Chapter 10
Lucia
The lights flicker as if the old building senses the rising tension in the attic. If we lose electricity from the ice storm, the heat generated by the frisson of energy passing between us will keep us toasty.
I set the stew on a wooden pot holder. The heat from the handles is almost too much, but I’m too distracted to find my potholders.
My skin tingles and my muscles tense. Tristan’s eyes glaze over as they lock on me.
“Do you want wine?” It’s a simple question, but yet it feels loaded and sultry.
“No.” He says the word slowly, and my breath catches.
He stands, and beneath these low ceilings, he fills the space with his height and magnetism. The man sucks up both space and oxygen.
“I think this needs to cool. I may have overheated it. The microwave is older, and it’s easy?—”
“Lucia.” My name rolls off his tongue and my nipples harden. He prowls toward me. There’s no other word that fits. He’s a lion. And I’m prey.
My back hits the refrigerator.
He steps forward.
I swallow.
This is a man who gets everything he wants. And in this moment, he wants me.
Without my heels, the top of my head reaches his collar bone.
He cups my jaw, angling my head upwards. His touch caresses my skin, sending sensations coursing down my neck, to my breasts, and spiraling through my core.
“Do you want water?” The question comes out breathy.
His lips curl into a wanton smile.
“Do I look like I want water?”
He’s so close, and my hand rises of its own volition, pressing over his chest. The faint beating of his heart pulses through my palm.
“I want to kiss you.”
In the office and in the bar, his eyes had seemed dark. But here, inches from me, they’re stormy. Not blue, not brown, but gray. It’s the intention that captures me.
I tilt my chin and lift my heels, rising to meet him, offering my lips.
A nagging voice tells me this isn’t smart, but I push it away with the argument that no one needs to know.
His lips press to mine, and he palms the back of my head. The pressure positions me where he wants me and requests more.
Obediently, I open for him. His hard body presses against mine, fanning embers of desire into a roaring flame.
Our kiss evolves from light to deep in a flash. Demanding. Need-provoking. The ridge of his erection melds against my hip. He cups my ass and maneuvers me over his ridge. My hands roam his back, and my fingers find the nape of his neck and comb through his hair.
He groans as the lights flicker and a semblance of cognizant thought wakes.
I push back, replacing his lips with the tips of my fingers, my breath coming in fast spurts.
The office.
“I shouldn’t.”
Those dark eyes narrow and his eyebrows nearly join. “Why?”
“Work. It’s not…”
“My parents met at the office. At that office.”
There’s something about the way he says it that adds a layer of romanticism to the idea that rationally I know doesn’t apply to us, but the notion is enough to muddy any clarity.
“No one has to know.” His words mirror my earlier thoughts.
“Just between us. We’ll keep it a secret?” I look up into those enigmatic eyes, searching for a promise.
“It’ll be our secret.” His fingers weave through my hair. His lips glisten and damn those eyes. The hunger in them speaks to me. “I want you. Do you want me?”
I’ve been attracted to this man since he walked into the pub as a stranger.
“Yes.”
His lips are back on mine, and he lifts me. My legs spread and wrap around his waist, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before. The ride up his body grazes me, teasing the building need.
My skirt tugs uncomfortably against my hips. His scruff scrapes my lips as I press them against his jaw and down his neck.
He moves through my space with supreme dexterity, and within seconds we’re at my bed. He pauses at the end of it.
“I’m beginning to see the advantages of owning one piece of furniture.”
I would laugh, but his gaze catches me, and the moment is too tense, too heated.
“If I set you down on this, we’re not stopping.”
“Zero to sixty?” It’s a phrase I read recently in an automobile advertisement.
“Exactly.” His lips press to my throat and he sucks. Christ. I feel the suction in my clit. He stops, then lightly presses his lips over the sensitized skin and nibbles. I want more, but he stops. His arms strain, holding me. And that gaze. It’s miraculously less intense. This time, he’s checking in. “Tell me now. Is this what you want? Because once I lay you down, I don’t see myself stopping until I’ve explored every single inch of you.”
He’s from another world, another class, and I want to experience him. This cultivated, sophisticated, executive.
“Do I get to explore every inch of you, too?”
The smile that spreads across his face is wider than I’ve ever seen, and for a brief second a carefree boy in university replaces the rakish, calculating sophisticate.
But by the time my back hits the mattress, the boyish expression is gone, replaced with fervent intention. His knee sinks into the mattress, and I push off, sitting up. I undo the belt, showing him I am indeed on board with this idea.
