Chapter 26
Seraphina
Iwake up tangled in sheets that smell like sex and the sharpness of Lucien, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar weight of an arm draped over my waist and the heat of another body pressed against my back.
When the hell did I get naked? My heart hammers against my ribs as memories from last night flood back—his hands gripping my hips, my nails breaking his skin, the way he filled me so completely I thought I might split apart.
Carefully, I shift to look at the man beside me. And holy fuck.
In all the years I’ve known Lucien Devereux, I’ve never really seen him like this—vulnerable, unguarded, asleep.
It’s fucking surreal. Even unconscious, he looks like he was carved from marble by some horny Renaissance sculptor with a god complex.
His thick, dark lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones; his full lips slightly parted, his usually perfectly styled hair falling across his forehead.
There’s something profoundly unsettling about seeing someone so dangerous look so peaceful. Like watching a lion nap after it’s torn apart its prey.
Shit, that’s what I am, right? His prey. His Chosen.
I take advantage of this rare moment to really study him.
The sharp line of his jaw, the slight stubble darkening his chin, the small scar at his right temple hairline that I’ve always wondered about.
My eyes trace the solid planes of his chest, the defined abs, the V of his hips disappearing beneath the sheet that’s barely covering his lower half.
It’s not fucking fair. No one should be this pretty and this demented. Calling him Lucifer is so fitting—an angel cast from heaven, beautiful and damned.
“I can hear you thinking.”
I nearly jump out of my skin. His eyes are still closed, but a smirk plays at the corners of his mouth.
“Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me,” I hiss, heart racing. “How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough to feel you admiring your prize,” he says, finally opening those emerald eyes that seem to cut right through me.
I scoff, pushing myself up onto my elbows. “Aren’t I your prize? Isn’t that the whole point of this Chosen bullshit?”
In one swift, predatory movement, he rolls on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. His body cages mine completely, his morning wood pressing hard against my thigh. The sheet slides away, leaving us both naked, skin to skin.
“Damn right you are,” he growls, his face hovering inches from mine. “And I protect what’s mine. Just like I defend my territory on the court. I box out, I position myself right where I need to be, and I don’t let anyone else get their fucking hands on what belongs to me.”
I roll my eyes, even as heat pools between my legs. “Did you seriously just compare me to basketball?”
“No, well, maybe a little bit.”
His weight shifts on top of me as he grinds his hard cock against my thigh, the friction making me squirm underneath him.
I suck in a sharp breath. “You’re such a fucking jock. Even with your fancy vocabulary and designer suits, you’re still just a meathead with a ball.”
He laughs, the vibration rumbling through his chest and into mine. “Would you prefer me to quote Shakespeare while I fuck you? ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’” His hips roll again, more deliberately this time, making my back arch involuntarily.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, trying to ignore how good the friction feels. “Nothing kills the mood faster than dead white men’s poetry.”
The pressure of his dick sliding against my inner thigh sends sparks of pleasure through me. I can feel myself getting wet already, which is fucking embarrassing considering how sore I am from last night.
“You’re such a cocky bastard,” I mutter, but my body betrays me as my hips lift slightly to meet his.
“Mmm, and you love it,” he murmurs against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. His teeth graze my pulse point while he continues grinding against me, teasing me with what he knows I want.
I bite my lip to keep from moaning as he shifts so his cock slides between my legs, the head brushing against my clit in a way that makes my toes curl. “Fuck,” I whisper, hating how easily he can get me worked up.
“That’s the plan,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and arousal. “Unless you’d rather I stop?”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I growl, wrapping my legs around his waist to keep him in place.
He chuckles against my skin, the vibration sending shivers down my spine. “So demanding even in the morning.”
Just as I’m about to grab his hair and pull his mouth to mine, he suddenly lifts himself off me with a wicked grin. The cold air hits my overheated skin, making me gasp.
“What the hell?” I prop myself up on my elbows, watching in disbelief as he stretches languidly, every muscle in his back rippling with the movement.
“I need a shower,” he says casually, as if he wasn’t just about to fuck me into the mattress. “Practice in an hour.”
My jaw drops as he saunters toward his bathroom, completely naked and completely unashamed. His ass is a fucking work of art—firm, muscled, with two dimples right above the curve that my fingers itch to dig into.
I wonder what sound he’d make if I sank my teeth into one of those perfect cheeks. Would he growl? Moan? Push me up against the wall and punish me for it?
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I shake my head, trying to clear the filthy thoughts.
“You’re such an asshole!” I call after him, falling back onto the pillows in frustration.
His laugh echoes from the bathroom, followed by the sound of running water. That smug bastard is probably standing under the hot spray right now, stroking himself and thinking about how he just left me high and dry—or rather, embarrassingly wet.
I need to get out of here. I need space to think about what the hell happened last night and why I’m not running for the hills right now.
Sliding off the bed, I wrap his navy sheet around my body, tucking it securely above my breasts. The expensive Egyptian cotton drags behind me like a queen’s train as I pad toward the door.
My legs are still a little shaky from last night—Lucien wasn’t exactly gentle, and the tenderness between my thighs reminds me with every step just how thoroughly I was fucked.
My bag is right where I dropped it yesterday in my rage, tossed haphazardly by the front door. I dig through it until I find my phone, wincing at the dozen missed calls from my mother. She can fuck right off. I’m not in the mood for whatever manipulative bullshit she’s cooking up today.
