Chapter 7 #2
His gaze stayed on my face for a long time. Long enough that I started regretting the question.
"No."
I froze.
"You... haven't?"
"No." His voice dropped. "Elora, I've never loved anyone before."
"But Serena—"
"Carlo saved my father's life. So some people in the family thought I should marry her."
I opened my mouth to ask more, but he'd already closed the distance.
"Elora." He said my name. "Are you jealous?"
"I'm not." I practically jumped, face burning red to my ears.
His mouth curved slightly. "Then why are you so defensive?"
"I..." I stepped back. My lower back hit the vanity. "I just—"
Before I could finish, his mouth was on mine.
The candle jar pressed between us, cool glass against my chest as his hand slid to the small of my back, anchoring me against the vanity.
My pulse hammered so hard I felt it in my throat.
I kissed him back harder than I meant to, as if the pressure of my lips could erase the photograph still lying open somewhere on the floor.
Lucien made a low sound against my mouth and deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping in with a thoroughness that left no room for breathing. His other hand came up, cradling the side of my face, thumb brushing the hinge of my jaw so I opened wider. Heat pooled low in my stomach.
When he finally drew back, just far enough for air, his forehead rested against mine. His breathing was steadier than mine.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"I'm not."
"You are." His thumb stroked once more along my cheekbone. "And you're still thinking about the photo."
I tried to turn my face away. He didn't allow it.
The hand at my back pressed me closer until the jar dug into both of us and I had to set it down on the vanity with a soft click.
The moment my hands were free, he caught my wrists lightly, holding them against his chest so I could feel the steady beat under the fabric of his shirt.
"I told you the truth," he said. "I've never loved her. I've never loved anyone."
The words should have soothed. Instead they scraped. Because if he had never loved anyone, then what were we? The question lodged in my throat. I couldn't ask them. Asking would make the insecurity real, and I was already raw enough.
Lucien's gaze moved over my face. A faint curve touched the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, more recognition.
"So you ARE jealous," he said quietly.
"I'm not."
"You keep saying that." He released one of my wrists and traced the line of my lower lip with the pad of his thumb. "Your pulse jumps. Your eyes go somewhere else. And right now you're kissing me like you're trying to prove something."
Heat flooded my face. I wanted to deny it again, but the words wouldn't come. He leaned in and brushed his mouth over the flushed skin of my cheek, then lower, along the side of my neck. The soft scrape of his jaw against my throat made my knees weaken. I gripped the front of his shirt.
"Lucien—"
"Tell me to stop." His voice stayed low, almost conversational, even as his teeth grazed the spot just below my ear. "If this is only about the photograph, tell me to stop."
I didn't. I couldn't. He felt the surrender in the way my body leaned into his.
One arm banded around my waist and lifted me just enough to sit me on the edge of the vanity.
Bottles rattled. My legs parted automatically so he could step between them.
The position put us nearly eye to eye. I saw the dark intensity in his gaze.
His hands went to the hem of my blouse. He waited a beat, giving me the chance to refuse.
When I only breathed harder, he pulled the fabric up and over my head in one smooth motion.
The cool air touched my skin a second before his palms did, sliding up my bare sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the thin lace of my bra.
I arched into the touch without meaning to.
He made another of those quiet sounds and kissed me again, deeper this time, while his fingers worked the clasp behind my back.
The bra loosened. He drew the straps down my arms and let it fall somewhere out of sight.
His mouth left mine to travel lower. Warm lips closed over one nipple, tongue circling with deliberate pressure.
The sensation shot straight down between my legs.
I bit back a soft cry and threaded my fingers into his hair, holding him there.
He sucked harder, then switched to the other side, the same careful attention, as if he had all the time in the world and intended to use every second of it.
When he straightened, his eyes were darker.
He reached for the button of my trousers.
I lifted my hips to help him slide them down, along with the simple underwear beneath.
He took a moment to look—really look—and the weight of that gaze made me want to cover myself.
I didn't. Pride and insecurity warred, and pride won by a narrow margin.
Lucien's hands settled on my thighs, spreading them wider.
He dropped to one knee without warning. The first brush of his mouth against the inside of my knee made me jolt.
He kissed higher, slow open-mouthed kisses that left damp trails on my skin.
By the time he reached the apex of my thighs, I was trembling again, for an entirely different reason.
His tongue parted me with a single, thorough stroke.
I gasped and clutched the edge of the vanity.
He did it again, slower, mapping every sensitive fold until he found the place that made my hips lift toward him.
Then he stayed there, licking with focused rhythm, two fingers sliding into me when I was wet enough that the stretch felt only like more heat.
I came faster than I wanted to, the climax sharp and sudden, my thighs clamping around his shoulders.
He worked me through it without mercy, tongue still moving until the last tremor faded and I was panting, half-collapsed against the mirror behind me.
Only then did he rise. His mouth was glistening.
He wiped it with the back of one hand, eyes never leaving mine, and began unbuttoning his own shirt.
I watched the fabric fall away, revealing the lean muscle I had only felt before.
When he reached for his belt, I stopped him, hands shaking slightly as I took over.
The zipper, the fabric, the hard length of him freed into my palm.
He was thick, already fully hard, the skin hot against my fingers.
I stroked once, experimentally. His breath left him in a controlled rush.
He caught my wrist to guide the next stroke, showing me the pressure he wanted.
"Enough," he said after a moment, voice rougher now. Then he stepped back between my legs, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance. He didn't thrust immediately. Instead he held there, one hand braced beside my hip, the other cupping my face so I had to meet his eyes.
"Still thinking about the photo?" he asked, quiet.
I shook my head. It wasn't entirely true.
The photograph still existed. Serena still existed.
But in this moment the only thing that mattered was the stretch as he began to push inside, slow and relentless, until he was buried to the hilt and I was breathing in short, shallow gasps against his shoulder.
He stayed still for several heartbeats, letting me adjust. Then he drew back and drove in again, deeper, the angle perfect because of the height of the vanity. Each thrust rocked me slightly. The bottles behind me clinked. I wrapped my legs around his waist and held on.
His mouth found mine again, swallowing the soft sounds I couldn't keep in.
One of his hands slid between us, thumb finding my clit and circling in time with his hips.
The dual sensation coiled tight and fast. I came a second time with his name on my lips, the orgasm rolling through me in long waves that made my inner walls clench around him.
Lucien's rhythm faltered for the first time.
He gripped my hips harder, thrusting through the aftershocks until his own release overtook him.
He buried his face against my neck as he came, a low, rough sound vibrating against my skin.
For a long moment we stayed like that, bodies locked, breathing hard.
Eventually he eased out.
He helped me down from the vanity. My legs were unsteady. He steadied me with a hand at my waist, then picked up the candle jar and set it carefully on the bedside table as if it belonged there.
"You're still flushed," he observed.
"Your fault."
A faint smile touched his mouth. "I'll take the blame." He kissed me once more, lighter this time, almost thoughtful. "Get some rest, Elora. We'll talk about the rest of it later."
I didn't know whether "the rest of it" meant Serena, or the way my body still hummed.