Knight And Play

by Kitty French

  He unzipped his coat and slid up the length of her body, unbuttoning his jeans as he did so. “Sex mogul,” he repeated under his breath. “A sex mogul who’s about to fuck you.” He had his jeans down and a condom on in a matter of seconds, then positioned himself against her and thrust hard. Sophie cried out at the swift intimacy of the act, at the searing fullness of him, at the relentless friction of his cock sliding against her clitoris. It wasn’t gentle. It was pure, hard fucking, and she orgasmed with a scream almost as soon as he was inside her.

  Lucien’s eyes blazed bright with hot lust, and Sophie found herself desperate to hold his face in her hands, to soothe away the tension from his jaw.

  He pulled back. “Does it feel this good when he screws you?” His voice came out as a harsh rasp as he slammed into her, making her gasp. Sophie shook her head, unable to say out loud that no, no one in her life had ever made her feel like this. His mouth was all over hers, clashing teeth, sliding tongues, and his fingers curled possessively around her hips to hold her steady as he pumped.

  “Does it?” he ground out, his eyes boring into hers. “Answer me, Sophie. Say. The. Fucking. Words.”

  She closed her eyes as he tipped his hips and almost lifted her feet from the forest floor, his cock deeper inside her than she’d ever experienced. Tears constricted her throat and made it difficult to speak. “No,” she whispered.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “No. No. No!” The words wrenched from her throat, a raw, emotion-filled admission to herself and to Lucien that no, Dan never made her feel this way. That no man had ever made her feel so soaked in lust, or so filled with dark desire, or so powerful and revered and beautiful.

  Lucien’s animal, triumphant moan filled her ears, and in answer, a second, even more intense orgasm tightened her body. Slam. Slam. Slam. He clutched her as he came, and she bucked against the base of his shaft as her own release overcame her again in a glittering explosion of pleasure.

  Instantly gentle now, Lucien loosed the scarf from her hands and folded her against his chest. She wrapped her arms tightly around him inside his coat and buried her face in his neck, unsure whether he was holding her, or she was holding him.

  In the woods, their sex had turned primal. It had certainly brought out the beast in Lucien, brutally dragging the admissions about Dan out of her. But now it was over, Sophie found she was glad of it. He’d freed her from the fear that she’d driven Dan into the arms of another, that she just wasn’t woman enough to hold him. Lucien had made her realise that she couldn’t fix her marriage on her own, because she wasn’t the one who’d broken it in the first place.

  More than that, he’d let her see how much power she had within herself: that she, Sophie Black, was enough to drive a man wild. If Dan didn’t see that, then he didn’t deserve her love.

  She instinctively tightened her arms around Lucien, holding him in wonder for giving her the most intensely erotic sex she’d ever known, and in gratitude for giving her the confidence to step back into her old life again as a woman to be reckoned with.

  She didn’t pretend to understand what made Lucien tick. He might run a string of sex clubs and adult stores, but in his own way he was turning out to be just about the most moral man she’d ever met.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Back on the threshold of the lodge, Lucien was hailed by his groundsman. It was clear from his expression that he was keen to have a detailed discussion with his boss. Sophie waved Lucien away when he threw her an apologetic glance, happy to make her own way to the kitchen in search of coffee.

  And that is where she’d fully intended to go, at first walking straight on past the open door of Lucien’s study. But then she hesitated. It had been closed when he’d given her the guided tour and she hadn’t given it a thought, but now it stood open and there was a chance to peep behind the curtain. Lucien gave away so little of himself, yet he seemed to know so much of her. Maybe gathering a little more information, understanding a little more, would help her to see behind the façade he’d chosen to reveal.

  She glanced uncertainly up and down the deserted corridor, acutely aware that an open door was not necessarily an invitation to enter. Then her curiosity overcame her scruples and she stepped inside.

  The room was similarly furnished to the rest of the lodge, yet subtly different. More spartan, more pared down, distilled to reflect the essence of the man who used it.

  A large, sleek desk dominated the space, and Sophie slid into the oxblood leather swivel chair behind it to survey the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows created a glass wall looking out over the fjord, more expressive than any mural or expensive artwork could ever have been. Sophie was fast learning that this building was all about making the most of that beautiful vista: every room paid homage to the slice of alpine heaven beyond.

  Her eyes moved back into the confines of the study, hungry for knowledge, now that she’d allowed herself to trespass into Lucien’s sanctuary. It was bereft of ornament or art, which served only to highlight the one personal possession in the room.

  Sophie reached out and touched a finger against the silver frame of the large black and white photograph on Lucien’s desk, recognising straight away the unmistakable features of the blonde child with the shining eyes. He couldn’t have been more that ten in the picture, but even as a young boy, Lucien had been breathtaking. His defined cheekbones were softened by the bloom of youth, and laughter lit up the smile that cracked his face wide open.

  But it was the innocent look of love in his eyes that made Sophie’s heart contract with emotion. Lucien’s laughter and adoration were all directed towards the woman alongside him in the shot, her arms wound around his slender shoulders. She was elegantly dressed in black, with her blonde hair drawn away from her face. Discreet diamonds glinted in the delicate bracelet around her wrist.

