by BETH KERY
For a moment, she didn’t move or breathe as he cupped her outer sex in a possessive gesture and she felt his cock pulse against her, hard, heavy and more than ready.
He released her. She whimpered at the sudden loss of his heat.
“Get dressed,” he said, his voice sounding rough. She watched as he strode across the office to a closed door. When he jerked it open, she realized it was an entrance to a bathroom.
The door snapped shut behind him.
He came out a moment later as she finished fastening her pants. She studied him anxiously from beneath lowered eyelashes as she pulled down her smock. His short, thick hair looked sexily mussed. The strands at his temples and nape were damp, as if he’d splashed his face and neck with water. She felt as if she had suddenly been transported to a strange country and didn’t understand the language. She didn’t know how she was supposed to respond to him. None of her former experience with sex had prepared her for this.
“Why don’t you go and wash up as well,” he said, his tone softer than she would have expected, given his palpable tension level and obvious continued arousal.
Elise welcomed the opportunity for temporary escape from Lucien’s disturbing, compelling presence. She didn’t want him to know how stupid she felt, how inadequate. She rushed into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. The cheeks of the woman in the mirror shone red. Her eyes shone. It was another novel experience, seeing her reflection after she’d been so undone by desire.
How could she possibly feel so humiliated at what Lucien had just done to her, and yet be so turned on by it at once? And why, despite her anxiety about what Lucien would do next, did she also experience a strange calmness after what he’d done . . . a newfound steadiness.
You can do this, Elise. You can handle Lucien Sauvage. You’ve talked dozens of powerful men into doing precisely what you want.
None so formidable as Lucien.
She clamped her eyelids shut, silencing the annoying self-conversation in her head.
What had occurred in Lucien’s office was so alien to her, so powerful, the only way she could think to handle it was to ignore it. She would plow forward with her plan. Lucien had admitted to wanting her, after all. She wasn’t entirely weaponless.
She washed and exited the bathroom, her chin up. He remained standing, his arms crossed, clearly waiting for her to return. He’d turned down the stereo in her absence. His eyes gleamed from beneath a lowered brow as he studied her.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” she said almost flippantly, glad to hear her voice sounded even. Let him think she’d been spanked dozens of times, just like he believed she’d fucked half the men in Paris. She would not tip her hand and reveal her vulnerability. She would not let him know that he’d just rocked her world, or that she had no idea precisely how he’d done it.
“Are you finished keeping me in line?”
“For the time being.”
“Good. Can we talk about my job now?”
Her clear, melodious voice replayed in his mind again and again. He shook his head once as if to dislodge it.
“You haven’t got a job,” he said.
“Let me work here until you get another chef. You need the help, Lucien. You can’t close the restaurant for days on end. Think of all the money you’d lose. If that doesn’t matter to you, think of your disappointed customers.”
His jaw ached when he unclenched it. It was a wonder to him Elise couldn’t see his body shaking. He vibrated with barely contained lust. He didn’t want to have a rational conversation with Elise Martin; he wanted to bend her over his desk and fuck her until every logical thought in his brain was incinerated by a glorious, explosive climax at her farthest reaches. Perhaps he shouldn’t have punished her. The recollection of her courage in accepting it—the memory of her plump, pink ass—would undoubtedly drive him over the edge into madness.
No, he’d been right to punish her. He knew that on some gut level. He’d sensed a serenity to her, a strength, that was compelling to behold. She did require some kind of limit to her world. Lucien had understood that since he was twenty-one years old.
Still, she was right back to her bargaining and manipulation.
“What good would it do you to work at Fusion? You need a master chef to stage with and complete your training, correct?” he reminded her, frustrated by her tenacity over this topic.
“Yes, but I could continue to fill in until you find one. With any luck, the chef you hire will want a stage. Knowing the caliber of chefs you always choose in your restaurants, I’m sure he or she will be acceptable to my school in order to get my degree. I’m very good at what I do, Lucien. I have talent.”
He closed his eyes briefly and glanced away. He hated the note of desperation in her tone. “You needn’t sound so defensive. I know you have talent. Do you think I didn’t sample selections of your lunch?”
“I hadn’t realized,” she said, her surprised tone sounding genuine.
“I wouldn’t serve my patrons anything that wasn’t up to my standards. You surpassed them. You have an innate understanding of the French and Moroccan blend I’m looking for.”
“Aha!”
His fierceness returned like flicking whip at the sight of her smug grin. Perhaps she sensed his knife-sharp lust mingling with anger, because she forced her smile to vanish. For a few seconds, they just regarded one another in silence.
“I agree with what you said. I didn’t have many friends in Paris,” she said softly. “But you were my friend once, Lucien, when we first met in Nice when I was a child. Lend me a hand again. Please.”
She was ruthless. He suspected she knew very well that he’d respond positively to a wide-eyed, sincere plea. Still, respect for her tenacity tempered his irritation.
“I am a fool to even consider it,” he said after a billowing silence. “But I suppose it will allow me to monitor you even more closely.”
She scowled at that. She really did delight him at times. When she noticed his fond smile, she smoothed her expression. “I won’t disappoint you. You’ll see. I will make this work.”
