Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Shadows lengthened, the sun turning into a thin gold line on the horizon for several seconds before it stretched out and vanished.
"Night," Lucien murmured. His eyes glinted gold in the darkness of the carriage, full of secrets... and truths.
There was a faint twist within Ianthe's chest, the magic leash she wore streaming back the other way. Toward him. Ianthe clapped a hand to her chest with a faint gasp as her corset seemed to tighten.
"And now you're mine."
Ianthe licked dry lips. He didn't move, but tension tightened the muscles in his thighs, the fabric of his trousers rustling as he shifted slightly.
All day she'd been too distracted by her dilemma to think of this, but images sprang to mind following his words—of her on her knees in the carriage, her gloved hands sliding up the lean muscle of those thighs whilst Lucien watched impassively.
What would he ask her to do? She could only imagine.
"Summon a mage globe," he told her, stretching both arms along the seat back, "so that I can see you."
A small white orb stirred out of the shadows, just large enough to brighten the carriage. Reaching out, he tugged the blinds down. Just the two of them now. Locked together. Her body felt flushed and full, threatening to burst at the seams.
"You have kept your word today, so I will keep mine. I'm no gentleman in bed, Ianthe, but if you truly do not wish to perform any of the acts I ask of you tonight, then all you have to do is say so."
"I will insist upon a sheathe," she replied.
"I—"
"It's not open to discussion, Rathbourne. I will not risk a child." Her heart stirred dully in her chest.
A slow nod. "That suits me as well."
Breath catching, Ianthe rested her hands on her lap, waiting.
Every second stretched out the tension between them.
Her pulse began to race as her body remembered what it had felt like to have him kneeling above her in her secret chambers, his fingertip painting that blasted mark between her breasts.
Even now, the mark began to sink into her flesh, as if some sort of sorcery worked its magic between them.
"Pull your skirts up."
So he liked to be in charge, did he?
Ianthe breathed in, then out, making her own quiet decisions, and then slowly, slowly curled a fistful of her skirts in each hand.
This was a new game. The challenge was to see who broke first.
If Rathbourne thought her in any way squeamish...
Her smile had edges to it, she was positive, and when she met his gaze with an arched eyebrow, dragging her skirts higher, she could see her ploy had struck its mark. She wasn't the only one tested by desire here.
Rathbourne's mouth hardened, though his eyes turned to pure fire. Hungry. "Well?" he said, leaning on his fist and flicking a bored hand at her, as if to say: Any time you're ready, my dear.
"But we've got all night, have we not?" she all but purred. The drag of her skirts against her knees and then thighs rustled in the sleek compartment. Cool air whispered over her sensitive skin. Obeying left her wet and aching.
"Perhaps I've got plans."
"Oh? Do tell?"
The smile he gave her was dangerous. "No, I don't think so. I think I like it when you don't know what I intend. Remove your drawers."
Her breath caught. "Don't you want to do it yourself?"
Those amber eyes glittered furiously. "If I wanted to do it myself, then I wouldn't be sitting here watching you."
So be it. Submission could be merely another means of controlling the situation. Ianthe shifted and wiggled them down her legs, her petticoats spilling down to hide herself. They were pale pink linen. Clenching them in her fist, she stared at him. What now?
Rathbourne held out a hand, and her cheeks burned as she deposited them in it. He never took his eyes off her as he tucked them in the inner pocket of his jacket.
"Touch yourself."
That shocked her. "What?"
"I want to see you please yourself. Surely you know how."
Of course she did. When a sorcerer's energy was driven by sexual means and one didn't have a lover, one had to be resourceful. But that was private. From the smoldering look in his eyes though, he knew that.
Damned if she would give him the satisfaction.
Parting her legs, Ianthe slid tentative fingers up her inner thighs.
The ache inside ratcheted tighter, made her wet her lips, her teeth sinking slowly into the flesh of her lower one.
Those fingers traced slow circles on her inner thigh, sending tingles shooting through her.
It was the way he watched her that made her wet, an intense look in his eyes.
The way tension rode his hard frame. He was one step away from reaching for her. .. Ianthe shuddered.
Lucien's eyes were heavy-lidded, and he rested his chin on his hand. "Are you trying to tease me, my dear?"
"Am I succeeding?"
He shifted slightly. A faint smile traced his hard mouth. "What do you think?"
