Chapter 14 #3
Instead, he brushed his fingertips over that full, luscious mouth, feeling his own tingle with suppressed need.
He wanted to kiss her, but could not. And perhaps that was the problem?
Denied by his own pride, his desire only swelled at the thought of what he could not have. Could not touch. Or taste.
And she knew it.
Ianthe's breath hitched. Her fingers tugged his tie from where it was tucked within his waistcoat. She looked up, a sultry glance from beneath her lashes. Apparently he was not the only one thinking lustful thoughts. "Why not create some new memories? For the both of us?"
"It's not night."
"True." Those fingers slid down his waistcoat, flexing against the fabric, as if she enjoyed the sensation beneath her fingertips. She turned her hand, brushing lower against his erection.
Violet eyes lifted to meet his.
"To disapproving fathers," she murmured, a faint smile playing about her lips as she went to the floor in front of him, her skirts spilling about her. A supplicant on her knees, but it was not forgiveness she asked.
"Christ." Lucien's breath exploded out of him, but he certainly wasn't protesting. "You don't have to do this."
"I don't do anything unless I wish to do so."
"Really?" He captured her chin, lifting her face so that he could see everything it revealed. "Then you wanted to be in my bed?"
Ianthe hesitated, and a pretty rose flush spread through her cheeks.
That was not what caught his interest, however.
Colors danced over her skin, a wash of yellowy-green guilt, and something.
.. blue. A blue so bright and vibrant that it reminded him of a summer sky with not a cloud in it.
He hesitated before making his guess. Longing?
Yet there was nothing sexual about the flash of color.
It was pure, chased away by the dark indigo of doubt.
Lucien froze. He couldn't quite decipher what that look had been about...
They stayed like that until Ianthe's dark lashes slowly lowered, shuttering her pretty eyes.
Her gaze fell, her hands sliding up his thighs.
"I wanted you in my bed," she admitted in a soft voice.
"I wanted you under my hands, under my mouth.
.. I wanted permission, in a way, to take what I wanted.
Permission to surrender to your needs, and in doing so, to exploit my own. "
"Nobody was stopping you," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair off her face.
"Only myself."
He understood that in a way. She'd been raised in a strict environment, and though she had rebelled, echoes of society's restraint still lingered within her. By demanding her nights, he had, in effect, given her guilt-free permission to accept his deal and explore her budding sensuality.
"It was easy to give into your demands, Lucien, for then I could pretend I had no choice in the matter."
Lucien stroked his thumb across her cheek. "And then you could enjoy this without feeling the shame."
Those dark lashes lowered. "Yes."
"Look at me, darling." As she slowly complied, he felt a nervous flutter along his skin, knowing how important this moment was.
"There will never be shame, not between us.
No, this is but desire, Ianthe, and it is pure and clean and whole.
I don't care which of your father's lies you still hear, no matter how much you claim otherwise; he is wrong.
I don't care what society will say about us; they know nothing.
You and I, we are all that matter here, now, between us.
All you need know is this: do as you please. "
"We're in the middle of an important investigation," she whispered, and he saw the guilt in her eyes. "It's easier at night, when there's nothing else I should be doing."
"Is not giving in to desire going to help us find Morgana faster?"
"No."
"Is this going to strengthen the both of us, considering the sexual aspect of our power?"
"Yes."
Lucien leaned closer. "I think this is important. For us. For our bond. For you. You've been carrying a weight around on your shoulders. It's not good for you."
Her hands quivered on his thighs. "Thank you."
"It's my pleasure." At the flash of budding emotion on her face, he forestalled her. "No, really. It is. Use me to please yourself. Do as you please. I will not utter one word of protest."
That earned a smile, followed closely by a look of determination that took his breath away. "Then I shall."
His cock strained behind the fabric of his breeches as her breath whispered soft entreaty there. His skin heated as her hands slid higher, so lightly that they almost trembled over the buckskin of his breeches. Every muscle in his abdomen tightened in sensual anticipation.
And she was barely even touching him.
"Tell me what you want," he whispered.
"I want to be under your hands." Another sensual whisper from those rosy lips. "Under your mouth. Under your command. I want. That's the truth. I wanted this. It's very simple, really, and yet, not at all."
