On Fire

Chapter 15

Belle and Rumple are speaking but things are still formal between them. Belle is beginning to realize she has feelings for the man and her best friend has counseled her to act on them (life is short). Rumple inadvertently interrupts Girls Night Out and is gracious and pleasant, inexplicably making Belle feel jealous (and she realizes that she does have feelings and doesn't want to share him). He asks her to model for him and she agrees. She finds the experience an erotic, arousing one. After working through the night, he shows her what he has done and she is stunned by the ethereal quality of his work. He kisses her in a moment of jubilance and then . . .

"Miss French," he said and he slowly placed his hand on her cheek, "I'd like to kiss you again."

"All right," she answered him breathlessly. Kissing sounded like a good idea.

This time he put both of his hands on her face, tilting her chin up so that he could drop his lips onto hers. This time the kiss was slower and more, much more, persistent, his lips hard against her soft ones. This time, she was caught up in the heated exchange and opened her mouth to his. This time, she surrendered herself to him. Belle reached up to put her hands on his arms to steady herself, clenching her fingers onto the smooth material of his shirt. She stood on her toes to make better contact with the man, leaning into him.

It was Rumple who finally broke off the kiss. Belle made a small sound of protest and rested her head on his chest.

"I think . . . I think, I need to send you off to your own bedroom," he told her slowly. "As tempting as you are, I don't think we need to go any further."

"No?" she asked him, relishing the solid comfort he was providing her as she absorbed the warmth of his body into her own.

"You're very tired and I'm very focused on my painting. If I'm going to seduce you, I need to do it in the light of day when you're completely alert and I'm not giddy with inspiration."

"Really?" she sounded disappointed.

He had to chuckle. "Really," he confirmed. "Come along now," and he resolutely turned her around and ushered out of the studio and along the hall to her bedroom. He shoved her inside and shut the door after her.

He took a couple of deep breaths in the hallway. Having an affair with one's model, while the publicly assumed norm, was not one that had ever worked out well for him. He really wanted this one to go right, he wanted her to be sure, not drunk, not over-tired, not desperate, but really, really sure that she wanted him.

Posing

The days began to blur together. She posed for him five or more hours a day, often into the night. She continued to try to do her usual cleaning chores, keep his calendar, cook for him, and everything else she had been doing for the man, but quickly the demands of posing for him, especially when he wanted to go off site, out into the city, off into the mountains, began to drain her.

This had been going on for days. He seemed to be on fire, the work he was producing was amazing, even to her untrained eye. He was creating piece after piece of the most incredible artwork, works of genius, works for the ages.

She was sitting in his studio, getting ready to pose when she began to unbutton her cream colored sleeveless over-dress. She was wearing several layers of petticoats, mauve and brown under the over-dress, everything worn over a white lacy under-slip.

He stopped and watched. She was revealing more skin than she typically was comfortable sharing. At the moment, when he could capture the shadow of her cleavage, she stopped and remained still. She looked like a woman who was just beginning to disrobe for her lover.

He captured it all.

And the next day she slipped off her green overdress with a tiny flowered print so that all she was wearing was a beige slip dress. It was thin material and lovely details of her body were visible through the delicate material. Under his scrutiny, his steady, intense inspection, she had responded, unwittingly, without initial awareness, her body had responded, her nipples growing hard and engorging, standing out, straining against the sheer cotton fabric of her slip. Her eyes had begun to shine and, if he had been so confident as to check, she had dampened the cotton panties she wore.

Posing for the man had become a sexual experience. Without being touched, she was touched. Without being caressed, she was caressed. His glance was palpable - his gaze, like the touch of his hand. His close vision, examining her as he painted her, was as if his arms were wrapped around her.

This painting was more sensual than any other he had yet to produce – her state of arousal apparent – she appeared to be a woman waiting for her man, waiting, anticipating.

And then, the next day, Belle slowly removed her slip for him.

For the first time, since she had begun posing for him, he went over to her. "Here," he told her and he covered his couch with a creamy velvet throw. He placed her on it, laying her down on the soft cover. He fussed with her hair, spreading it out away from her head and then he pulled her arm up so that it went above her head as she lay back on the curved sofa.

