldn’t sound so damned turned on by the sight of me kneeling in front of him. I look up from beneath my lashes as I tug down his zipper.

  His jaw is locked tight. His eyes are searing into me. I smirk, and he exhales a shaky breath.

  I haven’t even touched him yet.

  I lean closer and press a chaste kiss to the base of his abs.

  I’ve never been into this. Blowjobs haven’t interested me in the past and I haven’t really had much practice, but it sort of feels innate. I have a soft, wet mouth and Beau has something he’d very much like to put inside of it. Easy peasy. I’ve never felt more in control in my life. I’m shorter than Beau, weaker, younger. He’s probably so used to stomping around life in perfect control—yet at this moment, I’m on my knees before him, resting on a throne.

  “I like this,” I tell him as my fingers skim past the elastic band of his briefs.

  I could tug his pants down and free him completely, but this feels sexier. I push my hand farther inside, grip his hard length in my hand, and lick my lips.

  His head tips back and his eyes flutter closed. I drag my hand back and forth along his hardness.

  I think he’s close to professing his love for me.

  “Beau?”

  He groans in response.

  “You can’t come if I do this to you. I want you to wait until later, when we’re…y’know.”

  He nods hungrily.

  I’m stroking him while I talk, and his hips buck against my hand. I think I could ask him to sign his house and business over to me and he’d do it, no questions asked.

  His hand is in my hair. He’s tugging me closer and I pull his briefs down just enough to kiss the very tip then part my lips and slide my tongue across him. He’s silky soft, big enough to fill my mouth and then some. I pull off him and then slide him back into my mouth. I do it once more, and I think I could find a delicious rhythm, but I’m being tugged up and off the floor. My mouth is still in a perfect O shape. Maybe it’s not as intuitive as I thought?

  “Not good?”

  He laughs and hauls me up over his shoulder. It’s the second time today that a man has carried me like a sack of potatoes. The progressive feminist in me is protesting, but not very loudly. His hand grips my ass as he carries me down the stairs. I’m swaying from side to side, my hands outstretched like I’m on an upside-down rollercoaster.

  “Too good,” he clarifies faintly.

  He couldn’t handle my mouth on him.

  My cheeks are flushed. “Oh. Oh.”

  Once we’re in his room, he drops me down onto his bed and I sit dutifully on the edge as he bends down in front of me. Now our roles are reversed. I like him on his knees; we’re the same height. Our lips are perfectly aligned. I lean forward and kiss him just like that, because I want to and there’s nothing stopping me. It’s our first kiss of the day, and it feels long overdue. My mouth and hands and tongue speak for themselves: Finally. Yes. I’ve waited so long for this. Minutes pass in a dreamlike state. We’re learning everything we need to know. He’s showing me the ropes. Tilt your head and open your lips. Yes, let me lick and bite and suck. His hands find the back of the bodice and I have no clue how I got myself into this thing, but he manages to get me out of it. It falls to my lap and his hands replace the silk. Hard, warm, calloused hands, rough as they drag across my sensitive skin. Every little nerve in his path is put on notice when his fingertip brushes across them. The neglected ones mount a protest. The only solution is to have him touching every part of me. I need him to push me back and press me down onto the bed, let me feel his full weight.

  I break our kiss and inhale. His eyes drop and he indulges in every bare inch of me—my modest breasts, my stomach, which is quivering and shaky no matter how hard I try to contain my body’s reaction to him.

  “It’s not polite to stare,” I tease, playfully pushing his shoulder.

  He catches my wrist and presses his mouth to my pulse before turning back and smiling. He looks devilish, cunning and dangerous with those bright eyes and tan skin. I think I used to dream about him like this when I was a teenager. I used to wonder what it would be like to have him stare at me just the way he is right now. How did we get here?

  “You have a freckle right here,” he says, skimming his hand along the top of my ribcage.

  I have to resist the urge to flutter my eyes closed.

  “I’ve had it since I was young.”

  “It’s not how I imagined.” My face must show my confusion because he shakes his head, his eyes filled with wonder. “You’re not how I imagined.” r />
  Disappointment doesn’t have time to grip hold of my mood because he’s pushing me farther up the bed and whispering into my ear, telling me I’m even better. He sounds hoarse with it, the longing. I feel it too, and I tell him as he lays me back against the pillows.

  “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  He drops down on his elbows and cages me in against the bed. His mouth drops to mine and my lips part. His weight pins my hips down and I’m so wet, it’s embarrassing. A soft breeze could push me over the edge of climax.

  I try to squeeze my thighs together but it only makes it worse. He rolls against me and I feel the first waves start to hit me. I clamp down against it, fighting it off. There is no way I’m coming so easily, so I change tactics.

  “I think you should take your pants off and put it in.”

  What a way with words I have.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “We’re not having sex.”

  I make a noise like I’m dying on a battlefield.

  No. No. No. He’s not doing this to me. I squirm underneath him. “Beau, yes we are. I am not leaving this bedroom until I’ve felt you inside me.”

  He chuckles and kisses my nose. He won’t give me room to get up. If I could, I’d roll over and sit on him like a cowgirl. I’d use every dirty position I researched over the last few weeks. Some of them would inevitably lead to a short stay in the hospital, but I think that’s a risk we’re willing to take.

  I brush my hips against his and he groans.

  It’s the only move I have at the moment, so I do it again. He retaliates by dropping more of his weight onto me. I’m squashed against the bed and it’s heaven.

  “If we have sex, you can’t freak out and pull away again. I’m not going back to shaking your hand.”

  I shake my head. “Of course I won’t!”

  “We kissed at my office and then you wouldn’t let me touch you for two weeks.”

  “That was different—the opposite. I’m ready now.”

  He narrows his eyes like he knows I’d say anything to convince him.

  “I think we should wait.”

  WAIT?

  “Until what, marriage? I feel you, Beau. You’re rock hard.” His hardness is pressing into my stomach and I’m having to use all my energy to keep my eyes from rolling into the back of my head. “You’re so close to slipping inside me and putting us both out of our misery.”