Page 47 of Filthy Rich

“Fuck that,” I say, rubbing my ass against him. “Hurry.”

He laughs, the sound muffled as he rips the condom with his teeth and sets a new land speed record as he rolls it on. Then he presses his face to the back of my neck and murmurs something hot and urgent as his hands massage the front of my thighs. I cock my hips and keep rubbing my ass against that huge dick of his, a move he seems to like, judging by his groan. His fingers delve between my legs and discover the obvious, that I’m creaming like crazy for him. A murmur of approval from him as he sucks those fingers into his mouth, the sound wet and maddening.

Then he nudges me with his knee, widening my stance, and grips himself. The next thing I know, he buries himself deep inside me with a hard surge that, swear to God, has me seeing stars. And fireworks. All the things. Our mutual cries temporarily drown out the music and we both take a second to adjust. He braces a hand on the counter next to one of mine. His other hand circles around to my front, dividing its time between rubbing my clit and massaging my breasts.

Both are winning moves, I promise you. I can’t get enough of everything he does when he puts his hands on me.

He begins to move, punishing thrusts that hit some hidden and exquisite spot inside me that’s remained dormant my entire life until now. I don’t know how he does it, generating those sparks inside me, but he never misses.

The sensations he makes me feel are indecent. There’s no other word for it.

When he makes me come, it’s not that he coaxes the orgasm from me so much as he rips it out of the most secret part of my body by the roots. It’s inevitable but still such a surprise when the pleasure roars through me. And I make the strangest noises, although I can only hear them from a distance because I seem to have slipped into some other dimension beyond caring or shame. It’s like I’m sobbing and laughing and choking on his name, all at the same time.

It’s like I’m free. A thousand percent myself. And he’s the only one who ever suspected I had it in me.

He picks up his pace behind me, those thrusting hips slapping against my ass with maximum speed. Then he stiffens and shouts something that’s got my name mixed in there somewhere. His fingers clutch me tighter across my breasts, each one leaving its hot imprint. It feels as though his grip on me is the only thing keeping him from tumbling off one of the cliffs we saw today.

When it’s over, our shudders slowly lessen as we catch our breath.

He finally lets me go, and it’s a good thing he made sure I had my hands braced on the counter. Otherwise, I’d be doing a face plant on his fancy carpet for sure. My legs just don’t have the juice they need to keep me upright right now. He presses a kiss to my neck and slips away to the bathroom. I straighten myself as best I can, getting my panties back on and trying to smooth my hair.

If only someone had warned me that I’d need a bag tonight.

Lucien returns, pants still unbuttoned around his subsiding erection and his color high. He seems relaxed now. Languid. He’s not smiling—when is he ever smiling? —but there’s a warmth in his expression that suggests he wouldn’t frown on a smile right now.

“I don’t know about you, but I could eat something,” he says, gesturing at the table.

“That’s why you were so grouchy when you came to my cabin to get me,” I say sagely, meeting him there and lifting one of the silver domes to discover a couple of giant and elegantly displayed lobsters. “You were hangry.”

Blank look from Lucien, but then his expression clears, and he laughs. “You didn’t think I meant I was starving for food, did you?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

LUCIEN

I arrive on the gangway earlier than I should, when the place is still crawling with passengers meeting up with their various tour groups and waiting to disembark in Corfu. I scowl at the crowd, my mood souring on this glorious day with its cloudless blue sky and blazing sun. I don’t wait. I never wait. But this is what my eagerness to meet up with Tamsyn again does to me, and it also did it to me on our stops in Florence, Rome and Naples over the past week. It prods me between the shoulders and gets me going. You’d never know she just left me a couple of hours ago, when she slipped out of my bed, tousled and warm, and left me staring at her peachy ass as she hastily dressed and headed back to her own cabin. Leaving me hard and lonely for her.

Again.

Always, it seems.

I hate that she leaves. Hate this uncontrollable restlessness inside me when I’m not with her.

I also hate this crowd.

“Lucien Winter, as I live and breathe,” comes an unwelcome new voice. “Is it really you?”

Above all, I hate the owner of that voice.

I cringe and work on my expression before turning, doing my best to cobble together something civilized and pleasant. To my surprise, the unexpected presence of Mrs. Hooper doesn’t annoy me as much as I feared it would. That’s what being with Tamsyn does for me. Crowds notwithstanding, I feel more relaxed these days. More engaged and less impatient. Almost…peaceful.

Astonishing.

The old girl looks nice in her bright yellow dress and straw hat. Her cheeks are rosy and her eyes bright. She’s got her gaggle of pastel-dress-wearing friends around her forming a cheerful, elderly rainbow. And I’ve never seen so many outdated hats. One woman wears a floral bonnet with a full visor that looks as though she borrowed it from the Little House on the Prairie.

“Mrs. Hooper,” I say, unexpectedly charmed by all the smiling faces. “This is a surprise.”

“So good to see you again, Lucien.” She comes right up and gives me a kiss on each cheek. This is pushing it, even in my newly mellow state, but I submit and it’s over soon enough. The dog, meanwhile, gives me a little yelp and scrambles up in her bag, putting her paws on my chest. I like dogs, so I pull her out, tuck her into a football hold under my arm and scratch her head while Mrs. Hooper chatters away.

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