She couldn't quite meet his eyes. However had Miss Deville managed this? She lay still enjoying the slow sense of having a man make love to her, but all the while being untouched.

"This is going to take a bit longer," he told her after an hour. "The skin tones become very critical."

Belle didn't answer. She hadn't quite reached the state of total nudity, but she was rapidly capitulating, about to give in to the allure of having the man paint her in the altogether.

He came over to the couch where she was lying. "Here," he handed her some water.

Belle discreetly pulled the velvet throw up to cover herself.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever painted, you know that," he remarked sipping from his own glass.

She shook her head.

"It's an amazing experience," she admitted. "I feel like you're touching me when you're painting me."

He tilted his head while he considered this, "Does it?" he asked.

She nodded and dropped her eyes.

"When I paint a woman, I feel like I'm making love to her. I dwell on each part of her body, like an attentive lover might."

He was sitting close to her and very, very gently, he leaned in. She raised her face to him and there was a kiss, a soft, quiet kiss. His hands went to her shoulders and he pressed her down onto the sofa where she had been reclining. Her own hands went around him and she welcomed him into her embrace. And they were still kissing.

"Belle," he whispered.

"Yes," she managed to answer.

"I don't know that we should go any further," he was still kissing her, dropping his mouth to her neck and shoulders.

"No," she whispered breathlessly. "We probably shouldn't," she agreed. She was kissing him back, her lips pressed to the hollow of his neck, her fingers unfastening the buttons of his linen shirt. He shrugged out of his shirt and pressed her completely flat onto the sofa. He began kissing down her body, slowly pulling the cover from her, revealing her pert little body.

Belle was wearing only her panties and when she felt his hands tugging on these, she lifted her body to allow him to remove them. She was frantically trying to unfasten the tie on the loose linen pants that he was wearing, but the darn thing had knotted and she wasn't able to finish undressing the man. He stopped his administrations and forcefully tugged on the knot, breaking the cording and dropping his pants. Belle immediately reached for him, clasping his hardness through his boxers, rubbing her palm against him and finally wrapping her fingers around him. She relished being able to touch him, feeling his strength, his hardness – all for her.

She was very satisfied when she heard him moan.

"Oh lord, Belle. I can't take much from you right now."

"Please," she asked him but he wasn't quite sure what she was asking for. "You, I want you . . . now . . . inside me, please."

Now he knew what she wanted he wanted it too. He dropped his boxers and stopped suddenly. "A condom. I need a condom." He reached back to his pants lying on the floor. No pockets, no condoms. "Don't go away," he told her and made his way quickly, using the furniture as supports, over to one of the chests of drawers that were in the room. He began to frantically open drawers. Papers came frothing up as he desperately searched for a little foil packet. Finally, he opened one drawer and, in a corner, he located what he was searching for. He grabbed a handful and sprang back over to the lounger. He took a couple of deep breaths.

He put his hands on her face and kissed her gently on the mouth. "Belle," he traced his finger over her mouth, "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure," she told him.

"Then . . ." he stopped holding her face in his hands. "You should know . . . and you don't have to say anything back to me . . . you should know . . . I'd prefer you not say anything at the moment . . . ." He stopped. "I'm in love with you. My feelings for you are different than I've ever felt, but I know what they are. I love you."

"Oh, Rumple," she told him, stunned.

"I'm so glad you're ready. I'm very ready," he said in a rush. He pushed her down onto the lounger and positioned himself on top of her. Then he stopped. "Wait, I should probably do more foreplay."

Belle nearly laughed. "I think we've been doing foreplay for several weeks, maybe months, now. I'm quite ready," she reassured him.

"Oh good," he dropped a hand and made sure he was lined up and then slowly began to push into her. She was wet and soft and snug and he was afraid he would black out before he got the job finished. She wiggled trying to make herself comfortable.

"You have done this before, right?" he asked, suddenly aware that the fit was very tight and concern bubbling up that he was, that he might be, he could possibly be her first.

"Uh huh, but it never went very well," she told him. "It was over too quickly and it kinda hurt. You feel good though. Please, keep going," she asked nicely.