My stomach growls so loudly it practically echoes through the foyer. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday, too caught up in the fury of discovering what went down at that council meeting. And then, well...I got distracted by a different kind of hunger.
I wander into Lucien’s massive kitchen, the cold marble floor sending shivers up my bare feet. Everything is sleek, modern, and I could care less. Just give me coffee.
I head straight for the coffee maker, the fancy Breville that probably cost more than St. Augustine tuition.
Lucien might be an asshole, but he has good taste in kitchen appliances.
After a few weeks here, I’ve mastered this thing—measuring the grounds, adjusting the settings for the perfect brew strength.
The rich aroma fills the air as it starts dripping, and I inhale deeply, already feeling more human.
My stomach growls again, practically screaming for attention. I’m making food. I’ve been tiptoeing around this house like a guest for too long, even though I practically live here now. It won’t kill me to cook while he’s home even though I’ve been avoiding it.
Like I don’t notice the stocked fridge and any time I use something it gets replaced right away. As if a food fairy is keeping my favorite things. It looks like an organic grocery store took over this kitchen at any given moment.
I grab what I need and set it on the counter, still clutching the sheet around me with one hand. The sizzle of bacon hitting the hot pan is practically pornographic. My mouth waters as I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a splash of cream I find in the door of the fridge.
“Look at you, playing house,” comes Lucien’s voice from behind me.
I don’t turn around, focusing on flipping the bacon. “I’m hungry, not playing anything. And you left me hanging upstairs, so cooking seemed like a better option than murder.”
He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he smells like expensive soap and toothpaste. He’s wearing nothing but basketball shorts slung low on his hips, the bastard.
“I’ve never seen you cook before,” he says, his voice right at my ear now. His hand slides around my waist, fingers splaying across my stomach through the thin sheet. “It’s...domestic.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter, trying to ignore how good his touch feels. “I’m just starving. Surprised you don’t have a camera in here to watch me while you’re gone.”
I pour the eggs into another pan, watching them start to set at the edges. Lucien doesn’t move away, his chest pressed against my back as he watches over my shoulder. His thumb traces lazy circles on my hip, and I can feel him hardening against my ass.
“Seriously?” I snort. “Again?”
“Can you blame me?” His lips brush against my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “You’re in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my sheet, cooking breakfast. It’s like a fucking fantasy.”
I roll my eyes even as heat pools between my legs. “Your fantasies are pretty basic then.”
His hand tightens on my hip. “Trust me, there’s nothing basic about what I want to do to you right now.”
“Don’t you have an entire team to go terrorize?”
“Yes but you’re cooking me breakfast so they can wait,” he says, his voice dropping to that seductive rumble that makes my insides clench.
“Bold of you to assume I’m cooking enough for two,” I fire back, focusing on the eggs so he doesn’t see how his proximity affects me.
Before I can react, his hands grip my waist through the sheet. He lifts me effortlessly, spinning me away from the stove and planting my ass on the cold marble countertop. The sheet rides up my thighs as I gasp in surprise.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he drawls, moving between my spread legs, his hands gripping my bare thighs. “Are you eating an entire slab of bacon and six eggs yourself? I was unfamiliar with your game.”
I try to scowl at him but it’s hard when his thumbs are tracing little circles on the sensitive skin of my inner thighs. “Maybe I am. You don’t know my life.”
“I know you better than you think,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips brush my ear. “Like how you’re pretending to be annoyed right now, but your pupils are dilated and your pulse is racing.”
“You’re going to be late,” I remind him, even as my body betrays me by leaning closer to him. The eggs are probably overcooking, but suddenly I could care less.
“Worth it,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to where the sheet has slipped lower, revealing the tops of my breasts. “I’d rather feast on you anyway.”
“God, that was corny as fuck.”
I roll my eyes and place my palms against his chest, feeling the firm muscles beneath my fingers. With a decisive shove, I push him back and hop down from the counter. The marble floor is cold against my feet as I quickly grab the spatula and rescue the eggs before they burn completely.
“Sit,” I command, pointing to one of the barstools with my spatula. “If you’re going to be annoying, you can at least be annoying over there.”
Surprisingly, he complies, sliding onto the stool with that infuriating grace he has.
I turn my attention back to breakfast, working quickly to assemble something edible.
The eggs are slightly overcooked, but not ruined.
I slice an English muffin, pop it in the toaster, and arrange the bacon on a paper towel.
I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, tracking my movements like a predator. It makes my skin prickle with awareness, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.
When the muffin pops up, I slather it with butter, pile on the eggs and bacon, and slap the two halves together. The whole process takes maybe two minutes, and I’m acutely aware of how girlfriendy this feels. I might break out in hives.
I shove the sandwich at him, nearly hitting him in the chest with it. “Here, damn it. And don’t say I never made you anything. Now get out of my sight.”
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine in a way I rarely hear from him. Then he does something that completely throws me off balance—he leans forward and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Thanks, Little Sinner,” he murmurs against my hair before taking the food and walking toward the door.
I stand frozen in the kitchen, watching him go. It’s only when I hear the front door close that I realize I’ve been holding my breath. The pressure that’s been building in my chest since I woke up in his bed finally eases, like someone’s loosened a vise around my ribs.
What the fuck was that?