When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine #2)(102)

“Ohhh,” she cried out, sounding aghast. This time, Lucien could tell she experienced excitement, not pain. He growled savagely as he entered her to the hilt and his balls pressed tight against her buttocks. He rubbed her clit hard and felt her buckle. Catching her weight, he stood there holding her against him, his cock buried in her ass while she shuddered in orgasm.

She was going to kill him. No doubt about it.

When he could endure no more, he tightened the reins on her leather corset and spread his hand over a hip. “You have had your pleasure many times over. I will have mine now. Take me for a ride, little filly.”

He began to f*ck her, using his hold on the reins and on her ass to control her completely.

“That’s right. Now you are submitting to me, aren’t you? And it feels so good,” he muttered through a snarl as he pounded into her.

Even though he mastered the movements, she still took him for the ride of a lifetime. She bounced her ass in perfect rhythm to his demanding strokes, her sharp cries of excitement every time his pelvis and balls slapped against her ass mounting his lust until he finally could take no more. He lifted her lower body, utterly controlling her, serving her to his cock again and again, ruthless in his possession. She shouted, but he couldn’t tell if her cry was from arousal, surprise, or discomfort. He was too busy peaking over the crest into nirvana.

He dove into it.

A roar erupted from his throat. He began to ejaculate deep inside her, howling as the sharp talons of pleasure ripped through him mercilessly.

Pain brought him back to himself. His biceps had locked in a rigid flexed position as he held Elise to him and climaxed. He hissed in discomfort as he released her, carefully setting her feet back down on the shoe-polish box. He remained bent over her for a moment, panting, trying desperately to get control of himself.

He was surprised that orgasm hadn’t ripped his head clean off him it had been so powerful.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. Yes, he’d told her he would take his pleasure of her and that she must accept it, but he hadn’t really planned on his need growing to the cataclysmic level that it had.

“Yes,” she murmured. She sounded okay—worn out . . . satiated. Had she come again, there at the end? He’d been too tied up in the twist of his own pleasure to tell. She moaned shakily when he withdrew his cock. He quickly unzipped the corset and encouraged her to stand. He took her weight, lifting her off the shoe-polish box and brushing his mouth against hers, his kiss every bit as tender as his earlier possession had been demanding. She trembled in his arms, feeling so warm, so feminine. It stunned him, that he could want to cherish her so much, soothe her, and yet still desired her to the point of near savagery.

He carried her to the bathroom where he set her down and removed her bracelets. She flipped off her heels.

Then he turned on the shower and pulled her in next to him. He gently washed her, as if he thought he could clean away the residue of his blazing, raw hunger, all along knowing it was a helpless cause. He would want her again soon enough, and all he could do—all he could ever do—was tame the savagery, regulate the taint inside him as best he could.

It was a daily mission. Elise made it an hourly one, a battle he fought minute by minute. But because it was her—because he cherished her—the fight was not only worthy, it was sanctifying to his spirit.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they lay in bed, their limbs entwined, Elise’s head on his chest.

“Are you sure you are well?” he murmured, stroking her upper arm.

“I am so good,” she answered groggily. “But hungry.”

“Hungry?”

“I hardly ate anything at dinner. Emile will think I’m so unappreciative. If he thinks poorly of me, it’s all your fault,” she told him, pressing a small smile to his skin.

“I hardly think Emile and Richard are ones to judge the idiosyncrasies of two people . . . so involved with each other.”

Her warm breath seemed to cease at his pause.

“Lucien?”

“Yes,” he said, stroking her back now and once again wondering at her softness.

Another pause.

“Have you ever been in love?”

His caressing hand slowed.

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I mean . . . I wouldn’t know for sure if I was.”

“I’m no expert on the matter,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “But I do believe a person knows it, deep down, if they are. It’s just a matter of trusting that feeling, isn’t it?”

For the next minute, he couldn’t be sure if she slept or was thinking. She didn’t move as he caressed her, and her breathing was warm and even on his chest.

“Who was the man who died?” she asked suddenly, her clear voice startling him from his private ruminations about her earlier question.

“What?” he asked, bewildered.

“I heard Herr Shroeder tell you that someone was dead last night. He implied he’d been in prison, and you called him a sick f*ck,” she mumbled, sounding very sleepy. “I just remembered that I wanted to ask you about it. I’d forgotten with everything you told me about your mother, and the terrace . . . and the restaurant,” she added lamely.

Her ear was pressed against his chest. He hoped she didn’t feel his increased heart rate.