One delicate finger traced the firm bulge of his erection, like a lit spark set to flesh.
A button parted under her careful ministrations, then another.
.. She was seducing him in slow measures, wrapping him around her little finger, stealing the very breath in his lungs and taking command of the rapid thump of his heart.
And all the while, she watched him with those dangerous, dangerous eyes.
Lucien was fairly certain, in that instant, that he wasn't going to survive Miss Martin. Not intact. Not whole.
"Do you know what I want?" he whispered, curling his finger around that one strand of hair that always refused to obey her careful ministrations and rubbing his fingers down its black length. Soft. So soft.
"What?"
The devil knew it. He could see it in her eyes as she leaned closer and rubbed her cheek against the engorged length of his cock.
Lucien sucked in a sharp breath and thrust his hand back for support, knocking a pair of books off the desk. "I want that pretty little mouth—"
Something shifted in the air in the room. It stole his attention.
"Yes?" she asked in a taunting whisper as her tongue darted out, caressing his molten skin.
Lucien froze, one hand clenched in her curls, as she pressed forward and bestowed a chaste kiss against the buckskin barely covering his cock.
Breathing seemed dangerous in this moment.
Not now. Not bloody now. But he looked up, alerted by some instinct, some tremble along his skin, that something wasn't right.
"Do you feel that?"
"Is that supposed to be some sort of innuendo?" Ianthe teased, and her hand brushed against his cock.
Lucien caught her wrist. In the darkness, something red gleamed.
Eyes. A set of glowing, red eyes.
"Ianthe," he whispered. His cock flagged.
Some sense of his concern must have betrayed him. She looked up, her voice as quiet as his. "What?"
"I think we just tripped one of the wards in the room," he told her, not daring to take his eyes off the creature shuddering free of its stone trappings with a cracking sound. "Lord Rathbourne must have put it over one of the books on his desk."
Ianthe froze, her back to the threat, and her pale face tilted up to his. Her previous languidness melted off her. "What is it?"
"A stone construct. The gargoyle, I think."
Another low groan tore itself through the room, and he had the sudden realization that there'd been two of them guarding the entrance. "Fuck."
"Good thing we weren't caught with your breeches entirely down."
Lucien stepped slowly to the side. His flagging erection couldn't have felt more vulnerable as he swiftly rebuttoned himself. "Not the time for a jest, Miss Martin. I'm fairly certain I'm never going to have you on your knees without the hairs on the back of my neck rising."
"Yes, this wasn't entirely what I meant when I said 'let's create new memories'."
Bizarrely, he couldn't stop himself from smiling. "Don't you ever show fear, woman?"
"I'm not very fond of small spaces, remember?"
Yes, but far from running from such things, she was the type of woman who braced herself, stiffened her upper lip, and then waded into battle. A warmth spread through him: admiration.
"Constructs," Ianthe muttered, turning to face the doorway with her hands flexed at her sides. "It had to be constructs."
"At least they're only stone."
"Not bodies?" She gave him a tight, thin-lipped smile. "Small mercies, my lord."
Lucien looked for a weapon. Something. Anything. Nothing on hand, except for the fire poker. Good lord, he was reduced to this. He did, however, snatch it up.
Ianthe shot the poker a look, then turned that look upon him. It spoke volumes.
"Later," he said.
"Would you like me to take point?"
He gave a gruff nod. "If you would."
"Can you keep them off my back?" Ianthe's fingers flexed, a pair of mage globes forming an inch from her palms and flickering with blue lightning.
"I'm not entirely certain. I'll try."
"We need to discuss this at some point," she murmured. "You cannot continue like this, Rathbourne."
"Later."
Saved by the gargoyle. It skittered toward them, its stone claws clicking on the cobbled floors, and its eyes gleaming with a vacant, demonic light.
Buoyed by latent magic, color flooded its body until its hide was no longer stone but an iridescent ripple of oil on water.
A slick pink tongue darted out, tasting the air, and then it danced back into the shadows behind a column.
"It's quicker than I imagined." Ianthe raised her hands.
Her mage globes rose into the air, throwing back the shadows. They hummed neutrally, pale globes of light with the odd static crackle of lightning dancing over their surfaces.