There’s no reason to hold back. I want him. I want to experience him. No one needs to know. I don’t work with him. By the time he’s in charge, I’ll probably have moved on. Or, hell, maybe we’ll remain close and he’ll help me with my job hunt.
My sweater hits the floor. His eyes go to my chest. Predictable. And empowering.
I come to him and, eyes locked with his, and unbutton his dress shirt. The material is high end, pressed and crisp. I tug the tails out of his trousers and push it over his shoulders as his mouth finds mine.
The shirt catches on his wrist and I break the kiss.
“Cufflinks,” he groans.
He watches as I figure the gold piece out. His chest rises and falls and I have to force myself to concentrate. I’ve seen these in magazines or on television, but never in person. It’s heavy. Maybe it’s real gold? This is Tristan Wagner. It might be solid gold. The piece falls loose and I flip it to the front. Imprinted on the flat front is a symbol I’ve seen before. A circle divided by semicircles.
“What does this mean?” I ask as I place it in his palm.
“It’s a symbol for integrity. Principle.”
“Good ideas.”
He slips the gold into his pocket and his fingers undo his belt. I take the hint and fumble with the zipper on the side of my skirt.
“Values,” he says. “My grandfather always said that a life lived without integrity is a life poorly lived.” He sits on the end of my bed and removes his shoes and his socks. I let my skirt fall to the ground and remove the trouser socks I put on before donning my boots.
I’m curious about his grandfather. There are portraits of three generations of Wagners in the executive conference room. He’s the only one missing.
His last shoe hits the rug with a soft thump and he steps out of his trousers. He lifts both the pants and his shirt and drapes them over the bar on my hanging rack. He’s wearing tight black briefs, and only those briefs. His skin is untouched by the sun. Dark curly hair enhances his toned, muscular legs. He’s tall, but fit, sporting the body of an athlete. There are no scars, no tattoos.
When he turns from the clothes rack, his gaze rakes over me. I stand before him in only black cotton panties and a black supportive bra. I don’t own fancy lingerie. It’s a splurge I have never justified, but I do buy in only white, black or tan, for ease of matching.
The way he’s looking at me, I suspect he couldn't care less about the quality of my undergarments. If the bulge in his briefs is any indication, my instinct is spot on.
I reach behind me and unclasp my bra. It hangs loosely and the cool air circles over my nipples. My breasts have been heavy since the refrigerator. My nipples still hard with arousal.
I toss the bra behind me and crawl onto the bed, rolling onto my side, leaning up on one elbow. I lick my lips and curl my finger, gesturing for him to come forward. It’s time for him to take what he wants.
He tilts his head, as if contemplating his next move. As if he’s a commander, and I am his conquest. His briefs fall to the floor, and my gaze goes to his abundant manhood.
Yes, I want him. This is shaping up to be a once in a lifetime experience.
He’s not circumcised, and he’s beautiful. Thick and oh so hard. He grips himself with his fist, from just above the base to the tip.
I push off and crawl to him. He may think he’s in control, but I’ll resume the lead. When I reach the end of the bed, he’s there. I reach for him, but he takes my arm and pulls me against him. He tugs on my hair, pulling my head back, demanding my mouth.
He palms my ass, his hand slips beneath my panties so he’s skin on skin. Fitting, since his erection presses into my belly. His chest hair prickles my sensitive buds.
I break the kiss and nip his neck, then glide down his body, to my knees. He looks to the ceiling, and I fist his length. Up and down.
My knees dig into the floor, and I rise, angling him for a taste. My tongue circles his smooth tip, and when I glance up, I’m met with his hungriest gaze yet. I take him in my mouth and am met with a guttural groan.
He fists my hair, guiding me. He doesn’t me push me, or force me, but rather, it’s almost as if he needs to touch me to withstand the pleasure, to hold himself up. I reach for his testicles, kneading them, and he expands in my mouth.
In a flash, my knees are off the floor. A second later, and my back is on the bed.
“Did you not like that?”
“I liked it too much, and you know that’s the truth.”
I grin. He’s right. He was close. With a slight scraping of teeth, he might have blown.
And then he’s over me, kissing me as if I am oxygen. He breaks away, and descends my body, stopping to cup my breast and to lavish attention on each nipple.
“These are fucking perfect.”
I have full breasts. Men like them but I especially like how he likes them. It’s when he uses his teeth, and the pain and pleasure mingle, that I’m squirming, squeezing my thighs together. My fingers find their way to my vulva. I have a need, and it’s one I’m highly adept at sating.
He clasps my wrist and stops me, lifting his head to snap, “Patience.”
I grin. One of my legs is partially trapped by his weight, but I spread my other thigh, and tell him, “Get to it then.”