Chapter 5 - Belle
The moment the door clicks shut behind Richard, I collapse back against the pillows and finally, finally, let myself breathe.
Holy shit.
My heart is racing, pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, between my legs, everywhere. My skin feels too tight, too hot, like I'm burning up from the inside out.
Is he blind? Is Richard Kane actually blind, or is he just being polite?
Because there's no way he didn't notice what he was doing to me.
The way I couldn't quite catch my breath.
The way I kept shifting position, pressing my thighs together, trying desperately to ease the ache that's been building since he walked through that door in nothing but pajama pants and a t-shirt.
God, that t-shirt. Worn soft, clinging to his chest and shoulders, riding up slightly when he moved to reveal a strip of toned stomach that a forty-five-year-old man has no business having.
I press my hands to my burning cheeks and resist the urge to scream into a pillow.
This is wrong. So incredibly wrong. Richard is Nathan's father. My ex-almost-father-in-law. A man old enough to be my—no, actually, he's not old enough to be my father, but he's close. Nineteen years older than me. Successful, sophisticated, completely out of my league in every possible way.
And yet here I am, soaked through my underwear, throbbing with need, because he sat in that chair and talked to me like I mattered. Like my thoughts were interesting. Like I was worth staying up until four in the morning for.
I shift slightly and immediately feel how wet I am. Not just damp, but soaked. The fabric of my underwear is clinging to me, probably leaving a wet spot on these expensive sheets that I'll have to somehow explain or hide.
Please God, let him not have noticed.
Although the way he kept that leg crossed, the way he positioned himself in that chair... No. I'm imagining things. Reading into nothing because I'm desperate and touch-starved and haven't felt safe around a man in two years.
Except Richard isn't just any man. He's never been just any man.
I've been half in love with him since that first dinner, when he asked me about my art history classes and actually listened to the answer. When he looked at Nathan with disapproval and at me with something that felt like understanding.
But it's more than that now. More than a crush or infatuation or whatever I've been calling it to make myself feel less guilty. It's deeper, darker, wrapped up in two years of stolen glances and forbidden thoughts and nights spent imagining what it would be like if Richard had met me first.
I should sleep. Need to sleep. My body is exhausted, wrung out from the emotional rollercoaster of running away and traveling here and having a nightmare and—
But I can't. Not like this, wound tight with arousal and need and two years of repressed desire.
My hand moves down my body almost of its own accord, slipping under the waistband of my leggings. I should stop. Should be better than this, should wait until tomorrow when I'm thinking clearly and not half-drunk on Richard Kane's proximity.
But my fingers find the soaked fabric of my underwear and I gasp at the contact, at how sensitive I am. How ready.
I pull the fabric aside and touch myself directly, finding my clit swollen and aching. The first stroke makes my hips jerk off the bed, pleasure so sharp it almost hurts.
Fuck.
When was the last time I did this? Months. At least six months, maybe longer. Nathan didn't like me touching myself, said it was a waste when I should be saving all that energy for him.
Not that he wanted it. Not from me, anyway.
*You barely move,* he'd said once, annoyed, after thirty seconds of perfunctory thrusting. *Like fucking a dead fish. No wonder I'd rather go elsewhere.*
And he did. Fucked other girls: thinner, prettier, more enthusiastic girls, and came home to me when he needed someone to control. Someone to hurt when the rest of his life felt out of control.
I push the thoughts away and focus on my body, on the pleasure building as I circle my clit with increasing pressure. My other hand moves up to palm my breast through the sweater, finding my nipple already hard.
I imagine it's Richard's hand. Richard touching me, those long fingers that probably know exactly what to do, exactly how to make a woman fall apart. Richard's mouth on my skin, his body covering mine, his voice low and rough in my ear saying—
*"You're safe here, Belle."*
*"I could never turn you away."*
*"There's nowhere else I'd rather be."*
I slip two fingers inside myself, easy because of how wet I am, and moan into the quiet room. I'm so empty, have been empty for so long. Nathan stopped touching me months ago, said he couldn't get hard for a fat girl who just laid there like a corpse.
But Richard… God, Richard wouldn't say that. Richard looks at my curves like he wants to worship them, like he sees beauty instead of something to criticize. I've caught him looking when he thought I wasn't paying attention, his dark eyes traveling down my body.
