12. Tamsyn
12
Tamsyn
The summons comes after eleven that night, when I’m lying across the bed in my little summer jammies, showered, bored, twiddling the necklace Lucien gave me between my fingers (I’ve started carrying it in my pocket with me to keep it close; don’t ask) and ripe for the picking. As I always am when it comes to Lucien and his demands disguised as pleasant requests. The text pings on my phone along with a single word guaranteed to kick my pulse rate up into the warning zone:
Nightcap?
I forget about what I was ostensibly doing, namely scrolling through news articles about the death investigation and Ravenna’s upcoming interview, and toss the phone aside, thinking hard.
I could say no, thanks . Done. Easy. Even easier? I could ignore it. He’d eventually get the message. Not that I expect him to accept the message. But for tonight, he’d get the message and presumably regroup to plot and scheme on getting me back another day.
But the thing is — and this is always the thing — I want to see him. It’s been a long afternoon since I came home from Mrs. Hooper’s, where we were abuzz with her sudden reversal of fortune and pending sale of her townhouse. We both wondered why he did it. Maybe he just wanted to add to his portfolio, like he said. Maybe billionaires like him make it a practice to snap up all luxury housing that hits the market. But things with Lucien are never that straightforward. There’s always more , always hidden beneath the surface. Did he do it to buy my affections? Does he think a grand gesture toward the only parental figure in my life will get me to forgive him?
Good question. Will it?
I mean… no . Of course it won’t. But he keeps stacking up these reasons for me not to hate him. And assuming the role of Mrs. Hooper’s fairy godfather just zoomed right to the top.
Anyway, Lucien left abruptly, dashing off to meet with his lawyers and PR people. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say, but I got the feeling he wanted to block the interview if possible. He stayed in the city until late, only arriving home about twenty minutes ago. And how do I know that, you might ask? Because I’ve had my ear to the ground, listening for the sound of his footsteps. Of course I have.
Now this .
My response was always a foregone conclusion. I get up, put the necklace on the nightstand, throw on my little flip-flops and hit the hallway. No sign of Ravenna’s scent tonight, thank goodness. Things are weird enough without me fixating on her lingering presence around every corner. Then I head through the darkened house to his study downstairs, dodging the increasingly frantic voice of my self-protective instinct the whole way.
Don’t do it, you fucking idiot. You know what will happen.
She’s a persistent little bitch. I’ll give her that. She works hard to keep me safe. She remembers what happened this afternoon, when a simple horse ride turned into one of the sexiest interludes of my entire life. She knows how susceptible I am to his gleaming eyes, deep voice and skilled mouth and hands. Most of all, she knows how much I hated myself afterwards.
How many ways are you going to let him fuck with you, Tamsyn? You know better. You’ve got to be smarter than this. Please. Be smarter than this.
I keep going and do my best to ignore her. It’s okay this time. True, last time, I let the horse ride get out of hand. But this time, I have a colorable excuse for wanting to see him: to ask him about the interview. I’ve forbidden myself from asking or showing any interest in his life and circumstances. I’m sticking to that, if nothing else. But he bought Mrs. Hooper’s house right in front of me today. He was very gracious with her when he used to find her annoying. I’m allowed to comment on that. There’s nothing wrong with me asking him about the interview and commenting on the whole house thing.
Thank him in the morning over breakfast, you dumb bitch. This is a booty call, and everyone knows it.
“Shut up,” I tell her under my breath as I turn into the study and — he’s not here. The usual lamps are on and it’s the same romantic little scene as last night. Just no Lucien. And instead of feeling relief that he’s shown mercy, or at least given me a brief reprieve, I feel a crushing disappointment. Until I glance around and see what’s waiting in the middle of the coffee table for me this time. My romance books have been replaced with a note card of his heavy ivory stationary propped between the heavy crystal decanter of whiskey and the two fingers he’s already poured into a tumbler for me. I pick it up, my attention zeroing in on the single word scrawled in his bold black handwriting:
Sauna
There’s even one of his giant and ridiculously fluffy white bath sheets helpfully waiting for me. The kicker? He spritzed his delicious cologne on the card. I caught a faint whiff of it as soon as I picked it up, but now I press it to my nose, breathing deep and saturating my senses with it even as desire curls lower in my belly.
