Page 25 of Filthy Rich

The moment feels like a triumph of some sort. Or it would—if only he didn’t relish laughing right in my face like this, when my feelings are raw, and my vulnerability feels as though it’s flashing across my forehead.

“You’re laughing at me,” I say, cheeks burning and humiliation complete.

“I’m absolutely laughing at you. I’m surprised City Tech issued you a degree if your brain doesn’t work any better than this.” His glee finally winds down, thank God. “I’m disappointed in you, Ms. Scott.”

“You can stand there laughing at me by yourself,” I say, my wounded pride pairing up with anger and making a belated appearance. “I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m not sticking around for it.”

I turn to go again, but that hand on my wrist—it feels warmer now—tightens its grip.

“Oh, no you’re not.” There’s a husky new quality to his voice, a silkiness layered over the amusement. “You’re going to dance with me.”

Dancing with him is the very last thing on my mind, but it’s the next thing in my future unless I want to make a scene by wrenching myself free. Which I don’t. So I grit my teeth and submit while he tugs me back down the stairs, into the bar and onto the small dance floor. We face each other, my face burning and his gaze now fixed and hard on my face. Then we assume basic dancing position, my hand on his shoulder, his hand around my waist and our other hands clasped to the side with a socially acceptable space between us.

I don’t want to keep staring into his eyes, but I don’t seem to have permission to look anywhere else.

“We’ve had a misunderstanding, Ms. Scott,” he says as we begin to move.

“A misunderstanding.”

“A big one. Let’s clear it up.” He ducks his head, his gaze boring into mine. “I’ve already told you I’m not nice. I’ve never done anything out of niceness in my life. Got it?”

“Okay…?”

“This is how I dance with someone I feel sorry for.” We shuffle back and forth a few steps, exactly the way I danced with my father at his sixtieth birthday party. It’s all fine, normal and socially acceptable. Until Lucien suddenly yanks me up against him, clamping his arm around me until there’s no space between us. More startling is the hard ridge of his impressive package pressing against my belly. “And this is how I dance with someone I want to fuck.”

I am absolutely speechless.

He presses his nose to my cheek before sliding it into my hair, inhaling my scent as though he hasn’t had a lungful of air in the last hour or more.

“I want to taste you,” he continues, now murmuring in my ear. “All of you. I want to suck your nipples. I want to bite your ass. I want your sexy legs around my waist and your tongue in my mouth. Am I startling you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Shall I continue?”

I hesitate before nodding shakily, too undone to trust my voice.

“I want you missionary style, doggy style, cowgirl style. All the styles. On a chair, on the floor and in the shower. And that’s just for a start. I plan to fuck you until we both see stars, and then I plan to do it all again. That’s all I’ve been able to think about since I laid eyes on you. Which is damn inconvenient, but what can you do? Any questions?”

I’m so busy trying to catch my breath and regulate my thundering heartbeat after this monumental revelation that I can’t manage anything coherent for a beat or two. I can’t figure out what’s happening. My body, on the other hand, seems to be fully up to speed. My arms have already twined around his neck, pulling him closer and allowing me to run my fingers through his hair. I relish the feeling of everything about him, sliding the rough silk between my fingers and seeking the warmth of his scalp underneath.

Like me, he feels almost feverish.

I seem to be vibrating if not trembling with it. Hell, I think we both are.

It’s such a thrill to touch him. Such an unspeakable relief to have this permission. To feel the strength of his thighs against mine and the hard slabs of his chest against my aching nipples. To arch into his touch and know that I didn’t imagine the growing vibes between us.

I open my mouth, but my mouth refuses to function for a complete sentence. “You want to?—?”

I can’t even bring myself to say the word. It’s too shocking. Far too intimate.

“To fuck you, yes, Ms. Scott.” He glides his lips back over to my ear, one of his hands tracing lazy circles on my bare shoulder and making me shiver. “I want to lick your pussy and see how creamy you are for me. I want you to wrap those luscious lips around my dick. I want you to sit on my face. I want you bent over a chair. I want your legs on my shoulders. I want you to come so hard for me that it makes you sob. And then I want you to come again for me. Are you getting the picture? Any other questions?”

He ends with a nuzzle in the tender hollow where my neck meets my shoulder. I cobble together the self-restraint to stifle a moan but still nearly come on the spot. The spiraling sensation between my thighs—tighter; lower; hotter; yes; now—is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I’ve never been aroused so hard, so fast. I’ve never wanted anything like I want him right now. I can’t breathe with it.

Above all, I’m so grateful that he—and no one else—will be my first lover. It’s not that I was waiting for him or ever suspected that a man like Lucien Winter was out there in the world waiting for me to stumble across him.

It’s just that no other man could possibly ever make me feel like this.

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