  Her gaze was focused on Lucien as she looked down, and even without the benefit of her full features turned towards the camera it was obvious that the woman could only be Lucien’s mother. The connection between them jumped out from behind the glass, and the private joke they shared excluded the world around them. Sophie sighed at the tenderness of the picture, the unbreakable bond of love between a devoted mother and son.

  Holding the frame in her hands, Sophie studied the relaxed set of the boy Lucien’s shoulders and the carefree expression on his face. The man she’d come to know over the last few days was all hard angles and taut muscles, but more than that, he was all about being in control of himself and in charge of those around him. He radiated a low frequency of danger at all times, and Sophie sensed that if he needed to be, he would be utterly ruthless. What had happened to him? Where had his softness gone, the openness she saw in the picture?

  Sure, everyone grows up, but the child in the photograph was a world away from the man whose arms she’d just left.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Sophie’s head jerked up guiltily at the sound of Lucien’s carefully controlled voice from the doorway. She’d been so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard his approaching footsteps, or realised that he was at the door watching her.

  “I just… I wanted to…” She was thoroughly flustered, and well aware that the more she stumbled over her words, the more guilty she made herself sound.

  “You wanted to what, Sophie?”

  She hadn’t heard that tone in his voice before. Dead flat, and all the more predatory for its quietness.

  Sophie glanced down at the frame still in her hands, and carefully set it back on the desk. So she was in his office. It wasn’t the crime of the century, he hadn’t expressly asked her not to come in here, and she hadn’t snooped around. Not really. The photograph was easily the most arresting thing in the office: the austerity of the room seemed designed to draw the eye to it, so looking at it had been a natural response. She settled her shoulders back and met his eyes.

  “The door was open. I didn’t realise it was off limits.”

&n
bsp; Lucien’s unreadable gaze slid to the photograph frame, and then slowly back to Sophie.

  “It’s a beautiful shot,” she said softly, watching him for a reaction. Practised as he obviously was at hiding his emotions, Lucien couldn’t stop the pulse that flickered along his tense jaw, nor the way his throat moved as he swallowed hard. Several seconds passed before he spoke again.

  “Yes.” He paced across the room to the windows, his face in profile as he watched the fjord beyond. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t come in here again.”

  It was a clear and direct dismissal, and it frustrated the hell out of Sophie. He’d employed the same tactic last night in the jacuzzi, slamming the brakes on in the face of any questions that went beyond the here and now.

  “Is it your mother?”

  She saw his throat move again, but his eyes remained fixed on the view.

  “It is.”

  “She’s stunning.”

  Lucien nodded slowly. “She was.”

  Sophie drew in a breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “You obviously…” Sophie glanced back at the picture with new comprehension, then up at Lucien’s deceptively passive profile. “You must miss her.”

  “Must I?”

  Sophie frowned, aware that he was deliberately making the conversation as difficult as possible.

  He turned to her. “Look, I need to make a couple of calls, Sophie. Would you mind…?” His eyes strayed to the door.

  “Why do you do that?” Sophie asked, making no move to rise from his chair.

  Lucien audibly sighed. “Do what?”

  “Change the subject whenever I ask about personal stuff.”

  He shrugged and rolled his eyes, a deliberate display of nonchalance that didn’t fool Sophie for a second.

  “I don’t. There’s just nothing to say.”

  “But surely you have family here in Norway?”

  His jaw set hard again and his nostrils flared slightly. Sophie knew she was pushing him, but she wasn’t ready to stop. The scales of knowledge were currently tipped too far in his favour and she wanted to redress the balance.

  He shrugged. “Some.”

  “Brothers… sisters?”

  “Why does this matter?”

  “Because it does, Lucien. You’re happy enough to delve into my marriage. Surely I can ask questions, too?”

  His eyes darkened as he considered his response. “Fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest, a defensive wall. “No brothers. No sisters. My mother is dead. Anything else?”

  Sophie baulked at the blunt delivery of his words, and the bleakness that lay behind them.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured again.

  “Don’t be. It was a long time ago and I’m a big boy. I can look after myself.”

  She didn’t doubt it. But still something held her in the chair, even though he’d made it clear he wanted her out of his office and for this conversation to be over.

  “And your father?”

  Lucien’s eyes narrowed, and Sophie noticed the way his fingers bit into his upper arms.

  “Enough, Sophie.”

  So that was it. “Is he here in Norway?”

  Lucien placed his palms down on the desk and fixed her with a fierce, unwavering stare. “I said that’s enough.”

  Sophie drew herself up to a standing position and met his gaze squarely across the expanse of the desk. His breathing was infinitesimally too fast, and his eyes glittered with suppressed anger, although his tone remained even.

  “We can talk about it, if it would help,” Sophie said softly, sensing that they were dancing around something at the very core of Lucien’s psyche.

  He laughed harshly. “And suddenly she’s a psychiatrist. It’s a big leap from a PA, Princess.”

  Sophie flinched inwardly, hating his sarcastic use of the endearment that up to now had seemed so intimate. “I was just trying to he…”

  “I don’t need your fucking help.” Lucien’s words clipped across hers and shocked her into momentary silence. They faced each other across the desk.

