Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lucian
I've been too soft, too lenient with her. I haven’t revealed my true self—the fire burning inside me, the obsession and possession simmering just beneath the surface like lava.
The protection a Bachman has for his woman. I swore I’d never love anyone again. Now, not only do I love her, but I’ve sworn my life to the Bachmans. And just like my brothers, not only would I die to protect the woman I love, but I’ll make damn sure she knows she is mine.
And that means nothing less than total obedience.
But I wasn’t supposed to fall in love.
So, I never fully unleashed myself on her.
Had I shown that side of myself to her, she never would have left my bed without saying goodbye.
She would have known better.
She wouldn’t have dared to leave at all. I realize she needs me to dominate, to tell her how things will be between us. I can’t hide from her any longer.
It’s time for me to erupt.
And let her know that she’s mine.
And I will chase her to the ends of the earth.
“I dreamt of this,” I whisper, dragging my mouth down her stomach. “Every moment since you left.”
She arches her back as I slide my hand between her thighs again.
“You don’t get to come,” I say, dark and low.
“What?” Her eyes go wide.
I pin her to the table with one look. “You ran. You left. You come when I say.”
I feel her grind against my hand, searching for friction.
“Lucian,” she begs.
“No,” I growl, sliding two fingers inside her. “Not until I say.”
“It’s torture,” she moans.
Perfect, possessive, punishing torture.
I work her more and more—tongue and fingers, dirty words and threats—“Don’t you dare leave again. Don’t you dare come till I say.”
Then stop just before she tumbles off that cliff into a pool of relief.
Once.
Twice.
A third time.
Tears well up in her eyes. “Please,” she pleads. “I can’t handle this! I can’t take any more, Lucian—”
“You will.”
I lean down, kiss her lips, her cheeks, her jaw, her throat.
Then I shed my jeans, something I’ve wanted to do since the moment I held her in the doorway, and I move inside her with one slow, brutal thrust.
She screams.
I growl. “Not yet.”
And the world narrows to the rhythm of our bodies bumping against the table, the slap of skin, the burn of desperation.
“You left me,” I pant, thrusting harder. “Don’t ever leave me.”
“I’m sorry,” she cries, nails scraping my shoulders, hanging on for dear life.
I wrap a hand around her throat—light but controlling. “Say it again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For leaving.”
“For thinking you ever had to face this alone,” I tell her.
My rhythm falters as I feel it coming—like a tidal wave.
And then I finally say the word.
“Now.”
She explodes, and I follow, my body shaking. Releasing the tension I’ve felt since I found her gone that morning.
For a long moment, we lie there, tangled, panting, broken, and stitched back together by lust and something more profound.
Love.
I said it.
And I meant it.
But I can’t say it to her.
Not yet.
She’s not ready to hear it.