Port in the Storm
The storm blew in just as she had given up and was walking home. Lashing wind made the trees groan and sway, cold driving rain dripped from snapping branches. Thunder growled and the infrequent flashes of lightning lit the forest in sharp, blinding relief for half a second. The clean scents of pine resin and rain mingled with dense earthy loam underfoot and the tang of ozone from the lightning. Together, it stirred a faint recognition deep within. Where had she . . . Izzy shivered, her coat entirely inadequate for a Maine thunderstorm at night. All this fresh air was going to her head. She was passionately grateful for her flashlight, its bubble of gold light just barely illuminating the sketchy path. Despite the gloves, her fingers were numb, her nose red and dripping, her mane of chestnut brown hair plastered to her skull.
A branch snapped behind her.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. Sheriff Swan had said something about wolves, and Izzy didn't relish the idea of tangling with either the four-legged or two-legged variety.
"Who's there?" she said, breath misting. Her voice sounded weak and small in her own ears. Sometimes she wished she was braver. Silence save for the rain and the keening wind.
If Izzy's pace was quicker, then it was just because of the cold. Of course it was. If by the time she rounded the next bend she was nearly running, it was because she only wanted to warm up a bit and get out of this damn inconvenient rain. The light of her flashlight bobbed crazily in time with her stride and Izzy was moving too fast to see the tree root. Her thrift store boot caught and the ground rushed up to meet her. The flashlight skittered from her grasp as she flung her hands out to catch herself. Mud squelched between her fingers, cold wetness seeping through her leggings. A wet plop arrested her attention. Izzy looked up in time to see her friendly bubble of light sputter out as her flashlight disappeared into the depths of a pond.
"Oh great," she said, teeth beginning to chatter. As she found her feet, Izzy peered through the darkness. The tranquil surface of the pond was pockmarked by the battering rain. Wind created erratic ripples, twisting the sheets of rain into living curtains. If she hadn't been so cold, she would have found the sight a pretty one. Squinting through the rain, Izzy made out the shape of a cabin on the far side of the pond. Her path abruptly ended at the pond's edge, so she'd have to bushwhack. She heaved a sigh, shoving a couple bedraggled curls behind her ear. At least she'd be warm soon.
An arm shot out, catching her about the waist. Izzy's yelp of surprise was quickly smothered by a black gloved hand. Blind instinctive panic nearly made her stomp on her assailant's foot and twist free until a rough, Scottish voice growled warm in her ear: "Lost are we, Miss French?" If she melted back against him, it was only because he was so warm, of course. The taste of leather and the faint waft of his spicy, smoky cologne sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold. The hand over her mouth curled under her chin, dragging sinuously down her throat.
"Not lost, it was the storm and I dropped my flashlight." Her voice emerged an octave lower than she wanted it to. One damn touch and already she wanted . . . oh how she wanted. The bastard would choose to meet her at midnight in the middle of the woods during a fucking thunderstorm.
"Let's get you out of the cold, dearie," he purred.
"You've got a deal," Izzy said, unable to stifle her giddy giggle. With the air of a conjuror, Gold peeled back a layer of brush to reveal a path around the pond. His grin revealed the glint of his gold tooth. Smug bastard.
They walked in silence toward the cabin, sweet sharp anticipation drawing out like a knife between them. When Dad's debts began to mount, it had seemed like a good idea to go to Gold and offer to work off part of the debt. Quiet companionship punctuated with tea breaks, trading quips, and the halting confessions of dreams, fears and loves, and here she was—fucking the town's most feared man. Gold was a mystery to be uncovered and utterly bewitching to her curious nature.
A deft twist of a key had the cabin's door swinging open. The interior was lit only by a roaring fire, washing the narrow camp bed in gold and red. Its warmth immediately began to thaw her numbed extremities. Boxes lined the walls, marked with Gold's looping scrawl. It wasn't a love nest by any stretch; the place wasn't even wired with electricity. Its pluses were privacy and a certain rustic ambiance that appealed to her, something that couldn't be found in a town of nosy mayors and suspicious sheriffs. Izzy eagerly peeled off her sodden coat, gloves and useless boots, tossing them atop a nearby box. The door locked with a heavy metal click that once had made her intensely uncomfortable. But that was before his warm arms slid around her waist, his nose nuzzling her hair.
"What are you going to do to me?" she croaked. Gold's chuckle was something that conjured thoughts of dark chocolate and the rub of fur on naked skin.
"You see here's the thing, Miss French, I don't normally let people get away." His voice was low and intimate, especially interspersed with those damn nibbling, barely-there kisses on her neck. Izzy couldn't quite decipher the meaning of the words. Was it a warning? Had there been others before her? She didn't like that thought at all. Twisting in his embrace, Izzy boldly smoothed her hands up over his shoulders, stripping away overcoat and suit coat at once.
"I'm not going anywhere," she said. Gold tilted his head, eyeing her with something like a sneer. But she felt no mockery in it, only a guarded sort of admiration for her audacity.
"Give it time, Miss French," he said, peeling off his gloves and tilting her chin up to capture her mouth in a kiss. An assault, more like. An assault of ravenous lips, a clever, wicked tongue, sharp glittering teeth. Damn twisted bastard, declaring she'd leave him before kissing her like the world was ending. It was no bloody wonder she was madly in love with the man. Her deepest, most treasured secret.
"Izzy," she corrected as she always did, when he at last let her breathe. The word seemed to hurt him, his dark, endless eyes closing briefly. She hated that look, that sadness that settled over him sometimes, when he looked at her so expectantly after a kiss. Izzy hated disappointing him, however unknowingly.