He stepped toward her. “You will not tell your mother and father, or anyone of our common acquaintance in France, that you know of my location. You will not say a word to anyone here in Chicago that we knew each other previously. To everyone else in the world, we just met last night. You aren’t to mention anything about our former acquaintance. Not. One. Thing,” he said succinctly. “Am I making myself clear, Elise?”
“Crystal,” she assured.
“You will follow my instructions in regard to your job without back talk and sass. The second you step out of line or try to manipulate me, you will know a consequence. I will not have you defying me day in and day out. If you can’t agree to that, then you can’t stay at Fusion. Those are my terms. I will put you on a salary until I can find a new chef. If and when you enter your official training again, your salary and official job here will end.”
“I have enough money set aside to get me through the stage. If you pay me a salary until my training begins, I can stretch what I have to make it work.”
He gave her a droll glance, his gaze sticking on the vision of her reddened cheeks and lips. No, it was not his lustful imagination. Little Elise Martin had been aroused by her punishment. Very aroused. It was going to be such a pleasure, training her to his hand. His cock throbbed next to his thigh, as if in protest at being ignored. It only added to the boiling brew of emotion he experienced. He turned away from the intoxicating sight of her, worried that if he inhaled in such close proximity, he might catch her scent. He would snap then, for certain.
“Your papa would not see you starve,” he said sardonically, moving around his desk.
“No. But I would starve myself before slithering back to him for another handout.”
He lowered to his chair, glad the desk blocked his still primed arousal. He found her quiet conviction appealing. Elise had wha
t it took to make a success of whatever she attempted. It was her doubt in her strength, determination, and perseverance—in herself—that was her demon. Whether she could conquer that demon or not, Lucien was unsure.
He forced his mind to the practicalities at hand.
“I’ll have Sharon bring you a job application. I’ll have a contract drawn up for you as an interim chef. Saturday is market day,” he said, picking up an invoice and studying it. “Since you’re so adroit at driving a race car, I assume you can drive a four-wheel-drive truck?”
He glanced up when she didn’t immediately reply. “You might have heard how much I value locally grown food in my restaurants. I want the freshest, most pristine, locally grown ingredients. It’s one of my chef’s duties to shop for the items he or she needs for the week at a farmers’ market. There is more to being a chef than just cooking, Elise,” he added when she continued to look amazed.
“Of course. I know how important marketing is,” she said defensively.
He nodded. “But being new in town—in the country, for that matter—I’m sure you’ll need some guidance through the process. Usually Javier or Evan will go with you to assist, but this Saturday, I will. We should get there early to get the best produce. Can you be ready by six?”
“Yes.”
He studied her through a narrowed gaze, sensing her bewilderment. Good. She’d been throwing him off balance since her arrival last night. It was about time she looked a little tongue-tied. “I’ll need your address in order to pick you up.”
“I’ll just meet you near the market if you tell me where,” she said breathlessly.
He designated an intersection in the Gold Coast neighborhood for them to meet.
“I will set up medical exams for both of us tomorrow,” he said.
“Medical exams?”
“Yes,” he said calmly. “We should both know we are safe for sexual interaction. I know that I am, but I want to assure you of the same. Are you on birth control?” he asked levelly.
She nodded.
“Good. In the meantime . . .”
“Yes, darling?” she prodded when he faded off.
His gaze flashed to meet hers. Darling. The word sounded completely contrived, frequently practiced, and yet . . . undoubtedly alluring uttered from her flushed, ripe lips. Damn her. Always turning the tables. She waited, just a hint of amusement shining in her eyes.
“You are my employee. We’ll keep our distance from each other, for the time being.”
Her eyes widened in angry disbelief.
“You were the one who begged for the job,” he reminded her mildly.
“But that has nothing to do with—”
“It does,” he said sharply, shooting her a challenging look. “Remember? My rules? We’ll go at my pace, or you’ll feel a consequence.”
Her hand flickered to the side of her bottom, as if she’d suddenly re-experienced the sting of his hand. He scowled; his cock lurched.
“Elise?” he prompted, waiting for her agreement.
“Oh, fine,” she muttered, giving him a mutinous glance before she started for the door.
“One more thing.”
She turned her chin over her shoulder, meeting his stare.
“Don’t ever call me darling again,” he growled softly. “I’m not one of your panting, disposable boy toys. I’m not even remotely the same animal.”
He saw her throat convulse as she swallowed.
As he watched her scurry out of his office, his cock throbbing furiously, his emotional state raw, he wondered whether he’d just untied the first knot in his sack, or tied off and tightened the monster of them all.
Later that evening, Lucien stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his sixty-second-floor penthouse onto a gray, brooding Lake Michigan, holding a snifter of cognac in his hand. Originally, he hadn’t planned to be alone tonight. He’d had a date following his match. He’d planned to spend the evening as he traditionally spent time after a polo match.
But then today had occurred. Then Elise had happened. And here he was, alone with a mess of unfinished business, a headful of doubt, and a hard-on that would not remit, no matter how much he distracted himself.
