Chapter 14
Elora
"The surveillance footage and waiter testimonies are all here." Lucien leaned back in his chair, his fingertips drumming rhythmically on the desk.
"The evidence shows Veronica deliberately shoved and provoked at the gala. Serena was only protecting Elora when she got knocked into the champagne tower during the chaos."
I stood to the side, my entire body freezing.
Serena was the one who'd pushed, who'd poured wine on herself—yet Lucien had used edited screenshots and coerced testimonies to pin everything seamlessly on Veronica.
"Good! Very good!" Carlo slammed the file shut, murder in his eyes.
"Rocco," Lucien said without looking up, "pull all Feri family properties on Seventh Avenue. Cut their three port lines. As for Veronica—Carlo's call."
Carlo stormed out, rage radiating from every inch of him.
Lucien rubbed his temples, then pulled my stunned form closer, his voice dropping. "Scared?"
"You... you know it wasn't Veronica..."
"The process doesn't matter, Elora." Lucien tightened his grip on my hand. "Carlo needs an outlet, Serena needs her reputation, and you need to be cleared. Veronica insulted you. This is the price she pays."
I stared at him, my heart slamming against my ribs.
"Go rest." He patted my hand gently, a deep exhaustion flickering in those gray eyes.
Seeing the dark circles he couldn't hide, the fear in my chest slowly transformed into something more painful. Instead of leaving, I walked behind him, reaching out to massage his temples with gentle pressure.
"Out of oil?"
"Yeah."
"I'll make more this afternoon."
He nodded slightly and began reviewing documents. I kept going until his shoulders loosened and his brow smoothed, then finally left the study, the weight that had been crushing my chest lifting at last.
Back in the bedroom, I pulled out the bourbon vetiver oil, meaning to remake his sleep blend. My mind felt sluggish, so I headed to the manor library to consult the advanced botanical texts. Reaching for a high shelf, an old leather-bound notebook suddenly tumbled down.
"Shit—" I rubbed my forehead and picked it up. The cover was worn, corners curled. Opening to the first page, I found an entire volume of whiskey tasting notes written in rounded, elegant script.
I flipped through to the last entry. The previously neat handwriting turned shaky, rushed, leaving only one short line.
"To my son Lucien. Happy 18th birthday. I will always be proud of you. December 19th."
This was from Lucien's father. And two weeks from now would be Lucien's birthday.
I clutched the notebook and hurried to find Natalie in the flower house. After showing her the journal and the corresponding antique whiskey bottle, tears streamed down her face.
"Seventeen years ago, on December 19th—Lucien's eighteenth birthday—his father never woke up again.
" Natalie's voice broke as she gripped my hand.
"From that day on, that boy never celebrated another birthday.
Every year, he either locks himself in his study working until dawn, or doesn't come home at all.
His severe insomnia started then too..."
Natalie looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. "Elora, he never lets anyone near him on that day. But this year he has you. Help him break free. Will you help me?"
Meeting her desperate, pleading gaze, I nodded firmly. "Yes. I'll help you."
For the next week, I prepared in secret.
I went to a private couture shop on Madison Avenue and commissioned a custom tie clip—black obsidian base, gunmetal frame, engraved with a soaring falcon.
I spent two afternoons in a baking studio learning how to make his childhood favorite: chocolate mousse cake.
December 19th. Eleven-thirty at night. Dragging, exhausted footsteps echoed down the hall.
The door opened. Lucien walked in, cold air clinging to him, his tie hanging loose around his neck, his face pale as a ghost.
Seeing me still sitting on the bed, he paused. "Still up?"
"Waiting for you." I rose and walked to him, slipping off his coat and loosening his tie. Then I pressed a black velvet pouch containing the tie clip into his palm.
"What's this?" He frowned, pulling it open. The gunmetal clip gleamed coldly under the light.
"A gift." I blew out the wall lamp, then pushed the chocolate mousse cake with its single candle, the antique whiskey, and the leather journal toward him in the darkness.
The flame flickered, illuminating both our faces inches apart. I began singing happy birthday softly.
When the song ended, Lucien stood frozen, those icy gray eyes flooding with shock and confusion. "You..."
"Happy birthday, Lucien." I pushed the journal closer. "Your father left this for you."
Lucien's hand trembled as he opened to that page, his fingertips tracing over and over the words "I will always be proud of you."
"Seventeen years..." His voice was so hoarse it was barely recognizable.
A clear droplet slid down his cheek without warning. He quickly wiped it away. I wrapped my arms around his broad but rigid back from behind, pressing my face against his burning skin. "Lucien, there's no one else here."
His entire body shook violently, then he covered my hands, his broad shoulders trembling slightly. We held each other in silence for a long time, letting seventeen years of accumulated pain slowly release from his body.
When he finally turned the wall lamp back on, the cold defenses in his eyes had completely shattered. He pulled me hard against his chest, hugging me so tightly my ribs ached.
"One more surprise."
I smiled, slipping from his embrace and waving the amber bottle of bourbon vetiver oil. "Shirt off. On the bed, face down."
Lucien raised an eyebrow, a rare hint of lightness entering his expression. "Yes, ma'am."
He unbuttoned his shirt and stripped it off, revealing his powerful, broad back, the muscles along his spine taut as steel cables.