"Anthony," she fed his name to him along with her lips, offering soft, sipping kisses as her fingers flew down the buttons of his shirt.
Months of their twisted little arrangement had made her a deft hand at undressing him. She liked keeping the tie, the black one patterned with red circles—one of her favorites. It made it easy to drag him where she wanted him, like back toward the bed. Thin lips that so easily formed words of disdain now mapped sweet paths down her throat, sharp teeth nipping at the muscle joining neck and shoulder. Izzy whimpered, sitting down hard on the cot, dragging him with her. Cool air curled up her belly and around her breasts. The man was a magician with a woman's clothes; he'd already unbuttoned her shirt and unclasped the front clasp of her bra.
Izzy unknotted her hand from his damp hair, releasing her grip on the tie to shuck off shirt and bra. The air was still cool enough to tighten her nipples to hard, aching points. Or that could be the way he stared, like he was going to devour her alive. His dark, shuttered gaze, his hard inscrutable face that hid such a well of passion . . . God, she loved him. Gold eased down to the floor between her legs, wincing as the hard wood hurt his bad knee. An impish grin curled on his lips and breathed a kiss on her legging-clad knee, just above the wet, muddy patch where she'd fallen.
"Poor clumsy love," he crooned. Izzy glared at him mutinously, nevermind how her heart melted at the endearment or how her hips rose to aid the nimble fingers divesting her of skirt, leggings and underwear.
"Clumsiness had nothing to do with it. I blame shoddy flashlight craftsmanship." The warm breath exhaled from his chuckle against her now-naked thigh made her shiver.
"We'll sue the bastards for all they're worth," Gold assured her, the blue stone of his ring glinting in captured firelight.
"Oh good . . . good," she said breathlessly, bracing her weight on her hands as Gold dusted her thighs with moist, sweet kisses, moving up to—
"Fuck," she rasped as his tongue curled around her clit.
"Hmm? Mmm," he rumbled, that wicked, wonderful tongue lapping, licking, swirling . . . Her climax was sudden, clenching blast of white heat. She came back to herself slowly, hearing the fire crackle and the faint drum of rain on the roof. Gold sank back on his heels, looking very pleased with himself. Smug bastard. Izzy yanked on his tie, hauling him close to lick her juices off his glistening face.
"Anthony," she crooned, writhing and twisting until she straddled his naked belly, rocking her wetness against his skin. Oh, the fire burnished his skin to bronze, and she bent to nuzzle his rumpled hair, to nibble on his neck, to suck on those sweet little nipples. She wasn't sure if she loved or hated the look on his face whenever she applied her frantic enthusiasm to his exceptionally sexy body. He looked . . . astonished. Completely taken aback that anyone would want to even touch him. It was either very sweet or heartbreaking. Izzy thought both.
"Belle," he groaned, hard hands gripping her hips. Izzy grinned, foolishly happy with that special nickname. No one else in the world called her by the latter half of her name, but when he said it instead of his usual formal 'Miss French,' it sounded so right.
"It's ok, baby. I'll take care of you," she promised. He was still wearing his shoes, so she stripped off each shoe and black sock, admiring how cute his feet were. She then made quick work of his belt, pants and boxers to free his poor imprisoned cock. Mmm, he stood hard and thick, fluid oozing from the head. Going down on her turned him on. She considered just sliding down on him as she sometimes rode him in the back room of his shop. No, she thought, beds were for more than quick, dirty fucking. If she really wanted him to make love to her instead of just fuck, then she wasn't saying so. Tugging at his shoulders, Izzy rolled under him, the silk of the tie trailing across her heaving chest. Gold sat back, discarding the tie with a terse yank.
"Belle," he breathed her name against her mouth, slowing their pace to a grinding halt as he began his seduction anew. His hands cupped her head like it was something precious, eyes studying her face as if trying to commit it to memory. Every inch of skin was pressed together. Izzy restlessly arched her hips, eager to take him inside her. One hand dipped low, teasing her clit before guiding himself into place. A gentle thrust of his hips eased him in and Izzy felt like she could faint. It felt so good. He felt so good. He felt and looked and sounded and smelled and tasted divine to her.
"Belle," he gasped, dark eyes fluttering closed.
"Anthony," Izzy whispered as he began to move. She never wanted this to end. There had to be a way to hold onto this memory: the blinding pleasure as he thrust deep and hit that sweet spot that only belonged to him, the way the fire gilded her Mr. Gold in so many shades of his namesake, the taste of salt when he kissed her.
"Come for me, love. Come . . . oh come!" he urged her, the obscene slap of their flesh meeting punctuating his words. Pleasure stretched her muscles taut, cramped in her belly and she was screaming and sobbing and howling as the world turned inward and exploded in a pulsating sunburst. Above her, he groaned like she was ripping out his heart and felt the pulse of warmth inside her as he came.
In the damp, sweaty aftermath, Izzy peppered his face with tiny, adoring kisses. His heart pounded against hers; she felt like they could be one person, lying like this, sharing breath and heat and sweat.
"Oh Belle, oh sweetheart," Gold crooned, nuzzling her throat and nipping fondly at the love bite he'd given her in his shop last week. The words waited on her tongue, sweet and cloying, almost poison. Izzy knew she couldn't say it. Here she was 'love' and 'sweetheart' and the most precious 'Belle,' but everywhere else she was only 'Miss French,' said with the same stiff, distant courtesy he gave everyone else. Saying it would ruin it, and she was weak and small enough to take whatever piece of him she could get.
Sometimes she wished she was braver.
A/N: Angsty smut, my favorite. My first venture into CursedBelle. What do we think?