They had won the match tonight, despite his fierce Argentinian-bred polo pony’s fouls. His teammates had joked that no one could handle Jax save Lucien, but it wasn’t his horse that had been an unruly beast this afternoon. It’d been Lucien. Jax had just caught his surly mood and become too aggressive in his defensive bumps of other players, incurring fouls.
His temper had been unregulated when he was a child and young man. He’d learned control beneath the hand of an older lover at the age of eighteen. Natalia had sensed his need to master his emotions and desires and had tutored him in BDSM sex, Natalia typically taking the role of master in the bedroom. It hadn’t taken long for Lucien’s dominant nature to assert itself, however, and the couple had decided to amicably part ways. Lucien would forever be thankful to Natalia for teaching him the value of control. At thirty-one, he didn’t consider himself to be a hard-core dominant, and didn’t require it in order to have satisfactory sex with casual lovers. When it came to Elise, however, he sensed the importance of immediately asserting his role as the sexual dominant. It would be such a pleasure to dominate her, but he intuited that it was important to Elise. She needed to learn the power of not only self-control but of relinquishing control to another.
She needed to learn to trust. He needed her to put his trust in him. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to ask it of her, given her history of fragile, impermanent connections, but he wanted it nonetheless.
How could he expect Elise to trust him when he harbored seeds of doubt about his very identity . . . about the fundamental rightness of his existence?
Don’t think about that. It will get you nowhere but the bottom of a black pit of despair, he told himself irritably. What he’d told Ian Noble earlier had been true. A man chose his fate of his own free will. Lucien understood that he was more secure in that knowledge than Ian.
Still . . . the taint lingered; it’s legacy a haunting self-doubt that Lucien absolutely refused to let overcome him.
He forced his brain back onto the memory of the match this afternoon. Despite his typical discipline, he had allowed his foul mood—not to mention his high and dry state—to get the better of him during the polo match, and that rankled at him.
He was as horny as a servicing bull. He’d been heavy and aching all afternoon—ever since he’d punished Elise. Pounding in the saddle during the match had only magnified the tight, uncomfortable pressure in his balls. The memory of Elise bending over his desk, of warming the satiny smooth skin of her bare ass with his slapping hand, plagued him.
He always got worked up after a match, granted. It’d become a tradition for him since he’d first started playing polo as a teenager to have sex after time spent in the saddle. The aggressive, intense game had always primed him for play with a woman.
But tonight was unprecedented in his experience. He was coiled tight with sexual energy, but for once he had nowhere to spend his tension. He cupped his heavy balls through his pants and slid his hand along the rigid length of his shaft.
Lust rode him ruthlessly in that moment. The memory of Elise did. With an inevitable sense of resignation, he set down the snifter and walked to his bedroom suite. His fingers moved fleetly over his shirt buttons. Instead of removing the garment all the way, he merely opened the sides wide, baring his chest and belly. In the bedside drawer, he found a bottle of lubricant. He unfastened and lowered his pants, scooping his erection out from the confines of his boxer briefs, shoving the elasticized band beneath his heavy balls.
God he ached.
Hastily, he poured some of the lubrication into his hand and rubbed the silky liquid onto his straining cock. He clamped his eyelids closed at the friction against overly sensitive flesh. He let go of restraint, and the floodgates of fantasy opened. Parting his legs and finding a stable stance, he gave i
n to primal lust, jacking his cock with a combination of precision and forceful, savage abandon.
What would it be like, to see Elise’s dark pink, lush lips stretched around his girth, to see his straining cock plunging into her tight, humid depths while she looked up at him, the rebellion in her eyes trumped by desire, her gaze giving him permission to use and debauch her a little. Sweet, beautiful Elise . . .
Her eyes had always slain him.
He stood there before the floor-to-ceiling window and pounded the staff of his cock. His eyelids flickered open. The golden glow from the lamp provided a blurry reflection of his image. His chest and abdomen muscles flexed tight and hard, his cock looking enormous in his pumping hand.
But he was alone.
The image of Elise’s shining, sapphire eyes as she’d turned and reached for his pants earlier in his office rose to haunt him.
He paused, prickly and edgy with unsatisfied lust. His hand wasn’t what he wanted, but it was all he had. He would not jump into the flames with Elise immediately and wholesale. She would burn him to a husk.
He resumed jacking himself, groaning in undeniable pleasure. Masturbation, when all he wanted was to fuck Elise without mercy until he felt her shudders of pleasure and submission vibrate into his flesh.
Damn those bright eyes, the pink lips, the tight, lush curves that fit his hand perfectly. She lit up a room when she walked into it. She was so small, but so perfect. Her pussy would fit him like a second skin. To restrain her would be so satisfying. He would punish her for weakening him and then take her relentlessly, spend himself . . . empty himself of this tight, ball-aching, plaguing desire.
Leap into her flame and gloriously burn.
He grunted gutturally as warm semen spurted onto his lower chest, his climax so sharp it verged on pain. He pumped without mercy, milking every drop, ruthless in ridding himself of this unbearable tension.
His body shuddered one final time, his fist slowing on the shaft of his pulsing cock. Still panting, he cracked open his eyelids. From the reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, he saw that his chest and belly glistened from his abundant emissions.
