His lips touched, and he littered slow, open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs. He licked up the line of her panties just as she heard the unmistakable snick of a switchblade opening. Her hand shot out, and she was gripping his wrist before she consciously thought to move.
“What are you doing with that?”
“Getting rid of the clutter. Now put both your hands behind you and show me you trust I will not harm you.”
She paused for a moment, but finally—warily—she leaned back, her stomach quivering as he played with her by placing the tip of the blade at the top of her knee and zig-zagging it down to the apex of her thighs. It tickled because the blade barely made contact. He traced her labia and even touched the tip to her clit.
“This blade would pass through my neck before I would allow it to deface your perfection. I am pleased you realize this.” He sliced through her panties, put the knife aside, and went at his meal with an intensity that had her fingers clawing and scratching at the polished wood while she spewed the dirtiest of curses. His long licks were enchanting, the short flicks of his tongue spell-binding. His sharp thrusts were pure torment. When he worked his hands under her ass and lifted her into him, Yasmeen had to bite her lip so she didn’t bellow her absolute love for what he was making her feel.
Her orgasm rushed in.
Lucian lifted his mouth away, forever in control of her pleasure.
She shook with need but didn’t utter a word.
He hesitated as he looked up at her. Then, holding her eyes, he went in hard, sucking noisily, nipping at her lips, fucking her with his tongue. Wet sounds mingled with their moans as she pushed against his face, meeting him.
“Lucian…?”
“Now, pet.”
She broke apart right in his hands. Her head fell back, her mouth opened, and a song came from her that would have told anyone within hearing distance that she was this man’s toy to do with as he pleased.
SIXTEEN
After feasting on his pet, as he was sure many a king had done before him at that very table, Lucian brought her to the dining room so she could do the same with a hot meal. He’d watched her eat the hearty braised lamb and sip at a fruity Bordeaux, and now observed her pleasure each time she took a drink of her macchiato. She had the most graceful hands. The tendons in her delicate wrists stood out whenever she picked up the bowl-shaped mug.
“Your passion for art; does it come out in any form from your own hand?”
She placed the mug down, looking ill-at-ease as she raised her shoulder in a shrug. “You told the lady who served us to commend her mother for the lovely meal. How many cooks do you have on staff?”
“Two. Why does my question make you uncomfortable?” He would have thought his need to know about her would please her. Women. It was no wonder he never bothered with anything more than their favorite position.
“The men I ran into that first night weren’t cooks?”
“They are no longer my cooks. Stop evading, Yasmeen.”
“I paint. Why are they no longer your cooks?”
“Because they eye-raped you. What do you paint?” He couldn’t imagine how beautiful she would be with a brush in her hand as she stood in front of an easel, lost in her vision. Naked. Paint splatters on her skin. Edible paint.
She was looking at him, wide-eyed. “What did you do to them?”
“Turned them loose. If you do not drop the secondary conversation, Teodora will come in to clear in the middle of me disciplining my pet. I do not think you want her to witness you sitting on your feet next to my chair with your head bowed and your mouth firmly closed.”
She flushed and shook her head. “No. I was just curious.”
“You are always curious.”
She nodded.
He hid a smile by taking a drink of his coffee. “Tell me about your painting.”
“Only if you reciprocate by telling me something about yourself.”
“Fine.”
He shifted, and feeling something dig into his thigh, he straightened his leg and took out the item he’d ordered yesterday. The Tiffany box had been delivered just before he’d gone up to look for Yasmeen. His time alone in the ballroom had been spent thinking about what he would do with his purchase. He opened it now and took out a glittering choker. The links were eighteen-karat white gold, as was the small diamond encrusted dog tag dangling in the center. There was one word engraved on the tag, and it had a small ring hidden behind it.
“It is a simple design, and nothing like the necklace I accidentally broke the day we arrived, but you will wear it anyway.”
She was looking with wide eyes from the box to the jewelry. “Mine was from a bauble store in a mall. And there was nothing accidental about you breaking it.”
