Page 52 of Irrevocably

“Perhaps,” I say.

“Can neither confirm nor deny, hmm?” Her gaze drops to mine again and one corner of that luscious mouth of hers curves in a smile.

A smile directed at me. Because of me.

I can’t help myself. I lift a hand, thread my fingers into her hair and grip it. Her breath catches audibly, but she doesn’t move. Her eyes have gone dark and when I touch the curve of her mouth with a fingertip, she goes still.

I stroke her pillowy bottom lip, and a fine tremor runs through her. The pulse at the base of her throat flutters. Last time, she was the one who kissed me. She was the one who started it. And now she’s waiting for me to continue it, isn’t she? That’s what she wanted when she gave me that little show in her bedroom.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Astrid?” I ask softly, looking into her eyes.

Her throat moves as she swallows. “Do you want to fuck me?”

I don’t admit to anything, no, and the reasons I don’t are obvious. But there’s no one else here in this bathroom, and as of right now, no one knows what she is to me. I’ve already told her she’s mine, and she must be able to feel my hard-on pressing against the zipper of my jeans, but she wants me to say the words, I can tell. Just like she said those words to me back in her bedroom.

So, I give them to her. “Yes,” I say. “I want to fuck you.”

And I don’t wait. I grip her hair tight as I cover her mouth with mine, and desire grabs me by the throat, white-hot and bright as a magnesium flare. She tastes like that night in her bed, sweet as honey, as chocolate, and this time her kiss isn’t hesitant or tentative. She kisses me back as hungrily as I’m kissing her, leaning into me, pressing her soft, warm body into mine.

My cock gets harder and I let go of her hair to slide my hands over the curve of her ass, pulling her in close, grinding against the heat between her thighs. She shudders as I press the hard ridge of my zipper against her clit, panting against my mouth.

Mine. In this moment she’s mine and I will have her.

I will have all of her.

I turn us around, so she’s the one against the vanity, then I lift her up onto the top of it. I pull off the boots she’s wearing, jerk down her tights and her underwear with them, then I drop to my knees in front of her.

I don’t go down on women. I’m selfish with my desires. I fuck for my own release not theirs, yet now all I can think about is how her body is mine, too. Her pussy is mine, and I want to taste it. I want to make her scream, because her orgasms are also mine.

“Lucien,” she gasps. “What are you⁠—”

I flip the hem of her dress up, grab her thighs and pull her to the edge of the vanity. She resists at first, but when I spread her legs and throw them over my shoulders on either side of my head, she takes a shuddering breath and her muscles relax.

Her pussy is right in front of me, all silvery curls and soft pink flesh. She’s wet already and my mouth waters. She smells like heaven and I bet she’ll taste even better.

I flick a glance up at her, meeting her darkened eyes. There’s uncertainty in them, but her face has gone as pink as her pussy.

“No one’s ever tasted this pretty cunt, have they?” I ask her, my voice deep and rough with hunger.

I’m expecting her to lie the way she did in her bedroom that night, but she only shakes her head, breathing fast.

I grip her thighs tightly. “And who’s is it?”

She’s breathing even faster now, her eyes all pupil. “I … I…”

“Who’s is it?” I repeat, insistent now. I want her to admit that she’s mine, that every part of her is mine. I want to hear it. I gave her the words she wanted to hear, and now she needs to give this to me.

She’s trembling as she looks down at me and then she whispers, “Yours.”

The flare of triumph that burns through every part of me is out of proportion to what this is, but for once I don’t question it. For once, I let myself have it.

“Yes,” I say softly, fiercely. “It is.”

Then I bury my face between her thighs, running the flat of my tongue up the length of her slit, holding her thighs down as she cries out, arching her back.

She tastes as sweet as I thought she would, with a tart, salty edge that only makes me want more. So, I shift my hands, use my fingers to spread her open like a flower, and then I begin to explore; licking, nipping, stroking her with my tongue.

Her thighs tremble and she shudders, her gasps echoing in the small bathroom, then her fingers thread into my hair as if she needs something to hold onto. It feels good when she pulls on it, little prickles of pain sharpening everything, so I return the favour, kissing the insides of her thighs, sucking on her skin, adjusting my grip yet again, so I can pinch her, give her some pain.