  “Yet you think I need yours,” she said.

  “That’s different and you fucking well know it.”

  “Is it?” She leaned towards him. “Why? Because you say so?”

  “Yes, damn it.” Lucien thumped the desk for emphasis. “And because you needed my help, and I don’t need yours, or anyone else’s.”

  His eyes burned into hers, and his tightly balled fists told her that he was every bit as tense as she was.

  “He’s dead, Sophie, okay? All of this was too long ago to matter, and it’s no one’s business but mine, but just for the record, my father is dead. Happy now?”

  Stricken, Sophie searched Lucien’s face for traces of any expression but anger, but it was all there was. She didn’t understand what lay behind it, but something had happened to this man. Somewhere along the line, something big and ugly had happened to burden him with this heavy chip of utter self-containment he carried around on his shoulders.

  She glanced down at the photograph one last time, then up again at the man the laughing child had become.

  “No. I’m a long way from happy, Lucien,” she murmured. “I’ll leave you to your calls.” She turned to walk out of the room.

  He was behind her before she made it to the door. He crushed her body against the wall with his own, his hands pushed into her hair. “I’m sorry, Princess. I’m sorry.”

  Sophie closed her tear-filled eyes and held him, wishing her touch could melt away the iron tension from his shoulders and the bleak sadness from his eyes. She’d leaned on him hard to find out more about him, and all she’d succeeded in doing was unearthing memories that obviously hurt him to talk about.

  She gentled his harsh breathing with tender hands and smoothed her fingers over the silk of his hair, until finally he lifted his head and kissed her. His lips moved slow and sweet over hers, balm to soothe the sting of his earlier harsh words.

  “I’m sorry too,” she whispered into his mouth, opening her jaw to let his tongue slide in. She could feel his heartbeat strong against her own, and his erection hardening against her belly. Shaky fingers pulled at clothes in search of the comfort and warmth of naked skin, and they dissolved the tension in the only way they knew how, meshed together on Lucien’s office floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Lucien refilled Sophie’s wine glass after lunch, then pushed his chair back. The meal his housekeeper had prepared for them had been delicious, yet they’d both been subdued after their tempestuous morning.

  “I need to go out for a while this afternoon.”

  Sophie nodded, oddly relieved at the prospect of some time alone. Every moment with Lucien was full throttle, and the experiences of the day so far had left her feeling raw and exposed. Her body ached, and her heart ached even more.

  She needed a deep bubble bath to soothe her muscles, and some precious space to think. In less than twenty-four hours she’d be back in London with Dan, and as yet she had no clue what on earth she was going to do. All she knew was that the next few hours felt like a stay of execution.

  Lucien rested his forehead against the cold side window of the car and stared at the plain, red brick university hospital building. This wasn’t his intended destination this afternoon, yet he’d instinctively turned along the drive anyway rather than pass on by. He had no intention of going inside. His fingers closed around the letter inside his jacket pocket, not caring about the fact that he was screwing it up to a point where reading it again would be nigh on impossible. He knew what it said without looking at it anyway.

  Dear old papa was in here once again for alcohol abuse, only this time around there was every chance he wouldn’t make it out again. He’d been a dead man walking ever since his wife killed herself; Lucien was only surprised that it had taken him this long. He had no feelings to offer except disgust and hatred, and what use were they to a dying man?

  Let the chap
lain hear his father’s pleas for forgiveness. Let the cold hand of a stranger be his comfort. Lucien had nothing to give him.

  He studied the building and wondered which window sheltered his father. How would he look these days? Lucien had cut all ties with him after his mother’s death, choosing to stay with relatives who bore his troubled presence like a cross rather than stay with the pitiful father who pleaded daily for his son’s understanding.

  Yet wherever Lucien laid his hat, the letters stubbornly followed. His father had tracked his progress around the world and stayed in contact every few months, despite the fact that he never received any acknowledgment that his words had reached his son.

  Lucien didn’t want to read them, and for many years, he hadn’t done so. He chucked them, unopened, one on top of the other, into an old box, unsure why he wasn’t just hurling them into the fireplace instead.

  As the years slipped by and the letters continued to arrive, Lucien’s protective shell hardened enough for him to be able to open them without being engulfed by fury. He wasn’t that frightened child anymore.

  The letters brought him news of his homeland, of family deaths, and of babies being born who shared his bloodline.

  Letter by letter, those paper windows onto the minutiae of day-to-day life in the Arctic Circle rekindled his love for Norway, a bone-deep homesickness to lie on his back in the clearing and watch the skies dance once more.

  And so he’d rebuilt his relationship with his motherland, made his peace with the beautiful, cold kingdom that held such bittersweet memories. Returning to Tromso as a successful man had calmed the roar of injustice in his heart. He’d come full circle, and after years of running away, it was fitting that Norway offered him the safe harbour and solace missing from his life in London.

  Yet still he didn’t contact his father.

  He couldn’t do it. When all was said and done, the man was responsible for his mother’s death, and all the talking in the world could never change that.