She was right. He stood and went behind her chair. “Do not move,” he commanded in a tone she should recognize by now. She stopped her forward motion. “Sit back, please.” He waited until she obeyed. “You will accept my gift gracefully. You will not refuse it. Not for any reason. I damaged yours, and now I have replaced it.” He took immense pleasure in securing his collar around her slender neck. He fixed her hair before going back to his chair…
Seeing the band grace that throat had molten lust pouring into his groin. “There is something about your throat. I do not know why but it is my favorite part of your body. Yes,” he said when her eyebrow rose. “My favorite. And I felt the need to adorn it with something after all.” He picked up his coffee and took a drink while she brought her fingers up to touch the evidence that she was in no way available to others. “It really is very simple. ‘Thank you, Lucian’ That is all I want. ‘Thank you, Lucian.’”
She fingered the tag and was stunning even as her expression hovered between a frown and a pout. If that bottom lip popped out anymore, he would likely become her slave.
“Mine cost eleven dollars.”
His mouth curved down, and he shrugged. “It was eleven dollars well spent because it was lovely on you. This one is the same.”
“But it isn’t the same.”
“I will not sit here and argue with you.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip. “What does it say? Will you tell me what it cost?”
“Of course, not.”
She waited, and when he remained silent, she pressed. “What is a mea?”
He looked at the mouth that had just spoken the word mine in his language. “It is similar to draga,” he lied, his voice quiet.
“Oh. Uh, but what if I really don’t want to wear it?”
“Then I will be gravely insulted.”
A twinkle entered her eyes. “Gravely insulted.”
“Gravely.”
“Well, can’t have that, hmm?”
“No. We cannot have that.” But I want to have you again. Right now. He wanted to be close to her, and what better way than to have their bodies connected. Was there another way? Not that he knew.
“Just a simple ‘thank you, Lucian,’ huh?”
He nodded. When she was amused, the honey streams in her eyes were hypnotic.
She got up and came behind his chair. His nape prickled until she looped her arms around his neck and rested her chin on his shoulder. As she stroked her hands across his chest, tendrils of warmth rippled through him, converging in his groin and somewhere under her palms. They began fighting for supremacy, so he ignored them both.
“Thank you, Lucian,” she murmured. “It was very kind of you to replace my broken necklace with this lovely…collar. You expect honesty from me, and I’ve done my very best to give it to you. Please have the decency to do the same.”
He stared straight ahead as she nuzzled behind his ear. Rather than tip his head to give her room—why did he want to encourage the affectionate gesture?—he took her hands in a loose hold and led her around. She wanted honesty from him? He kissed the pulse on her wrist and curbed his need to see her in nothing but his gift.
“On your knees.”
Disappointment f
iltered into her expression when she heard his cooled tone. But she gracefully lowered herself so she was kneeling between his legs.
“You demand honesty from me? Fine. It is absolutely a collar. A stamp of ownership I have now placed on my most prized possession. You should be thankful I do not lock you in one that claims you as Fane Property. There are those that cannot be removed but by the rightful owner of the pet.” She sat back on her feet, her mouth falling open with a soft pop that he heard over the crackling fire in the hearth a few feet away. “Would you like more honesty, Yasmeen? If I see it anywhere other than around your neck, I will make you hurt. I will not lay a finger on you, but you will hurt.” He reached out and cupped her face, and had to pull her up to kiss her. It didn’t matter right then that she didn’t return the kiss. “I would ask that you not make me do that because I am finding it unpleasant to see misery in your eyes. I did not think something like that would bother me, but it does.” He lifted a finger. “But not enough to prevent me from teaching you a lesson you will never forget.”
She pulled back. “Listen, I think I’ve been pretty accommodating with you and your, uh, issues. But this…” She felt the collar. “I think this might be crossing a line. I had kind of hoped we’d gotten past the chattel thing, especially because we already more or less agreed this was only a temporary fling. Right? And, seriously, you can’t threaten me, Lucian. Why do you think that’s okay?”