I fuck myself with my fingers, faster now, thumb working my clit while my other hand squeezes my breast roughly. It feels good, so good, but it's not enough. My fingers aren't long enough, thick enough. I need more, need to be filled properly, need—
I need Richard Kane inside me.
The thought rushes through my mind, and I moan louder. I picture him in this room, in this bed, that perfect control finally snapping. Richard covering my body with his, pinning me down with his weight, his cock… It probably matches the rest of him, impressive and overwhelming, pushing inside me.
Would he be gentle? Patient? Or would that composure shatter and reveal something rougher underneath?
I want both. Want him to take his time exploring my body, learning what makes me gasp and moan. But I also want him wild, desperate, fucking me hard enough to make me forget Nathan ever touched me.
My fingers move faster, my hips rocking against my hand as the pleasure builds. I imagine Richard's voice in my ear, telling me I'm beautiful, that I'm perfect, that he's wanted this for so long. Imagine him groaning my name when he comes, filling me up, marking me as his instead of Nathan's.
The orgasm hits suddenly, crashing over me in waves that make my whole body arch off the bed. I bite down on my free hand to muffle the sounds, to keep from screaming Richard's name loud enough for the whole house to hear.
It goes on forever, pleasure rolling through me until I'm shaking, gasping, completely wrecked. When it finally subsides, I collapse back against the pillows, my fingers still inside myself, my heart racing.
Holy shit.
That was... I haven't come like that in years. Maybe ever. Nathan never made me feel like that, even in the beginning when things were good, before the abuse started, he was mediocre at best.
But just the thought of Richard, the fantasy of him, made me come harder than I ever have. I slowly pull my fingers free and wipe them on the sheets. They're already soaked anyway, might as well own it. My body feels heavy, satisfied, the constant ache finally eased for the moment.
But the guilt hits immediately. I just masturbated thinking about Richard. Nathan's father. The man who's giving me sanctuary, who stayed up half the night making sure I was okay, who deserves so much better than being the subject of my desperate fantasies.
Except... is it just me? The way he looked at me sometimes, the distance he maintained, the way his voice got rough when he said certain things. Could he possibly—
No. I'm being delusional. Richard Kane could have any woman he wants: sophisticated, successful, age-appropriate women who haven't just escaped abusive relationships and shown up on his doorstep like desperate strays.
He's being kind. Protective. Nothing more.
I need to remember that.
I curl onto my side and pull the blanket up to my chin, my body finally relaxed enough for sleep. Tomorrow I'll figure out next steps like lawyers, money, finding somewhere permanent to live. Tomorrow, I'll be practical and sensible and stop having inappropriate thoughts about my benefactor.
Tonight, I'll let myself have this. The memory of Richard's voice, the fantasy of his touch, the orgasm that's left me boneless and satisfied for the first time in forever.
Tomorrow I'll be better.
I fall asleep within minutes, and for the first time in eighteen months, I don't have nightmares.
Next Day
I wake to sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the disorienting sensation of not knowing where I am. Then it all comes rushing back—the wedding, the escape, Richard's fortress, our middle-of-the-night conversation.
The orgasm I gave myself while thinking about him.
My face heats immediately, and I bury it in the pillow with a groan. What the hell was I thinking? Actually, I know exactly what I was thinking, which is the problem.
I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom, needing a shower to wash away the evidence of last night's activities.
The marble bathroom is bigger than my childhood bedroom, all gleaming surfaces and expensive fixtures.
There are fresh towels on the rack, toiletries lined up on the counter, all from high-end brands I recognize from magazine advertisements.
This is Richard's world. Money and luxury and everything I've never had and never will.
The shower is incredible: multiple heads, perfect water pressure, temperature that stays exactly where I set it. I stand under the spray for longer than necessary, trying to figure out my next move.
I can't stay here forever. Richard said no timeline, but that's just him being generous. I need to get my own life together, become independent, stop being a burden on the man who's already done more than enough.
But first, I need to find him. Thank him properly for last night, for everything. Maybe discuss logistics, next steps, all the practical things we didn't cover at four in the morning.