Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ERIN
Lucian’s arms come around me the second I climb onto him.
Not trapping.
Receiving.
That nearly undoes me.
I expected the dark thrill first. The command. The heat. The beautiful escape of his control swallowing mine until all the sharp edges in my head went quiet.
Instead, he holds me like I am something returned.
Not fragile.
Not ruined.
Returned.
My knees press into the carpet on either side of his thighs. His hands settle at my back, heavy and warm, waiting for me to decide what happens next.
Lucian Bachman, waiting. Acknowledging I’m in control.
I cup his face. His jaw is rough under my palms. His eyes are darker than I have ever seen them, and beneath the darkness is rage so deep it should scare me.
It doesn’t.
Because he has not left.
Because he is still here with me on the floor, instead of hunting for someone to kill.
Because when I told him the thing I thought would make his touch change, he asked if he could touch me at all.
That question cracked something in me. Something good. Something healing.
I kiss Lucian, carefully at first, waiting for the memory to rise, the old shadow to come.
It doesn’t. It’s only Lucian. His breath. His heat. His hands tighten slightly against my back when I deepen the kiss.
Us.
I make a sound against his mouth, needy and broken. He knows what I need. His hand slides into my hair and grips.
Just hard enough.
He pulls my head back. I gasp. His mouth moves to my throat.
“Tell me if I’m getting it wrong,” he murmurs against my pulse. “Don’t let me fail you right now.”
The words are so quiet I almost miss them. But I don’t.
“Don’t be too careful,” I whisper.
He stills.
I feel the war inside him. The part of him that wants to be gentle because of what I’ve just told him. But he knows what I need.
What I’ve asked for.
And he delivers. His teeth scrape lightly over my pulse.
I jolt. “Lucian.”
He kisses down my throat, then bites softly where my shoulder meets my neck. Heat shoots through me. My hands grip his shirt. Then I take his hand and place it at my waist.
His fingers spread. He grips. My body exhales.
“Harder,” I say.
His other hand slides to my hip, holding me firmly in his lap. I rock against him, and the hardness beneath me sends heat blooming low in my belly, spreading between my thighs.
Lucian’s jaw tightens. “You’re shaking.” He kisses me harder.
Thank God.
He takes my mouth like he can drive out every memory that does not belong to him, and I let him try. I help him. I bite his lip, dig my fingers into his shoulders, press myself closer until there is no space left between us.
He groans. The sound vibrates through me.
I need more of it.
I need him undone because of me.
I need proof not only that he still wants me, but that wanting me can still make him lose his mind.
His scars catch my eye as we remove his sweater. I run my hands over them, tracing the uneven skin.
He watches me. Always watching. I need that right now.
“Make me yours.” I lean in and kiss near his collarbone. His hand grips the back of my neck.
“You already are.” Then he takes over.
He rises with me in his arms, and I cling to him as he carries me to the small sofa against the wall. Not our room, not our bed.
God, Cass will kill me.
He sets me down and kneels between my knees.
The sight of him there nearly ruins me. His hands slide up my thighs.
I stare at him.
This impossible, brutal, scarred, controlling man.
Then I reach for the hem of my sweater and pull it over my head.
Lucian’s breath catches.
The sound makes me feel more wanted than any words can.
I remove the rest slowly. Not performing. Reclaiming. Piece by piece, I take off the clothes and let them fall around me.
Lucian does not touch until I am bare.
His eyes move over me.
There is rage there still. There is hunger. Possession. Grief. Love. He leans forward and presses his mouth to my knee.
Such a simple touch.
It almost breaks me.
Then higher.
My thigh.
The soft skin near my hip. When his mouth reaches my stomach, I thread my fingers into his hair. He kisses the inside of my thigh.
I tremble.
Another kiss.
Higher.
Then his gaze lifts to mine, and the words come without hesitation.
“Erin. I love you.”
My heart turns over.
His mouth lowers.
The first stroke of his tongue drags me under.
I fall back against the sofa, one hand in his hair, the other gripping the cushion beside me. He takes his time at first, and I hate him for it. Love him. Need him to stop being careful and keep being careful all at once.
My body wakes under him.
Not all at once.
In pieces.
A shiver in my thighs. A pull low in my belly. Heat spreading where there had been numbness. My hips tilt toward his mouth before I permit them, and Lucian makes a sound that is pure satisfaction.
“Good girl,” he murmurs against my wetness.