He bit his lip and braced himself. He was not going to survive this. It was taking some effort not to just drive into her. She was so inviting and hot and there were moments when he wasn't sure he would fit. He did manage to keep thrusting, to keep pushing and there was an ecstatic moment that he realized he was full hilt in.

And Belle was writhing and he heard her call out his name and felt her tremble and shake and her deep inner muscles began to massage him and he couldn't take anymore and this time it was his turn and he shouted her name as he emptied himself.

They clung to each other, both breathing heavily. Both had shut their eyes and were just now starting to blink them open slowly.

"That was incredible," Belle whispered.

"But it didn't last very long," he groused. "I usually have a little more control."

She was smiling at him. "It was still the best I've ever had."

Well, that made him feel better. Then another thought occurred to him, "You aren't just saying that to make the old guy feel better, are you?" he asked.

Belle's open face registered that she realized that he thought she might be leading him on. "Of course not!" she protested. "I told you that it had never been very good for me. I've never come during sex before, and I . . . well, almost right away."

"But just the one time, huh?" he asked. He could do better for her than that.

He could absolutely do better than that.

He removed his condom and used one of his clean brush cloths to wipe himself off. Belle started to get up when he stopped her. "Just lay back. I think I can offer you a bit more."

"But you're going to need a little while . . .?" Belle was confused.

"For PIV sex, yeah. But there are other things I can do for you. Lie back," he directed. "Good lord, you are incredibly beautiful." It might not take him as long to get ready again as he might have thought. He traced his hands down her body, splaying his fingers out along her hips. Gently he dropped his hands between her thighs and pulled them apart. Belle shook her head, obviously embarrassed.

"Hey, I'm going to take care of you. Trust me?" he asked.

She swallowed and nodded. She felt his hands on her inner thighs again, high on her inner thighs and closed her eyes.

"That's a good girl," he encouraged her. "Just lie back and enjoy yourself." He brushed his thumb across her clit, still sensitized from their recent joining. She flinched. He shushed her and, even more gently, he began to track his fingers all around her little nub.

He had an idea then and reached for one of his clean, bright brushes – the kind that were good for short, controlled strokes. He flicked it against her, brushing it back and forth, back and forth, careful not get too forceful – just a confirmed hint of contact.

He watched her face intently and noted when she would gasp, her mouth opening slightly in response to the touch of the sturdy little brush. He was quickly learning her body. From his vantage, he was able to watch her body respond, the tender tissue swelling, growing wet and his artist's eye could see a slight color change, with her most sensitive areas growing darker. He began to press his advantage, sweeping, teasing, stimulating her, using the brush like he might his tongue, but being able to better observe her reactions.

"Rumple . . . I'm . . . I'm . . ." she lifted her body to him and this time arched as she splintered for him, soft cries with each pulsing wave were delightful to his ears.

"You sound lavender when you come," he whispered to her and dropped the brush to the floor.

She giggled softly and wrapped her arms around him. "Wow, I've never had anyone say anything like that to me," she told him.

"And I doubt you will again." He tilted her head up. "Indulge me again?" he had to ask. She glanced down and realized what he was asking.

"Yes," she answered without hesitation.

"Then let's try a different position." And he had her onto her knees.

"I'm not sure about this," she protested. Gary had always preferred this position but it had never been comfortable for her.

He stilled, "I'll stop if you want me to," he told her.

She thought about it. "Oh, go ahead. It wasn't good with Gary, but, well, you're not Gary," she told him.

"Lord, I hope not," he agreed. He was on his knees behind her and lined her up perfectly. This was easily one of his three favorite positions. He could get good penetration for himself and using his hands could usually tease his partner into at least two orgasms. Belle was an exception. She came for him almost immediately and then quickly after a few moments of harder than he'd intended thrusting. He had to think of doing Corella or . . . oh crap, Zelena . . . to keep himself from spilling. He kept going and Belle was shaking a third time in rapid succession. He couldn't stop himself – she was warm and tight and wet and he thought he'd lose consciousness if he didn't let himself go. He had vague memories of shouting and held onto a wash of pure pleasure as he released.

He collapsed, rolling so he didn't crush her. He pulled her against him and both of them went out.

Belle stirred first and looked over. Rumple was still lying mostly on top of her, his arms wrapped around her possessively. She was on her stomach and shifted so that she was on her side.

