Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
AN ORGASM? YES, PLEASE
The world narrows to the searing heat of his mouth, the possessive press of his hands, the way his eyes darken to the color of twilight storms, his pupils blown wide with lust. The air between us crackles, thick with the scent of old books and something darker, something that smells like him, like amber and rain and the faintest hint of smoke.
Yeah, this is heating up fast, the kind of fast that burns through reason and leaves nothing but need in its wake.
I pat his chest, pulling away just enough to break the kiss.
“Lucien.” My eyes shift toward the front window of the shop.
If anyone stops to look in here, they’ll see more than just a woman and a man in an antique store.
They’ll see the way his hands grip my waist like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
They’ll see the way my fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt, like I’m holding on for dear life. They’ll know.
Lucien hums in disapproval, the sound vibrating against my lips before he cradles my face between his hands, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.
He turns my attention back to him with a gentle but insistent pressure.
“No talking,” he murmurs, his voice rough.
“I don’t care who sees me devour you. I don’t give two shits.
Do you know how long I’ve waited for you? ”
His words are a brand, searing into my skin.
I should argue. I should care. The way he’s looking at me, like I’m the only thing in this shop worth keeping, like I’m the only thing in this world worth keeping, burns away every ounce of shame before it can take root.
My lips part, a protest forming, but it dies before it can escape.
“I—”
He kisses me again, and I’m lost. Utterly, completely consumed. His mouth is hot, demanding, his tongue sweeping against mine like he’s claiming every inch of me. I melt into him, my hands slide up his back, my body arches against his like it already knows what it wants. What he wants.
I should feel embarrassed. Am I, though? The way Lucien looks at me, like I’m something rare and precious, like I’m the answer to a question he’s been asking for years, makes embarrassment a distant memory. A relic from a life I no longer recognize.
“Lucien,” I breathe, my voice embarrassingly shaky, like I’ve forgotten how to speak.
I should stop this. I should. The word echoes in my mind, weak and hollow, a whisper drowned out by the roar of my pulse in my ears.
The word should has never felt so insignificant, so powerless, compared to the way his name tastes on my tongue.
“Keisha, what did I say?” He pulls back just enough to look at me, his fingers still on my hips, his thumbs trace slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of my sweater.
The concern in his eyes is a soft counterpoint to the hunger still burning there, a reminder that even now, even like this, he’s checking in.
Making sure I’m with him. Then his face softens, his brows knitting together.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his voice rough with something that sounds like restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
I swallow. Hard. The logical part of my brain, the part that’s spent years convinced I’m not enough, that I’m too much, too soft, too loud, too everything, whispers that this is a bad idea.
That he’s going to see me, really see me, and realize I’m not the kind of woman who gets this kind of attention.
Not the kind who gets worshipped. I’ve spent so long telling myself I’m fine with being the background, the safe choice, the one who doesn’t demand more.
Safe doesn’t make your skin burn the way Lucien’s touch does.
Safe doesn’t make your breath catch in your throat like it’s trying to escape the cage of your ribs.
Then Lucien’s hands slide up my sides, his fingers slip beneath the hem of my sweater, his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts.
The contact is electric, a jolt of heat that shoots straight to my core.
Logic goes up in smoke, reduced to ash by the way his skin feels against mine, the way his breath hitches when he realizes my bra is lace.
His fingers flex, tracing the fabric, like he’s fighting the urge to explore further, to claim what he’s already decided is his.
“I don’t want you to stop,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. The words are a confession, something sacred. I’m handing him a piece of myself I’ve never given to anyone else.
A slow, wicked smile curves his lips, “Good.” His voice is a low rumble, the kind of sound that vibrates through your bones. “Because I’ve been imagining this since the moment I saw you standing in the rain, looking like a storm given human form. Like you were made to unravel me.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, a delicious ache settles between my thighs. No one has ever talked to me like this. My past relationships have been. . . fine. Predictable. This is far from it.
He steps back just enough to give himself room, he looks me over slowly, the intensity of it making my nipples tighten. “Take them off,” he says, his voice low, commanding. The words are a dare, a challenge. “I want to see you.”
My fingers tremble as I reach for the waistband of my leggings, the fabric clings to my skin like a second layer of doubt.
I kick my boots off, the thud as they hit the floor too loud in the quiet of the shop.
I slide the leggings down slowly, my movements hesitant.
I’ve never been self-conscious about my body.
Okay, that’s a lie, but standing here with all his attention on me, all those old insecurities claw their way to the surface.
I’m soft where I should be firm, round where I should be sleek.
I’m not the kind of woman who gets pinned against counters and devoured like a feast. I’m the kind who blends into the background, who fades into the edges of the frame.
Noticing my hesitance, Lucien’s hands are on mine in an instant, stilling my movements.
His touch is gentle but insistent, his fingers wrap around my wrists like he’s afraid I’ll pull away.
“Let me,” he murmurs, his voice a dark promise.
Before I can protest, he kneels in front of me, his hands slide down my legs to pull my leggings the rest of the way off, pooling them on the floor at my feet.
His breath catches as he takes me in, his eyes follow the curve of my hips, the swell of my stomach, the dark skin of my thighs glowing under the soft light of the shop.
His fingers flex against my skin, like he’s memorizing the feel of me.
“Fuck, Keisha,” he breathes, his voice reverent, like he’s praying. “You’re stunning.”
I want to believe him. I do believe him, in this moment, with the way his eyes shine with lust as they trace every inch of me.
The old doubts are stubborn though, they cling like cobwebs in the corners of my mind.
“You don’t have to say that,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest, like I can shield myself from his words. From the truth of it.
Lucien’s hands are on my wrists in an instant, pulling my arms away.
His grip is firm but not unkind, his thumbs brush over my pulse points like he’s soothing a wild thing.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean,” he says, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument.
“And I mean it when I say you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. ”
His words wrap around me like a spell, warm and intoxicating. I want to believe him. I need to believe him. Doubt is a stubborn thing, a shadow that lingers even in the brightest light.
Then his mouth is on mine again, hot and demanding, and all thoughts of doubt evaporate like mist under the sun.
His hands roam my body like he’s mapping every curve, every dip, every inch of skin that makes me me.
I arch into him, my fingers clutch at his shoulders, my body responds to his like it’s been waiting for this moment forever.
Stepping out of the tangle of my leggings, Lucien backs me up slowly until I feel the cool edge of the counter against my thighs.
His lips never leave mine as he lifts me with ease, setting me down on the worn wood like I’m something precious.
The counter is cold against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body, and I gasp into his mouth.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at me, dark and hungry, his lips swollen from our kisses.
When his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, I don’t even hesitate.
I lift my hips, letting him pull them down my legs, the fabric catches briefly on my thighs before he tugs them free.
The air is cool against my exposed skin, but it does nothing to temper the heat pooling between my thighs.
Lucien’s focus drops to my pussy, his breath hitches, his control frays, his hands flex at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to touch.
He drops to his knees in front of me, his hands slide up my thighs, spreading me open.
The sight of him there, his broad shoulders between my legs, his eyes locked on mine, is almost enough to make me come undone right then.
I gasp as his breath ghosts over my skin, my fingers grip the edge of the counter so hard I’m sure I’ll leave marks.
I lift my hips in offering, my body aching for his touch, for the heat of his mouth, for the promise of what’s to come.
“Lucien—”
“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper of sin. His breath is hot against my skin, his fingers dig into the soft flesh of my thighs. “Let me show you how beautiful you are.”