Consumed(7)

His fingers replace his mouth, spreading my slick folds as he glances up at me with a warning expression on his face. “Do that again, and I’ll tie you to that bed.” He jerks his head in the direction of the four-poster bed several feet away, in the center of the black and red bedroom that’s completely out of place in this house and yet so Lucas.

My thoughts instantly go back to several months ago, to the infamous red guitar pick he’d flicked across my breasts whenever I gritted my teeth, and I lay back, balling my fists into tight balls.

Lucas dips his head and kisses a hot trail from my stomach to my inner thigh and then back up again, stopping only once to touch his mouth to my center. “I’ll never get enough of the way you taste,” he whispers against my flesh.

“Lucas—” I want to respond, but it’s cut off by a hoarse gasp that slips through my lips when he circles his tongue around my clit roughly.

“Make that noise again,” he says. When I do, he splays his hands on the insides of my thighs, digging his fingertips into my soft skin. “I want everything from you.”

Everything.

There’s a part of me that wants to give him everything he asks for without asking a single question, but there’s an alarm blaring in the back of my head.

“What’ll you give me back?” I dig my fingernails into my palms a little deeper. A little harder. I tremble violently as he slowly glides two of his long fingers into my body. “Everything?”

“Always,” he says, and I feel my heart beat even more erratically. “Whatever you want.” Then he lowers his mouth back to my clit, tasting and touching until I cry out and my back arches up. Whenever I grind my teeth, he stops, pulling away for several seconds, drawing his fingers completely away from my body, until I manage to control myself.

It’s torture—both pleasure and pain.

“I want you,” I finally say.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Fuck me, Lucas.”

His hazel eyes stare up my body wickedly, and he shakes his head. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Come first,” he orders, and when I try to protest, he reaches up my body and covers my lips with one hand and my breast with the other as his tongue picks up speed. I can taste myself on his fingers, and my own hands wander up to his shoulders. I scratch into his flesh instead of my own this time, digging my nails into his skin. I’m hardly aware I’ve tangled my fingertips into his hair again until his hands leaves my mouth and breast to clamp around my wrists. He doesn’t release them until I come, until I’m writhing and moaning beneath his mouth. Even then, I’m still saying his name over and over again.

Slowly, he slides his body up mine. He doesn’t stop until we're heart to heart and eye-to-eye, and he’s grinning. “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask once I catch my breath. I run my fingers along his jawline, and he grabs my hand, bringing my palm to his lips.

“Because, I want to be inside of you. Right now.”

About damn time.

“Yes.”

He sits up on his knees before he pulls the blindfold away from my neck. Dangling it on the tip of his finger for a moment, he glances between it and me as if he’s trying to decide what he wants to do. Finally, he takes my hand in his and begins wrapping the fabric carefully around my wrist. “And because I plan to tie you to the bed before I f*ck you.”

“Okay,” I agree hoarsely.





“Why did you make me leave?” I ask Lucas a little over an hour later. He’s several inches away from me on the oversized bed, the back of his finger stroking my right palm in wide, circular motions. It feels good, right.

“Because even I f*ck up.”

Tugging the soft black sheets over my breasts, I turn my head so that I can look at him. It’s dark in here, but I can easily make out his frown thanks to the sliver of light coming from beneath the bathroom door. “So what exactly happened?”

“Does it matter now?”

I sink my teeth into my lip to stop my snippy response. How the hell can he even ask me if it matters? One moment we were making plans that would turn our temporary arrangement into something permanent once we returned to Los Angeles together, and the next he was telling me I needed to leave.

“Oh yeah, it matters,” I say.

“Because I froze. I was—”

When his words catch, I ask, “Afraid?” He doesn’t confirm or deny, so I continue, “Of Samantha?”