The praise slides through me. So does the shame. I moan.
Lucian’s hand presses over my stomach, holding me down when my body starts to writhe. Firm. Controlled. Exactly enough.
A sob breaks from me as pleasure builds.
He stops immediately.
My head lifts. “I’m okay. Keep going. Please.”
Then his mouth is on me again, and this time he does not stop.
He takes me apart with terrifying patience, dragging pleasure from places I thought shame had buried. Each time I tense, he anchors me. He owns me with his hand, his voice, his mouth, his command.
“Look at me.”
I do.
“Come for me.”
I do.
The climax tears through me so hard I cry out, body arching, fingers locked in his hair. It is not graceful. It is not pretty. It is messy and wet and alive, and when the pleasure breaks over me, something inside grows with it.
Lucian rises over me before I finish shaking. I reach for him. He lets me pull him down.
Our mouths meet, and I taste myself on him. The intimacy of it should embarrass me. It doesn’t. It makes me feel real. Present. Wanted.
I fumble with his belt. He catches my hands. I look up, frustrated. “What?”
“Tell me what you want,” he demands.
“You.”
A spark of irritation cuts through the haze. “Say it properly.”
“I want you inside me,” I say.
His face changes—the control slips, only for a second.
Then he removes the rest of his clothes with ruthless efficiency, and I almost laugh because of course Lucian Bachman undresses like a man heading into battle.
When he settles over me, I wrap my legs around his hips.
He pauses at my entrance.
Waiting.
My hands frame his face.
“Yes.”
His forehead lowers to mine. “Stay with me.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about now or forever, but I can’t think straight enough to figure it out.
He pushes inside slowly.
I close my eyes.
He stops. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes open.
The stretch is intense. Familiar. Overwhelming. My body yields around him, and he watches every flicker on my face like he would murder discomfort itself if it showed up uninvited.
I breathe through it.
He waits.
Once he is fully inside me, neither of us moves.
Tears slide into my hair. Lucian kisses them from my temple.
“You are mine,” he whispers.
That undoes me more than anything else. I pull his mouth to mine as he begins to move.
Slow at first. Deep. Searching.
I feel every inch of him, every controlled thrust, every tremor in his arms as he holds himself back for me. It is too much and not enough. I need more.
I dig my nails into his back. “Don’t be careful.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m trying not to be.”
“I know.” I lift my hips. “But I need to know you still want me like before.”
A flash of pain crosses his face. Then heat. “Like before?”
I nod.
His hand slides to my throat. Light. Possessive.
My breath catches.
“There is no before,” he says. “Only us.”
Then he moves harder.
My body arches under him.
The pressure. The force. The dark certainty of him.
He drives into me with controlled intensity, eyes never leaving mine. The sofa creaks beneath us. My hands clutch his shoulders, then his hair, then the edge of the cushion as pleasure builds again too fast.
A sob. A moan. His name.
He thrusts deeper. “Who do you belong to?”
“Myself,” I gasp. “Again. Finally.” Then I reach for him, nails digging in. “And you.”
The sound that leaves him is almost broken. He kisses me hard and loses the last of his restraint.
I wanted this. Wanted him undone, wanted the proof that my truth did not make him gentler because he wanted me less, only careful because he loved me more.
He moves like a man claiming a vow from my body. Each thrust pulls me farther from Caleb’s hallway and deeper into this room, this moment, this choice.
When I come again, I say Lucian’s name like it’s the only word left.
He follows, face buried against my neck, body shaking as he holds me so tightly that I feel the beat of his heart against mine.
For a long time after, we stay tangled on the sofa, sweat cooling on our skin, my cheek pressed to his shoulder.
I smile faintly against his skin. I close my eyes. For a while, there is only us.
Then a knock sounds lightly at the door.
Lucian’s body turns to stone.
I sigh. “Please don’t murder whoever that is.”
He kisses my forehead, then carefully eases away, covers me with the blanket from the back of the sofa, and reaches for his trousers.
“Who is it?” he calls.
Rafe’s voice comes through the door. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Lucian goes to the door and opens it a crack so he can speak with Rafe.
Rafe lowers his voice, but I hear what he says. “Lucian, you can’t put it off any longer.”
Lucian looks at me.
“Aye, Bachman. You need to come. Now.” It’s Bayne’s voice now. “The time has come.”
“Put off what?” I ask, pulling the blanket to my shoulders. “What is it time for?”
Lucian doesn’t answer.