His breath ghosts across my lips, warm and feverish. The scent of him, the delicate mix of man and perfu, sothing wild and dark and enticingly ancient wraps around my senses until I can barely think. The pulse at his throat is too fast, too loud.
"If you’d even bothered trying," he murmurs, voice dripping with pained sarcasm, "you’d have noticed the lack of guards. The unlocked doors." His nose grazes my ear as he speaks, as though he can’t decide whether to sniff or shove away. "You could have walked out of this palace any night you wished."
His breath is hot against my neck. "But you won’t leave, will you?"
Heat coils under my skin.
"You’ll stay," he growls. "You’ll linger. You’ll provoke . You’ll run only so I will chase." His fingers flex against the desk. "You enjoy this. You enjoy losing control. You enjoy peeling at my sanity like I’m one of your little puzzles."
My pulse stumbles. My breath hitches. My nipples tightens against his chest at the sound of his rage. Oh gods, I’m sick, aren’t I?
"What do you want, Lyra?" His eyes narrow to slits of violet fla. "Tell . A tumble? A night in my bed? Is that it?" He tilts my chin up with a knuckle, forcing to et the violent storm in his stare. "If I give you that, will you leave and never co back?"
He tilts his head, bringing our mouths half an inch apart, and he holds perfectly still, waiting for my response. My eyes flutter, my stomach cramping so tight, I feel sick with need. Still, I jerk back, suddenly confused with myself, my emotions. Mine? Hers? Do I want him to touch ? Yes, I do. But like this? No. I want him... to like . I want him to want . Only . I can never tell if he is attracted to because of her, or because he genuinely is drawn to the bitch I am.
I jerk back. "Get over yourself. You’re nothing special, Lucien. I have no interest in fucking you."
"Oh, of course. You wouldn’t be doing the fucking. I would."
I blanch, and his chuckle skitters off my bones as he pulls away from and I walk away swiftly. Even after I have shut the door of my bedroom behind , I still feel the words under my skin, between my legs, under my dress like phantom hands.
I trudge over to the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my pupils large and my breast swelled. Caught in a trance of eviscerating heat, I reach up slowly and circle my neck with my fingers, precisely where he’d strangled the other day.
My lips part on an exhale that sounds so close to a moan.
My hands drift lower to the swell of my breasts, the curve of my neckline and the small rope keeping my breasts firm. My heart races rapidly as I tug and they spill free.
Fingers trembling, I cup them. My chest rises and falls in an unsteady rhythm as I try to break out of it. But I cannot. I am held by sothing I cannot fight, sothing that screams at that I should have said yes. That a one-ti tumble with the King would be worth giving my dignity away for.
I catch the aching buds between my fingers and twist, pinch, flick. My legs tremble and I find my knees pathetically weak.
I stumble for the bed and bite my bottom lip furiously, disgusted with myself. I lay down against the pillows and close my eyes. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Perhaps, being over fifty years old and still a virgin because every ti a man touched , I couldn’t get the image out of my head and would always end up making the comparison, was finally getting to .
Every ti I am kissed, I think of Lucien. Every ti a male looks at , I compare the lust in their gaze to the ravaging hunger I’d seen in Lucien’s eyes that night at the Red District when I’d grinded against him. And there was nothing hotter, nothing better. One kiss and he ruined for every other man.
My fingers drift to the hem of my dress and my back arches against the wind as it kisses my bare thighs. I hike the fabric until it bunches up against my hips. My legs part and I reach for the pillow, the one that slls faintly of him. And gods help , I bring it between my thighs and clamp them together tightly.
Heat kisses my skin and a moan climbs up my throat as I roll my hips against it, letting my imagination run freakishly wide.
We’re back in the Red District, the music a throbbing pulse in my blood. My nails dig into Lucien’s shoulder, my hips grind against his thigh, core lting as the hard length of him swell, tenting up his pants and pushing against my thighs.
But he doesn’t hold against him like he did that night. He spins around, presses against the table, and his hand clamps over my mouth to silence my moans. In my fantasies, I’m wearing a gown and not those obstructive leather pants. His other hand pushes my skirts up and there is no hesitation.
My clit brushes against the pillow and sweat breaks against my skin. I can almost feel the rough fabric of his clothes against my bare skin as he pushes into . Would it be as painful as they say it is? Or would it make wild with hunger? My inner walls clench at the thought of either.
We’re in his chambers at the castle. His face is between my legs and his tongue pushes into my center as his fingers pump in and out of .
My thighs shake. I toss the pillow aside and exhale as I reach for the bundle of nerves between them. And I stroke. The hushed cry is sothing carnal, echoing along the walls, and I let my lips close around the word, "Lucien," in the sa breath my fingers push into my slick core.
He’s seated on that foreboding throne, his chin tucked neatly on a fist as he peers down at where I kneel with that cold indifference. "Part your legs wider. Let see you."
My hips begin an erratic uncontrollable movent. My other hand works my breast, tweaking and flicking, and I tilt my head into the pillow as I reach that delicious, tipping point. "Lucien."
I collapse back into the pillows, shaking, breathless and undone.
And then, my ears perk at the sound of footsteps outside. Soft and retracting.
My eyes fly open.
I scramble off the bed, nearly tripping over my own legs as I wrench the door open.
The hallway is empty.
But the air is warr. Stirred. And the scent, gods, his scent clings to the doorfra like a handprint left on my throat.
Sha scorches through so violently I have to brace my hand on the wall, my breath catching in a horrified, trembling gasp.
He was here.
Listening.
Hearing the way I moaned and cried out his na.
Hearing what he does to without even touching .
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