What had just happened?

There'd been, if her befuddled count was correct, five splendid orgasms in a relatively short time – five orgasms that she hadn't given herself, better, if she were honest, than any she had ever given herself. She was wet and sticky and sweaty and . . . very relaxed and totally satiated. She leaned over and kissed him on his nose.

He twitched. In a moment, he opened one eye.

"That was fantastic," he managed to murmur.

"Yeah, yeah it was." She got all quiet. "What do we do now?"

"I need to rest," he answered honestly, inordinately proud of himself for the moment.

"Well, I will tell you that I'm not particularly inclined to text Corella to find out who won the pool," she told him.

"Shit, you know about that awful pool?" he winced. "I'm so sorry. My friends are . . . disgusting sometimes."

"Like mine," she admitted.

"What? Your friends had the same pool?"

Belle had to laugh. "I'm sorry to say, yes. And I won't be notifying Ruby – she'll figure it out as soon as she sees me anyway."

Rumple had to laugh also, "Oh lord. Same here . . . but with Jefferson."

They both chuckled, but then Belle got quiet again. "How does this change things between us?"

He understood and pulled himself up so that he was sitting. "I think this makes you my . . . what term do you prefer? Girlfriend, mistress, lover?"

"Am I still your maid?"

"If you like," he answered, "but I definitely want you to continue to model for me."

"Then perhaps I'm your maid with benefits? Your model with benefits?" she asked.

He smiled. "Perhaps. Belle, I do know I don't want you dating anyone else . . . . Is that too possessive of me?" he was concerned.

"No, as long as you don't go out with other women."

"Regina will know then. She'll figure it out. If I tell her that I can't escort Susie Fartsmoney to some gala, she'll know I'm seeing someone and she'll figure out it's you."

Belle shook her head. "I'm not ashamed of what happened. We don't have to keep this a secret."

"You want your father to find out?" he asked.

Belle cringed but answered him. "Even if he finds out, he'll forget in a couple of hours. And, if nothing else, my father wants me to be happy, although he probably won't understand what I'm doing with you," she admitted.

"Well hell, I can't figure out what you're doing with me," he told her.

"The five orgasms might go a ways in explaining things," Belle said and stretched. "If I had realized . . ." and she gave him the most seductive smile he'd ever received from a woman.

"Wait," he told her. "Hold that expression." And he vaulted naked from the sofa they were on and fetched his pen and ink.

The Next Morning

Belle was out. She'd gone out running errands, groceries, dry cleaning and such – she'd said something about a luncheon appointment with Regina. Rumple was left working on some of his paintings of his new lady. He loved doing this – and it showed in his work. These pieces were beautiful – they sang like an angelic chorus for him, with uplifting tones and trilling melodies.

He had never felt more alive, more in tune with himself, more creatively focused.

It was like he was on fire, a wonderfully, deliciously creative fire. The ideas, the energies, the thoughts, all playing out, flowing from him.

And it was all because of the delectable Miss French. Somehow, her energies interplayed with his and amplified his talents. He could do things because she believed in him. He enjoyed her company. He thrilled at being able to make her smile. He was excited to share bits and pieces about his day with her and, even more surprising, to hear bits and pieces about her day. He felt competent and, yes, powerful, that he was able to satisfy her in the bedroom.

He was definitely in love with her. But it was nothing like he had ever felt before. Always before, his passion consumed him and took away from his work, but Belle, she seemed to be feeding his talents, so that he was now not only more productive, but a better artist.

And music was happening, happening again, happening big time, exploding out of his thoughts, his dreams. Things had come together for him abruptly. He had begun to write down the melodies that were bursting into his mind. He didn't know what to do with them, but he thought they might be good, too good to just play in his head and then be forgotten.

He was enjoying himself, basking in the emotional warmth he was feeling from his little maid.

Then the doorbell rang, and rang and rang. Someone was frantic to get his attention.

He peeked out and . . .

It was Milah.

A.N. Well, hope this satisfied people. Thanks to Grace5231973, Wondermorena, Erik'sTrueAngel, and arynwy for their kind reviews for Chapter 14.

NEXT: Milah makes a request that changes everything.

Belle makes plans for a special Thanksgiving celebration.