So there I am with another decision point. Not going isn’t even an option at this point. My self-protective instincts don’t bother trying to warn me against it. I think I hurt her feelings by telling her to shut up. Second decision point— if I’m going, I could go in my undies. I know nothing about sauna etiquette, but I’m pretty sure undies are allowed. Especially here in the United States, where I’ve learned modesty goes far deeper than it does in Europe. Or I could go nude.
Like Lucien surely is.
My phone pings again just then, as though he knows I’m standing there frozen and need just the right prod between my shoulder blades to get me moving again.
You coming?
I don’t know how he manages to make two words in a text message so silky and inviting. So fatally challenging. So smugly confident. But he does.
And what do I do? Why, I strip off my clothes, of course. All of them. I fold them neatly on the coffee table and wrap myself in that fluffy towel. I down my drink in one rough gulp, savoring the liquid courage as its golden rays slide through me. Then I pour myself a refill and head for the sauna, a little room off his private gym at the back of the house.
It’s not until the moment of stepping through the glass door into the steaming heat that I recognize exactly how much sensual danger I’m in. Like I said, I know nothing about saunas, but this seems to be a particularly fine one, fragrant of its cedar planks and the rising scent from Lucien’s cologne. There’s track lighting along the benches and floor beams, along with sconces dotting the walls overhead. Moisture sizzles in the air the way my blood now sizzles in my veins.
And in the middle of the highest bench, king of all he surveys? Lucien sitting on his white towel, none of which he bothers to drape across his lap. Which means that all his golden skin, dripping with sweat already, is available for me to see. And I notice it all peripherally. The beaded trickle of sweat through the grooves of his pecs and down the ladder rungs of his abs. A trail I’d love to follow with my tongue. The broad expanse of his shoulders and arms. The flexing muscles of his thighs and calves as he shifts ever so slightly. I even noticed his bare feet and nice toes.
But mostly — and I’m talking about 99.99% of my observational skills — are focused on the dark gleam of triumph in his otherwise impassive face and on the erection, already long, thick and jutting between his legs.
“Ms. Scott,” he says, sipping his own whiskey as he watches me cross to the bench opposite his.
The velvety voice is also a seduction, as irresistible as beaded bracelets to Taylor Swift fans.
“Lucien.”
I stare him in the eye as I sit on the top bench directly across from him, taking all the time in the world about setting my drink beside me and unwrapping my towel. Only when I’ve had the satisfaction of seeing the rough bob of his Adam’s apple and the involuntary twitch of his ruddy length as it reaches for me do I allow myself to lean my head back against the wall, baring my neck and every other part of my body for him to see. Then I reach between my legs and let loose with a little groan as I rub my engorged clit.
His breath comes slowly and ends in a hiss that thrills me. So does the languid way he fists himself in response, stroking up and down, teasing me with glimpses of his entire length and then only the plump plum-like head.
Has he been thinking about me since I left him unsatisfied under that willow tree yesterday? Is he regretting his cruelty toward me? Is it eating away at his gut with jagged little teeth?
If so, good .
My eyes roll closed as I pleasure myself, cooing, but I quickly open them again because I don’t want to miss a second of this, my moment of petty triumph. I catch him staring, his glittering eyes locked on my breasts. They ache for him. He can see it, I’m sure. Hard to miss two jutting pink nipples dotting my pale breasts like raspberries on whipped cream. Sighing, I shift just enough to open my thighs and give him a tiny glimpse of what we both know — that I’m glistening and wet. Ready for him. It’s old news by now, I suppose, but I earn another hiss from him anyway. I revel in his wretched stillness. It’s an emotional cocaine and I’m instantly addicted.
We watch each other for a moment, both heavy lidded and a little breathless with this parallel play. I’m sweating now, the rivulets tracking down my temples, through the groove between my collarbones and down the curves of my belly. The spiking tension demands to be broken one way or the other, but I’m in control—he said so—and I plan to make the most of my power while it lasts. If only I could keep my emotions out of it. So many words crowd onto the tip of my tongue that it’s a true effort to choke them back.
How are you doing? Are you okay?
Are your lawyers and PR people taking care of you like they should?
Can you keep yourself out of jail?
Did you kill Ravenna? What have you done to me that I’m not sure the answer matters to me either way?
How did we get here, Lucien?
I can’t say any of that. I’ve forbidden myself to do it. Maybe I suck at keeping him at physical arm’s length, but I’m damn sure going to keep him at emotional arm’s length.