Ianthe slid her fingertip lightly against her clitoris. Sensation shivered through her. "I think one of us is more patient than the other."
Those hard eyes softened lazily, as if she'd said something that amused him. "Do you want to see who it is? Is that the game? Whoever lasts the longest?"
"You enjoy the play of power, don't you?
" Again, she let her fingertips brush against her secret flesh.
He couldn't see it. Her skirts saw to that.
But she could see the flare of his nostrils as he took a sharp breath, and the tightening of his pupils.
Warm light from the mage globe bathed the two of them.
"One could say the same, madam. First you challenge me not to kiss you first, now this... Who's playing games, Ianthe?"
Ianthe. The hot stroke of his tongue over her name sent shivers through her. A sudden wicked urge overtook her. He had ordered her to touch herself: he was not unmoved. And she wanted to win this. She wanted to move him.
Using her telekinesis, she lightly stroked him with her senses, 'caressing' the broad planes of his chest, as if with her own hands.
Lucien went still. His gaze locked on hers. He was actually shocked. And heavily aroused.
Ianthe smiled as she stroked the lush, already damp folds of her secret self.
She pulled her skirts just a little higher, revealing herself.
Her breasts heaved, pushing against the constraints of her bodice.
"I do wonder," she whispered, as her psychic touch trailed lower over his abdomen, "who will last the longest? "
The touch was light, a whisper of sensation over his skin. Tempting, teasing, and twisting him tighter, until he was almost ready to explode.
And the little devil watched his reaction, her teeth sunk in her fleshy lower lip, as she slowly stroked herself between the thighs, eyelashes fluttering lower and her cheeks painted a pretty pink. "I thought you wanted me to please you, Rathbourne?"
"This does please me. I want you wet," Lucien told her, leaning against the window and watching her.
Feigning an unruffled demeanor, though a muscle tightened in his jaw as those invisible hands caressed the inside of his thighs.
He couldn't stop his hands from clenching.
Bloody woman. He was rapidly losing track of this seduction.
He just wanted inside her. Now. "When we get inside, I want you to go upstairs to your bedchamber, bend over your bed, and lift your skirts.
I want you to be ready for me, Ianthe. I plan to take you then, with no preliminaries. "
Her fingers paused, her eyes springing wide. "So be it," she whispered. Her fingers resumed their work, and he could see now, see the blushing pink depths of her and the paler flicker of her fingernails.
Fuck. Lucien ground his teeth together, trying to stifle the raging erection in his trousers. She knew it too, the devil, her eyes laughing at him as she fingered herself. Her flesh all soft and flushed and peeking out every now and then from beneath the exquisite mound of her petticoats.
"Harder," he whispered.
Again, a flicker of uncertainty danced through her eyes; then she slid one finger inside herself. As if to compensate, a phantom fingertip stroked down the length of his cock. Lucien groaned. He'd never been with a woman who could do that.
"Are you thinking of this?" he asked, cupping his cock. Fabric strained over it, the shape brutish and straining. He needed to touch it. "Of how I'm going to fuck you? Would you like it to be soft and slow, Ianthe? Or hard?"
There'd be no time to ask later.
Her head lolled back, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. The flush of desire painted her body, a soft moan easing from her lips. A firm fist of pressure locked around his cock, taking him to the edge.
"Stop," he commanded.
That hand stopped, her fingers buried deep inside her wet opening. Luminous, half-dazed eyes opened, locking on him incredulously.
He smiled, relishing the moment. "Remove your hand and stop touching me."
"Why?" she breathed.
"I intend for you to reach your pleasure, my dear, but not alone. I'll let you come later, when I'm buried inside you." His words turned dangerously soft. "Only when I'm inside you, Ianthe. You're not to touch yourself from now on, not unless I allow it. Not even during the day."
With visible agitation, Miss Martin thrust her skirts down over her knees, leaning back and pressing the back of her hand to her lips. She wouldn't look at him, though her heart was racing, visible in the flickering pulse at her throat.
"Besides," he murmured, "we're almost home."
Taking her hand, still slick from her body, Luc pressed it to his mouth, his tongue darting over the musky taste of her and earning a shocked flinch. "Are you ready?"
"More than ready." Those violet eyes challenged him. She’d recovered herself with exquisite aplomb.
"Good," he said, stroking her knuckles as the carriage pulled up to the curb. "Now go make yourself ready and wait for me."