I poured oil into my palms, warmed them, and pressed down on his back.
The scorching heat of his skin shot through my hands, mixing with the rich, lingering scent of vetiver.
The air in the room instantly thickened, turning heavy and charged.
I worked my knuckles into the knots at his shoulders and neck, listening to his heavy breathing as my own heartbeat spiraled out of control.
When I reached the deep pressure points at his lower back, my knuckles weren't strong enough. I slipped off my shoes and socks and climbed onto the bed, stepping carefully onto his lower back.
Using my body weight, I pressed and rolled gently.
The muscles beneath me suddenly went rigid.
"Elora, you better know what you're doing."
"I'm giving you physical therapy. Your sides are so tight that—ah!"
I foolishly added more pressure with my toes. The man beneath me let out a low, strained groan. The next second, the world flipped.
One moment I was balanced on his lower back, the next Lucien had rolled with lethal speed, catching my waist and reversing our positions so that I landed astride him, knees braced on either side of his hips.
His bare chest heaved beneath me. Those steel-cable muscles flexed as he gripped my thighs, holding me exactly where he wanted.
"Elora." His voice was rough, low, already edged with command. "You started this, and you're gonna finish it."
I planted my palms on his pecs, feeling the scorching heat of his skin through the residual oil. My pulse hammered. I shifted deliberately, rolling my hips so the thin fabric of my underwear dragged over the hard ridge straining against his trousers. His jaw tightened.
"I was helping," I said, breath short. "Your sides are—"
"Quiet." One hand slid up under my skirt, fingers hooking the edge of my panties. He yanked them aside without ceremony. The cool air kissed my already slick folds for half a second before the broad head of his cock nudged against me. "Ride."
I sank down. The stretch was immediate, thick and relentless.
A broken sound escaped my throat as I took him inch by inch until my ass met his thighs.
Full. So full I had to pause, forehead dropping toward his chest. He didn't give me time.
Both hands clamped on my hips and forced me down the rest of the way, seating himself to the root.
"Move," he ordered.
I rose and dropped, finding a rhythm that made stars burst behind my eyelids.
Every downward stroke dragged the head of him over the spot that made my thighs shake.
I braced harder on his chest and rode him harder, chasing the sharp, bright coil building low in my belly.
His eyes stayed locked on mine, dark and possessive, watching every flicker of pleasure cross my face.
"That's it," he growled. "Take what you need. But hear me now—this body, these hands, this mouth," his hips punched up to meet me, driving deeper, "they don't touch another man like that. Ever."
I laughed, breathless, even as pleasure spiked. "It's a massage, Lucien. Therapy. You're being ridiculous."
His expression hardened. In one powerful surge, he sat up, arms banding around my back so our chests slammed together. The new angle buried him even deeper. I gasped. He nipped the side of my throat, voice a dark rasp against my skin.
"Ridiculous? No one else gets your hands, your thighs, the sound you make when you press deep. Understand?"
"You're jealous," I panted, rolling my hips in deliberate circles just to spite him. The friction was devastating. "Unreasonable. Completely—"
He flipped us again. The world tilted once more, and my back hit the mattress.
Lucien loomed over me, one hand pinning both of my wrists above my head, the other shoving my knees wide.
He drove back in with a single ruthless thrust that punched the air from my lungs.
The new position left me open, helpless, every stroke bottoming out against my cervix in a bright, almost painful pleasure.
"Say it again," he demanded, hips snapping. The wet sound of him fucking me filled the room. "Tell me I'm unreasonable while I'm buried in this tight cunt."
I arched, trying to meet him, but he controlled the pace completely—hard, deep, unrelenting. Each thrust dragged over every sensitive ridge inside me. Sweat slicked our skin. The oil made everything smoother, dirtier. My wrists flexed uselessly in his grip.
"You, ah, you can't just—" My protest dissolved into a moan when he angled higher, grinding against my clit on every stroke. "Lucien—"
"No one else." His free hand slid between us, thumb circling the swollen bud with precise, merciless pressure. "Promise me."
The coil inside me tightened past bearing. He fucked me through it, never slowing, forcing the pleasure higher until my vision whited out at the edges. I clenched around him helplessly. He groaned, low and feral, but didn't stop.
"Still think I'm being unreasonable?" Another hard thrust. Another. "Still want to put these hands on someone else's back?"
"Yes, and no—" Words tangled. My body betrayed me, hips lifting greedily for more even as defiance flickered. "It's just—"
He pulled almost all the way out, then slammed home so deep I cried out.
The hand between us pressed firmer. The dual assault shattered the last of my resistance.
Pleasure crashed over me in violent waves.
I came hard, walls fluttering and squeezing around his cock, thighs shaking, a broken sob tearing free.
Lucien didn't ease up. He rode me through the aftershocks, chasing his own release with brutal, focused strokes that prolonged my climax until tears pricked my eyes. Only when I was trembling and oversensitive did he lean down, mouth at my ear, voice pure command.
"Promise me. No other man gets this. No massages. No hands. No body weight. Nothing. Say it."
I turned my face into his neck, wrecked and open and still pulsing around him. Pride wanted to argue. My body, still clenching on the thick length buried inside me, already knew the truth.
"I promise," I whispered.
He thrust once more, deep and final, and came with a guttural sound that vibrated through both of us.