He sits there in his own silence, a perfect mirror of all my turbulence.
I eventually remember that Mrs. Hooper is a safe topic. We can talk about her. I can torture him a bit more.
“I’ve never seen Mrs. Hooper so excited,” I say, surprised to hear how husky my voice is.
A rumble of annoyance. “I don’t want to talk about Mrs. Hooper right now.”
“But I do. I thought you said I was in charge…?”
He doesn’t bother answering, but there’s a new gleam of respect with his impatient the floor is yours gesture.
I manage to control about fifty percent of my triumphant smirk. “You made her very happy.”
“Oh?”
“She’s very grateful.”
Now he looks bored. “She is?”
“You saved her from the trouble and expense of putting her house on the market. It was very kind of you.”
I feel a surge of inner satisfaction as he leans forward, eyes narrowing. Now I’ve got his interest in this conversation, which is exactly why I invoked the K word. And I can’t say I didn’t know what I was doing when I took my sharp little stick and poked the bear. “Did you forget the first rule of dealing with me? I’m not kind.”
“Then why did you do it?” I say, knowing there’s only one answer he can give.
“You know why,” he says, giving it.
I shrug. Scoff. Pause what I’m doing to myself below. “You think I’ll forgive your cruelty because of a real estate transaction?”
Crooked smile from him. “Not at all. But I plan to make it impossible for you to continue hating me at full strength.” He pauses. Absently runs his tongue along his lower lip as his attention drops to my pussy. “Come here, Ms. Scott. Think twice before you say no . Unless you want me to use this on you.”
He reaches back and picks up something to show me. Oh, God. It’s the riding crop.
You’ll be proud of me. I hesitate for a full half a second. Just to make it look good before I stand, climb down from my bench, walk across the way and up to his bench, where he’s already dropping the crop and reaching for me, his hands rough. He palms my face, trying to bring me down for his kiss, but I’ve got to deny him one thing he wants tonight. My pride demands it. So I jerk my head back, turning it away and keeping my lips well out of reach. He scowls, but there’s plenty of the rest of me available to kiss and touch and he does. He presses his face to my sweaty neck, tunneling his hands through my damp hair and biting my shoulder’s tender curve. He gets a hoarse cry from me in response. He drags his hands down my back and over my ass, thighs, breasts and hips. He wraps me inside the slick strength of his arms, holding me there while I slide against him and scratch my nails up his back hard enough to leave welts.
He makes an incoherent sound and surges to his feet. The next thing I know, he’s behind me, bending me over the bench and wedging one of his heavy thighs between mine to widen my stance.
“You want me to take it?” he says, and he sounds raw now. Guttural. He drags his lips down my back and zeros in on my ass, biting a good hunk of one of my cheeks with his sharp teeth. I cry out. In pain. In delight. Then he shifts lower, pressing his face between my two halves, nuzzling there. Licking this virgin part of me and resisting my scandalized efforts to squirm away. My breath turns strangled as exquisite nerve endings I never knew I possessed spring to life and demand more . And that’s before he finds the crop again and delivers a stinging smack to both halves of my ass that elicit shrieks of shocked delight from me. “You want me to take it so you can pretend you’re not dying for it just like I am, Ms. Scott? But you’re dying for this crop just like you’re dying for this dick to fill you up, aren’t you? You want me to fuck you as long and hard as I can, don’t you?” Two more stinging smacks. “Answer me.”
“Yes.” Who is that sobbing? It’s not me , is it? “ Yes . You know I do.”
“Glad you’re being honest. Good girl.”
He makes a sound. Half growl. Half roar. All victorious. Then he tosses the crop aside, reaches between us, grips himself and thrusts deep inside my slick folds. He’s not gentle, thank God. He fucks me hard, sharp and fast, our wet bodies, slapping together and my breast jiggling in my face as I brace for dear life with my palms on the bench. There’s some hidden spot in me that he knows and finds every time we do it doggy style like this, as unerring as some French pig rooting for truffles. The spiraling pleasure crowds into my most sensitive spot and hovers there for one endless plateau before violently overflowing. I don’t come so much as get consumed by a cataclysm of strangled cries, spasming hips and blinding ecstasy. He’s right there with me, stiffening and shouting my name as he wears himself out and eventually loses his rhythm as the pleasure overtakes him. At some point we sort of collapse together, still joined, with me bracing my hands on the bench and him holding me tight around the waist with his head resting on my back. We’re drenched and breathless. When it’s all over, he pulls out and uses his towel to swiftly wipe me down and dry the wet spot between my legs. I submit to his tender ministrations, wrecked if not ruined, cursing myself for letting him cum inside me when we’re not technically together. I should have denied him that, too, but it never crossed my mind.