He disregarded most of what she said and was glad her uncertainty left the door open a crack. He didn’t hesitate to storm through it. He would get his way; he would bring her to heel, and keep her there by targeting her greatest weakness. In the process, he would smash that fucking idea of temporary to little bits. He would have her until he was through with her, and there was nothing she could do to change that.
“I have never in my life collared a woman. I have never wanted to. The very thought was laughable; the practice somewhat abhorrent to me. Who would voluntarily keep a needy, demanding female underfoot in such a way?” He came down to rest his elbows on his knees. When their faces were level, he brought in the gentle touch of a lover by brushing his fingertips down her cheek. “And then you come along, and suddenly I understand the urge to capture and keep. I understand wanting someone enough to do whatever possible to let them and everyone else know they are no longer available. I apologize if my methods are not socially acceptable, but I will not apologize for wanting you desperately enough to cage you. For wanting you by my side.” He frowned at the truth in that but still forced a helpless shrug, continuing to lure her. “For…wanting you.”
Success. Her face softened in that way a woman’s did when she was moved. “Oh, Lucian.”
His demons sat back with smug smiles when they saw the stars enter her eyes. It was odd how they seemed more intent on keeping his pet in check lately than wanting to race back to New York to get their claws into the Russian who should be front and center in their minds.
“Can we make a deal?”
No. “I am listening.”
“I’ll wear your jewelry if it makes you happy. If you try to think of this in a different way. A little less me-Tarzan-you-Jane. Actually, you’re much worse than that. More me-master-you-slave. Anyway, can you do that? Can you at least try?”
A hum of electricity ran across his nerves at the thought of her as his slave, and he hooked his pinkie into the choker to pull her mouth up to his. He didn’t agree to her deal, didn’t acknowledge it at all.
But he did try not to let her feel his smile as she returned his kiss.
♦ ♦ ♦
Wondering if she’d lost her mind, Yasmeen felt herself slip a little deeper into the role Lucian was creating for her. He was slowly introducing new things, allowing her time to accept one dynamic before bring in another. His method was working.
Satisfaction beat through her when the tension left his face, the grooves on the sides of his mouth relaxing. All because she’d agreed to wear a beautiful necklace from Tiffany’s. He wanted her to wear it. It would please him. She wanted to please him. She wanted to make him happy. To do something for him the way he’d done something for her today. This was much more complicated than popcorn and a movie, but that didn’t faze her. It should have. But it didn’t.
After one more lingering kiss, he turned her around and seated her on the floor between his knees.
“Tell me about your painting,” he suggested again.
A small smile formed. He was truly curious. About her. “I normally don’t talk to people about it. I’ve certainly never shown anyone my work.” She fingered the collar, playing with the small tag…wait…what was that? She rubbed her thumb on a dangling circle hidden beneath it.
Was that a ring?
“Why, draga?” He took her hands and kissed her knuckles before placing them in her lap. His palms came to rest on her shoulders.
“Uh, because then they’d know a very private part of me and they would judge me.” Did he plan on attaching a lead to that ring? A leash? Would he control her with it? Her pulse kicked into a trot.
“And? I sense there is more.”
She cleared her throat. “Yeah, uh, I just don’t have what it takes to show someone a product I’ve poured my heart and soul into just to have them turn their nose up at it. Or worse, cut it up with a few cruel words. I see it every day at the gallery. An artist stands off to the side, sick with nerves as their babies are put on display. Some guy who’s had a bad day at work trudges in because his wife insisted he accompany her, and rather than take his frustration out on the pushy wife, he shits on a color scheme or the size of the canvas on display. He goes home, forgets about the evening, while the artist hovers over his beautiful creation, devastated by what was said. One woman told me, every time she puts brush to canvas, she remembers every meaningless criticism she’s ever gotten about her art.” She shook her head, her stomach turning over as she pictured the pain in the eyes of her artists. “I admire them for pursuing their dream despite the cruelty out there. I’ll probably always paint for myself. So?” She patted his hand on her shoulder. “How about you? Got any secrets you wanna get off your gorgeous chest?”
