Page 68 of Filthy Rich

“Right,” I say, sudden exhaustion setting in. This conversation is going around in circles, and I just don’t have the energy for it. “So I’m supposed to ignore how upset the thought of some other woman makes you? And, what? Keep ignoring it when we get back to the city? When I’m already halfway in love with you? You do think I’m a fool, don’t you?”

He’s so stony by this point that it’s a wonder he can move his lips at all. “Only if you think we’re done with each other.”

I shake my head, so over this whole conversation, and so ready to be done with him. He’s so bad for me. I’d be safer jumping off one of these Mediterranean cliffs and hoping the hand of God scoops me from the sky before I crash into the rocks below.

“Good night, Lucien,” I say, turning to go.

I get exactly half a step away before I feel him behind me. One of his strong arms reaches around, hooking me by the waist and pulling me back against him. And I want to leave. I would leave. A smart part of me would, anyway. But this part under his thrall is so much bigger and stronger than any other part of me. Especially when he turns tender, with one of his hands rubbing over my breasts, the other seeking its way under my skirt straight to my pussy and his lips nuzzling the sweet hollow between my neck and shoulder.

“Don’t leave, Tamsyn,” he murmurs, mastering all my most sensitive spots at once. Honestly, it’s laughable how easily he controls me. It’s as though I only have a spine on the rare occasions when he allows me to. And it’s not like I want to leave him. I never want to leave him. “Stay with me. I need you. You know that.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“What do you want me to say? Do you not get that you’ve completely taken me over? You’re under my skin. In my head. Running through my blood. I can’t breathe when you frown at me. Your smile gives me fuel. I’m not happy about it, but it’s all true. Do you not get that?”

Never in a million years did I imagine that a man like this would make a declaration like that. To me. Everything about him exceeds my wildest dreams every damn time. I melt just like that, my restless hips rubbing against his erection.

That’s all it takes for his switch to flip. Those arms tense around me, hefting me up off my toes and swinging me around to the bed. One toss and I’m landing on my side, rolling onto my back and hiking up my skirt.

I scramble my way out of my panties, ready for him.

I’m always ready for him.

A rumble of approval from Lucien. He gives his crotch a few rough strokes before reaching sideways for his nightstand drawer. He watches me as he undoes his pants and rolls on a condom, eyes heavy-lidded and glittering. I spread my legs and rub my clit, entirely beyond shame and ready like I’ve never been before in my life. Then he eases onto the bed and settles in the cradle between my hips, reaching between us. One hard surge and he’s all the way inside me, hitting every exquisite nerve ending I own along the way. He takes both my hands in his and presses them into the pillow over my head. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

We stare at each other, breathless and too undone to move.

His face is already damp from straining against his fraying self-control. He tries to smile and then, failing that, to say something. But neither his lips nor his voice seem to be working. Meanwhile, pleasure spirals lower and lower inside me, ready to erupt with the slightest movement.

I hold still until I can’t take it anymore.

“Fuck me,” I say.

“And you think you want to walk away from this?” he says with a tiny thrust on this that makes me cry out. “This pleasure? This obsession?”

“No,” I say, panting now. “I just want to be smart.”

“Fuck smart.”

And he begins to move.

The thrusts are rough and punishing because I’ve been a bad girl that dared to disagree with him. A price must be paid. I get that. But it’s an exquisite price. My self-control doesn’t stretch very far at all when it comes to him.

I meet him thrust for thrust, angry at him but furious with myself. I’m weak. I am so weak.

But God, he’s good.

The orgasm doesn’t take long to mow me down. It’s always lurking in the wings when the two of us touch each other. I shout some nonsense, arching into him and scratching his back hard enough to leave welts. He shouts, some combination of my name and incoherent words that sound like curses and praise jumbled together. We ride it out, huddled together with our faces pressed into each other’s necks, until the last shudders fade away between us and our bodies begin to cool.

Only then does my rational mind return.

I run my hands across his back, giving myself one second to soothe his scratches and savor this twisted thing between us, whatever it is.

Then I push him away.

He lets me go, just like he did our first night together, watching me with moody eyes as I hastily smooth my hair, tug my dress back into place and find my panties.

“I’m leaving, Lucien,” I say when I’m ready.

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