Chapter 8 #4
Hardly innocent, but still untutored. "I shocked you last night." He began rubbing slow circles around her clit with his thumb. The scent of her desire was rich and heady. As she rode him, her eyelashes fluttered as if the sensation his thumb was wringing out of her was entirely too much.
"Yes," Ianthe gasped, her mouth parting and her nails digging into his shoulder. "Rathbourne."
"Yes?"
"I enjoyed every second of it," she whispered, her hips jerking with small, taut movements.
He could feel the press of her body, the way she clenched around his touch.
The idea that she'd enjoyed his mastery made desire flush through him.
He wanted her to find her pleasure with him.
He needed her to, but he couldn't force it.
"What part of it did you enjoy?" he murmured, pressing his cheek against hers so that his breath brushed her ear.
"The fucking?" Her body clenched again. "Or the surrender? "
There. That was it. Ianthe moaned lightly, her nails digging into the sleeves of his coat. "All of it."
Cupping his free hand behind her nape, he dragged her closer, thrusting a little to give her what she could barely force herself to take at the moment.
Her skin was soft as he brushed his face against her throat, then moved lower, unbuttoning buttons as he went, and licking his way down all of that pale, creamy flesh until he found the soft curve of her breast, still cupped carefully in her wealth of lace and the restriction of her stays.
Lucien's tongue darted beneath her bodice, finding her nipple hard and swollen.
"Oh," she whispered, arching into the caress. "Yes."
"I think you like being under my command." This time teeth accompanied the words.
Miss Martin cried out, clutching his hair in her fist. Lucien surveyed her shocked face over the smooth expanse of bare skin, then softened the sharp pain of his bite with his tongue.
What was it about her that drove him to such lack of composure?
He wanted to ruck her skirts up, tumble her back on the seats, and fuck the sense out of her.
She was madness-inducing. He'd never felt such lack of composure when it came to a woman.
Control it...
Turning and pressing her back against the seat, he knelt between her parted thighs and pressed them wide.
Her drawers were soft silk and wet with her desire.
Grabbing her by the bottom, Lucien dragged her hips to the edge of the seat and buried his face between her thighs, licking through the silk, his tongue tracing small circles around the hard nub there.
His cock was hard. Aching. But this was purely for her.
It had nothing to do with controlling his own fierce need...
Miss Martin gasped. "Rathbourne."
"Not the time for questions, love." Spreading both thumbs against her draws, he parted them, leaving her at his mercy.
She shivered as his breath wet her sensitive skin. Anticipation locked her up harder as Lucien enjoyed the moment, letting it extend until she was practically quivering.
"Look at you," he whispered, "all pretty and pink."
Then his tongue found her clit.
Miss Martin's thighs clenched around his head. "Oh, God!"
She was both delicious and responsive. Lucien drowned himself in her, listening intently to her soft sounds, feeling her body's tension twist tighter and tighter, until...
She came with a shocked cry, her fingers gripping fists of his hair. Lucien panted on his knees, a smile of satisfaction crossing his face as he looked up at her flushed face.
This time, her pleasure was real.
Afterward, he drew her into his lap, letting her head rest against his chest. There was no help for it.
Ianthe was going to look breathless and utterly ruined when they arrived.
It made his chest clench a little. From her relaxed pose, it seemed she hadn't thought of it herself yet, but he didn't like the idea of her arriving at Balthazar's Labyrinth and having hard eyes notice the disheveled state of her hair or the flushed skin at her throat where his whiskers had grazed, of people assuming what she had called herself.
Whore. It was an ugly word, but one in which the men he knew cast too easily. And one which she knew, far too well, it seemed.
A finger traced the buttons on his waistcoat. "Do you want to...?”
God, yes. He wanted to tumble her to her knees and drive himself into her willing body. Instead, he shook his head. “Tonight. There’s time for that later tonight.”
Miss Martin’s gaze dropped to his lap, sighting the evidence of his lack of composure. She looked dubious. And guilty.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Miss Martin said. "I just feel... like I shouldn't have enjoyed myself. Not when everything's going wrong."
"And energy-wise, how do you feel?"
She frowned. "Wonderful."
"Your affinity lies with sexually charged sorceries. Consider what we just did a way to strengthen yourself. Not something to be ashamed of. Here, sit up. We're nearly there."
Miss Martin sat up quickly. Lucien busied himself with fixing the buttons at her throat, and then turned her in his lap, so he could smooth her hair back into place.
It wasn't perfect; he was far more skilled at unraveling a woman, rather than putting her back together, but it might do to fool all but the most practiced eye.
When he had finished, she glanced at him from underneath those thick, dark lashes. There was a question there.
Lucien shifted her to the seat beside him. "I swore to protect you. That includes your reputation."
Ianthe considered his words, the moment drawing out. "You're a...complicated man."
Their eyes met and held for long moments.
"Yes," he replied, "I am."