She held her breath and prayed he would allow for the change in topic. She didn’t want to talk about how her cowardice made her feel.
He was silent for a moment, and then his strong hands began kneading her shoulders. He must have felt her growing tension. When he began sifting his fingers through her hair, she knew he’d read her reluctance and was going to give her a pass.
“Your hair is the same color as the dining room table I sat around with my family growing up. Mahogany. The streaks of honey give it depth and warmth. Your eyes have them, too.”
She sighed with something very close to happiness as she hooked her hands around his ankles. He combed his fingers from the front of her scalp to the back a few times, and then he gathered her hair and…started braiding it?
“I used to braid my horse’s mane,” he floored her by saying. “I was gifted him on my eleventh birthday. By my father. He was a gentle man. A university professor who taught economics.”
That was unexpected. “Really? So that’s where you got your business acumen from.”
“I like to think so.” When he reached the end, he undid the braid and started again. “My mother hated him. My father, not the horse. She had him killed. Again, him, not the horse. So I had her killed.”
Shock had her turning, but before she could get far, he gripped the half-made braid hard to hold her in place.
“I have no qualms about stopping my story here and sending you up to our room alone. If you move again, that is where you will find yourself.”
She shut her mouth, replaced her hands on his ankles, and waited with baited breath. He tortured her by stroking her collar and murmuring quietly in his own language for a moment before continuing. She could tell she’d pleased him.
“My grandfather was a powerful man, feared by many. His daughter was spoiled. A disloyal cu
rvă. I learned this about my mother when I was eight, and I entered the master bedroom without knocking because I was in a hurry to tell her Markus had fallen. She was in hers and my father’s bed, getting fucked by my grandfather’s best friend.” He came to the end of her hair. Unraveled the braid. Began again. “She instructed me to wait outside until she was finished. Later that night, when I saw her kiss my father with the mouth another man had shoved his tongue into only hours before, something changed. I never looked at her the same.”
Yasmeen bit the inside of her cheek to stay quiet, sure he’d never looked at any woman the same after that.
“I took Markus riding one afternoon while she serviced a man I later found out was my grandfather’s enemy.” He paused, and she felt him wrap her hair around his fist. He held it for a moment, then released it. He went back to his braid after rubbing his chin on the crown of her head. “When we returned to the stables, there was a message waiting for me from my sister asking me to let my mother know Miruna would be arriving home for break earlier than expected—she had been studying in Rome. Leaving Markus with our men, I went up to the house, but before I rounded the corner onto the back veranda, I heard voices. My mother’s lover was congratulating her on her newly acquired widow status. I remember being very confused by the comment. Until she spoke. I had never heard fear in her voice before, but it was there when she asked if he was sure they had made it look like an accident.”
Finish. Unravel. Begin.
“I ran as fast as I could around to the front of the house and raced into my father’s study. I called the car phone, but it rang and rang. The police arrived thirty minutes later, and I stood there with my arms around Markus as he went wild at hearing our father and sister had just been killed in a terrible accident. They said it appeared the brakes had failed, and the car flipped on the motorway. Six other lives were lost in the accident.”
“I so enjoyed watching my mother fall to pieces when she realized she had murdered her beautiful girl.” There was a smile in his voice. “Miruna was quiet. Like my father. But our mother loved her anyway. She was eighteen.” His fingers slowed. “I used to think if I’d stayed in the house during my mother’s sessions, I might have heard her discussing her plan, and I could have warned my father. But I always took Markus away to prevent him from stumbling into a room and seeing something that would hurt him. That was a job I loved. Keeping him safe and happy was not the chore many older siblings would have considered it. It was a pleasure. Until he began refusing my aid. Resenting it. I did not take it well at first, and we had some fierce shouting matches. But even those were enjoyable. I was always so proud when he made his point with a passion that made me stop and listen. Not that I ever pointed that out. He would have been insulted.”
Grievous (Wanted Men Book 5) Page 18