We don’t look at each other.
I make the long walk back to my side of the sauna and wrap up in my towel. Then there’s nothing left for me to do other than watch him fold his towel, lay it on his bench and resume his seat. His face is still. Downcast. Unreadable.
I dismally wonder if he plans to sweat himself away into nothing—if I’m hot, sticky and uncomfortable now, he’s got to be dying— but that’s none of my business. I can’t forget that. I need to retreat to the safety of my room. He’s letting me go. He’s giving me that gift. Too bad I’m too foolish to take it.
“The interview.” My voice barely works. “Were you able to stop it?”
It takes him forever to answer. “No.”
I nod, edging closer to the door, but never quite getting there. “This is bad, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” he says, his hard gaze fixed on some indeterminate point on the floor in front of him.
“Lucien…”
“Let’s talk.” His head comes up. I’m in no way prepared for the hopeful vulnerability in his expression. “I need to explain why I did what I did. We need to get through this.”
There it is. No manipulation for once. Just a straight request from him. Exactly what I’ve always asked him for. And God knows we need to address the elephant in the room before it tramples us both. But it’s late and I’m hot and tired. I’m still too hurt and way too angry. And after the way he just fucked me, I know I’m not thinking clearly. I certainly don’t have my defenses in place like I should. Worst of all, my throat and eyes are burning and I’m afraid there’s a volcanic eruption of tears in my near future.
So I dodge and weave again. I’ve gotten pretty good at that lately. “Not tonight.”
“When?”
I open my mouth and the truth zooms out so quickly there’s no time to block it. “When I can trust myself not to sob through the whole conversation. I keep hoping I can hide how wrecked my heart is. So you’ll never know how badly you hurt me.”
He makes a broken sound. His features twist. His chest heaves. “Tamsyn. I’m sorry .”
“I have to go, Lucien,” I say, rising panic making me shrill as I back toward the door. Because the look on his face makes me think—for the very first time—that he hurt himself as much as he hurt me when he pushed me away. The idea is startling. Revolutionary. And I can’t handle one more thing tonight. “I told you I can’t do this right now. You told me I’m in control. Did you mean that?”
“You know I did.”
“Then don’t make me humiliate myself.” My voice rises and cracks, forcing me to clear my throat. Worse, water trickles down my cheeks and I’m not entirely sure it’s from sweat. “I’m begging you.”
“How long do you plan to punish me?” His voice sounds dull but his gaze is accusatory. “Do you think I don’t know it’s a power ploy, the way you keep putting me off?”
“A power ploy?”
“The kind of thing Ravenna would do, frankly. Jerk me by my chain. Maybe I need to think twice about whether this relationship is good for me.”
Sudden outrage takes over. “Don’t you dare compare me to that psychopath!”
“Do you deny that it feels good to know you’ve got me tied up in knots?”
I hesitate. How can I not? He’s got me dead to rights and I didn’t even realize it until this second. “Can you blame me for being scared to let you get close again? You’ve taken over my entire life?—”
“ You’ve taken over my life!” he roars. “Don’t you see that?”
I’m not sure if I do or not, but I’m not willing to give him the final word here. “I live in your house and eat your food while wearing the shoes you bought me. I let you fuck me on demand even though you ripped my heart out. I need to have some control here. A month ago I didn’t even know you existed. And now you’re everything . And I am scared to death. I don’t think I’d even care if I found out you were a murderer.”
“I’m not .”
“But I wouldn’t care if you were! That’s the issue!”
He stares me straight in the face. “I breathe for you, Ms. Scott. You’ve stopped smiling at me. It may not seem like much to you, but it’s enough punishment to last me the rest of my life. So when it comes to control? I hereby declare you the clear winner. Never doubt yourself again.”
Oh, God. Oh, God . He looks like he means it. And all my words are trapped behind my swelling heart and tight throat and I can’t stop these damn tears from falling.
He suddenly turns away, swallowing hard. “We’ll talk when you’re ready. Meanwhile, make sure you come watch the interview tomorrow night with the rest of us. We’ll make it a party.”