Page 27 of Final Cost

Like Lucien surely is.

My phone pings again just then, as though he knows I’m standing there frozen and need just the right prod between my shoulder blades to get me moving again.

You coming?

I don’t know how he manages to make two words in a text message so silky and inviting. So fatally challenging. So smugly confident. But he does.

And what do I do? Why, I strip off my clothes, of course. All of them. I fold them neatly on the coffee table and wrap myself in that fluffy towel. I down my drink in one rough gulp, savoring the liquid courage as its golden rays slide through me. Then I pour myself a refill and head for the sauna, a little room off his private gym at the back of the house.

It’s not until the moment of stepping through the glass door into the steaming heat that I recognize exactly how much sensual danger I’m in. Like I said, I know nothing about saunas, but this seems to be a particularly fine one, fragrant of its cedar planks and the rising scent from Lucien’s cologne. There’s track lighting along the benches and floor beams, along with sconces dotting the walls overhead. Moisture sizzles in the air the way my blood now sizzles in my veins.

And in the middle of the highest bench, king of all he surveys? Lucien sitting on his white towel, none of which he bothers to drape across his lap. Which means that all his golden skin, dripping with sweat already, is available for me to see. And I notice it all peripherally. The beaded trickle of sweat through the grooves of his pecs and down the ladder rungs of his abs. A trail I’d love to follow with my tongue. The broad expanse of his shoulders and arms. The flexing muscles of his thighs and calves as he shifts ever so slightly. I even noticed his bare feet and nice toes.

But mostly — and I’m talking about 99.99% of my observational skills — are focused on the dark gleam of triumph in his otherwise impassive face and on the erection, already long, thick and jutting between his legs.

“Ms. Scott,” he says, sipping his own whiskey as he watches me cross to the bench opposite his.

The velvety voice is also a seduction, as irresistible as beaded bracelets to Taylor Swift fans.

“Lucien.”

I stare him in the eye as I sit on the top bench directly across from him, taking all the time in the world about setting my drink beside me and unwrapping my towel. Only when I’ve had the satisfaction of seeing the rough bob of his Adam’s apple and the involuntary twitch of his ruddy length as it reaches for me do I allow myself to lean my head back against the wall, baring my neck and every other part of my body for him to see. Then I reach between my legs and let loose with a little groan as I rub my engorged clit.

His breath comes slowly and ends in a hiss that thrills me. So does the languid way he fists himself in response, stroking up and down, teasing me with glimpses of his entire length and then only the plump plum-like head.

Has he been thinking about me since I left him unsatisfied under that willow tree yesterday? Is he regretting his cruelty toward me? Is it eating away at his gut with jagged little teeth?

If so,good.

My eyes roll closed as I pleasure myself, cooing, but I quickly open them again because I don’t want to miss a second of this, my moment of petty triumph. I catch him staring, his glittering eyes locked on my breasts. They ache for him. He can see it, I’m sure. Hard to miss two jutting pink nipples dotting my pale breasts like raspberries on whipped cream. Sighing, I shift just enough to open my thighs and give him a tiny glimpse of what we both know — that I’m glistening and wet. Ready for him. It’s old news by now, I suppose, but I earn another hiss from him anyway. I revel in his wretched stillness. It’s an emotional cocaine and I’m instantly addicted.

We watch each other for a moment, both heavy lidded and a little breathless with this parallel play. I’m sweating now, the rivulets tracking down my temples, through the groove between my collarbones and down the curves of my belly. The spiking tension demands to be broken one way or the other, but I’m in control—he said so—and I plan to make the most of my power while it lasts. If only I could keep my emotions out of it. So many words crowd onto the tip of my tongue that it’s a true effort to choke them back.

How are you doing? Are you okay?

Are your lawyers and PR people taking care of you like they should?

Can you keep yourself out of jail?

Did you kill Ravenna? What have you done to me that I’m not sure the answer matters to me either way?

How did we get here, Lucien?

I can’t say any of that. I’ve forbidden myself to do it. Maybe I suck at keeping him at physical arm’s length, but I’m damn sure going to keep him at emotional arm’s length.

He sits there in his own silence, a perfect mirror of all my turbulence.

I eventually remember that Mrs. Hooper is a safe topic. We can talk about her. I can torture him a bit more.

“I’ve never seen Mrs. Hooper so excited,” I say, surprised to hear how husky my voice is.

A rumble of annoyance. “I don’t want to talk about Mrs. Hooper right now.”

“But I do. I thought you said I was in charge…?”

He doesn’t bother answering, but there’s a new gleam of respect with his impatientthe floor is yoursgesture.

I manage to control about fifty percent of my triumphant smirk. “You made her very happy.”

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