Page 95 of Burned

A shiver in my thighs. A pull low in my belly. Heat spreading where there had been numbness. My hips tilt toward his mouth before I permit them, and Lucian makes a sound that is pure satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against my wetness.

The praise slides through me. So does the shame. I moan.

Lucian’s hand presses over my stomach, holding me down when my body starts to writhe. Firm. Controlled. Exactly enough.

A sob breaks from me as pleasure builds.

He stops immediately.

My head lifts. “I’m okay. Keep going. Please.”

Then his mouth is on me again, and this time he does not stop.

He takes me apart with terrifying patience, dragging pleasure from places I thought shame had buried. Each time I tense, he anchors me. He owns me with his hand, his voice, his mouth, his command.

“Look at me.”

I do.

“Come for me.”

I do.

The climax tears through me so hard I cry out, body arching, fingers locked in his hair. It is not graceful. It is not pretty. It is messy and wet and alive, and when the pleasure breaks over me, something inside grows with it.

Lucian rises over me before I finish shaking. I reach for him. He lets me pull him down.

Our mouths meet, and I taste myself on him. The intimacy of it should embarrass me. It doesn’t. It makes me feel real. Present. Wanted.

I fumble with his belt. He catches my hands. I look up, frustrated. “What?”

“Tell me what you want,” he demands.

“You.”

A spark of irritation cuts through the haze. “Say it properly.”

“I want you inside me,” I say.

His face changes—the control slips, only for a second.

Then he removes the rest of his clothes with ruthless efficiency, and I almost laugh because of course Lucian Bachman undresses like a man heading into battle.

When he settles over me, I wrap my legs around his hips.

He pauses at my entrance.

Waiting.

My hands frame his face.

“Yes.”

His forehead lowers to mine. “Stay with me.”

I don’t know if he’s talking about now or forever, but I can’t think straight enough to figure it out.