Page 86 of Lethal Legacy

“Please let me fuck you.”

“No.” Abruptly he lifts me up and slips my underwear off. He hitches me up, then lays me down on the marble dining table. He grins darkly. “First, I want to eat.”

He covers me with his mouth, and all coherent thought is lost.

He eats me like I’m a creamy dessert on a spoon made of glass, licking every last crevice with delicate certainty. My hands thread in his hair, trying to press his face closer, but he teases me with wicked patience, sliding his tongue first up one side then the other, his tongue swirling slowly around my throbbing center like it’s the chef’s masterpiece. His fingers press the outside of my folds, pushing my clit up toward him, and he licks the length of me, barely millimeters from it with devastating precision, always just denying me that final satisfaction. When finally he encloses my clit in his hot, wet mouth, I throw my head back and scream.

His hands slip under my ass, his mouth devours me, and I can feel my orgasm about to break like a tropical storm. Just as I feel the first ripples approaching, Roman rears back to standing, bringing me with him, my legs around his waist.

“Not yet,” he says, eyes glittering. “I have to fuck you.” There’s no trace of teasing in his voice now. Nothing but the same urgent, dark need that is rippling through me. I pull his T-shirt off, he unbuttons his jeans, and I moan as his impossibly hard, swollen cock breaks free. I eye it greedily as he kicks his clothes aside and bends me over the table, spreading my legs wide. His harsh intake of breath as he holds my hips and stares down at me turns me on almost as much as the sight of his rearing cock in the mirror. I keep my face turned so I can watch as he slowly strokes the head of it down my wet opening, one of his hands splayed on my lower back. It’s incredibly hot watching his masculine perfection, hard as the marble table itself, holding himself in check with iron control, his face darkly intent as he slowly teases us both.

I want to watch him forever. He’s so damn beautiful, all corded muscle and taut control, his hands on me strong and sure. For the briefest moment I think of the horrible prospect that this might be the last time I am with him like this, and even the thought of it breaks my heart.

There’s so much more to him than the autocratic CEO I met in the café. I can see the scars on his body in the mirror, the marks of the life he’s led. I want to tell him that I understand scars. That I understand why it’s so hard for him to open up to the children, even though I sense he wants to do that more than even he knows. I want to tell him how my heart flips every time he looks at me, just like my body surrenders at the mere thought of his touch. The blunt head of his dick slides over my clit and I groan, so close to the edge that I can barely see.

“I want this,” I say hoarsely. “I want you so much, Roman.”

He stills for a moment, poised at my entrance, his eyes in the mirror narrow and dark. “Say it again,” he says roughly. “Say my name. Tell me what you want, Lucia.”

“I want your cock inside me, Roman.” I’m losing it, even the sound of the words sending me closer to orgasm. “I want you to fuck me, Roman. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything...”

He thrusts into me with a hard roar, filling me so deeply and completely that there is nothing more than this. My eyes close and all I can do is hold on as he drives into me, over and over. I almost came the moment he entered me, and now I feel like I’m on a slow-rising wave, my orgasm building from the very base of my spine.

Then he slips his hand around to stimulate my clit. “Come for me,milaia.”

And I do.

It explodes from the very depths of me, gripping me with an intensity that leaves me utterly breathless. I’m lost in ecstasy, seized by an endless wave of spasms that only seem to increase as he drives deeper and deeper into me. He thrusts to the hilt and holds himself there as I close around him, my whole body shuddering. Then he pulls out once, thrusts back in, even harder. White light explodes behind my eyes, and my body reaches for something more, a place I’ve never felt before, like a second layer of orgasm.

“Fuuuuuck!”I scream, and that’s when I feel him lose it.

His thrusts grow almost brutal. One hand gathers my hair, tugging my head back. “You’re mine, Lucia,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.” I’m beyond thought, beyond argument. “I’m yours, Roman. Only yours.”

He roars and thrusts impossibly deep inside me, then holds still, his cock pumping with his release, each spasm drawing another echo from my own body.

It feels like ages when I finally become aware of the marble crushing my breasts and realize I’ve had my eyes closed. I stay like that for a moment. Roman is still inside me, his hands tracing my back. One finger halts on the scarred tattoo. I tense, waiting for the inevitable questions.

Instead, he slowly withdraws from me. I’m not entirely sure I can stand without his hands. My knees are weak as a kitten, and I feel completely disjointed. I turn and fall face down on the sofa, not least to hide my eyes from his. I’m afraid of what he will see in them.

I hear him rustling at the bar. A moment later he is standing in front of me, jeans on again, open at the top button. The bulge behind the material looks as huge as when he was inside me. Part of me wants to just reach for him and disappear back into the mindless sexual abyss. I feel both utterly relaxed and at the same time, already turned on for the encore. His eyes trace my body, lingering on my ass. For a moment I toy with the idea of rolling over and spreading my legs, just to see what he’ll do. Something tells me Roman is far from done.

Before the idea becomes action, he hands me a frosty glass with a gin twist. I prop myself up on my elbows and sip it, my legs crossed behind me at the ankle. He sits on the coffee table next to me with a Scotch, his eyes still roving up and down my prone figure.

“I think you should take siesta here,” he says. His voice is deep and rich with the aftermath of his orgasm. It makes me want to come again, right now.

But that would be dangerous.

The problem is that I want to say yes, so badly that I’m weak with wanting him. I want to crawl into his bed and curl into him. It’s so tempting, the thought that he wants me to stay, that he might feel even a part of the same magnetic lust I do. But no matter what just happened between us, or what insane attraction is drawing me to him, I still have to tell him the truth.

I have no idea how to broach that conversation. But something tells me I should at least be dressed when I do.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I put my drink down, stand up, and walk over to my dress. “The children will be waiting to find out what you plan to do about the procession.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything, just sips his Scotch. I pull my dress on, horribly aware of his eyes on my back. I’m trying to work out how to say what I know I must, when he takes the decision out of my hands.

“Do you want to tell me why you have the mark of the Orlov bratva on your back,” he says conversationally, “or would you like me to guess?”

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