When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine #2)(18)
The door snapped shut behind him.
He came out a moment later as she finished fastening her pants. She studied him anxiously from beneath lowered eyelashes as she pulled down her smock. His short, thick hair looked sexily mussed. The strands at his temples and nape were damp, as if he’d splashed his face and neck with water. She felt as if she had suddenly been transported to a strange country and didn’t understand the language. She didn’t know how she was supposed to respond to him. None of her former experience with sex had prepared her for this.
“Why don’t you go and wash up as well,” he said, his tone softer than she would have expected, given his palpable tension level and obvious continued arousal.
Elise welcomed the opportunity for temporary escape from Lucien’s disturbing, compelling presence. She didn’t want him to know how stupid she felt, how inadequate. She rushed into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. The cheeks of the woman in the mirror shone red. Her eyes shone. It was another novel experience, seeing her reflection after she’d been so undone by desire.
How could she possibly feel so humiliated at what Lucien had just done to her, and yet be so turned on by it at once? And why, despite her anxiety about what Lucien would do next, did she also experience a strange calmness after what he’d done . . . a newfound steadiness.
You can do this, Elise. You can handle Lucien Sauvage. You’ve talked dozens of powerful men into doing precisely what you want.
None so formidable as Lucien.
She clamped her eyelids shut, silencing the annoying self-conversation in her head.
What had occurred in Lucien’s office was so alien to her, so powerful, the only way she could think to handle it was to ignore it. She would plow forward with her plan. Lucien had admitted to wanting her, after all. She wasn’t entirely weaponless.
She washed and exited the bathroom, her chin up. He remained standing, his arms crossed, clearly waiting for her to return. He’d turned down the stereo in her absence. His eyes gleamed from beneath a lowered brow as he studied her.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.
“I’m fine,” she said almost flippantly, glad to hear her voice sounded even. Let him think she’d been spanked dozens of times, just like he believed she’d f*cked half the men in Paris. She would not tip her hand and reveal her vulnerability. She would not let him know that he’d just rocked her world, or that she had no idea precisely how he’d done it.
“Are you finished keeping me in line?”
“For the time being.”
“Good. Can we talk about my job now?”
Her clear, melodious voice replayed in his mind again and again. He shook his head once as if to dislodge it.
“You haven’t got a job,” he said.
“Let me work here until you get another chef. You need the help, Lucien. You can’t close the restaurant for days on end. Think of all the money you’d lose. If that doesn’t matter to you, think of your disappointed customers.”
His jaw ached when he unclenched it. It was a wonder to him Elise couldn’t see his body shaking. He vibrated with barely contained lust. He didn’t want to have a rational conversation with Elise Martin; he wanted to bend her over his desk and f*ck her until every logical thought in his brain was incinerated by a glorious, explosive climax at her farthest reaches. Perhaps he shouldn’t have punished her. The recollection of her courage in accepting it—the memory of her plump, pink ass—would undoubtedly drive him over the edge into madness.
No, he’d been right to punish her. He knew that on some gut level. He’d sensed a serenity to her, a strength, that was compelling to behold. She did require some kind of limit to her world. Lucien had understood that since he was twenty-one years old.
Still, she was right back to her bargaining and manipulation.
“What good would it do you to work at Fusion? You need a master chef to stage with and complete your training, correct?” he reminded her, frustrated by her tenacity over this topic.
“Yes, but I could continue to fill in until you find one. With any luck, the chef you hire will want a stage. Knowing the caliber of chefs you always choose in your restaurants, I’m sure he or she will be acceptable to my school in order to get my degree. I’m very good at what I do, Lucien. I have talent.”
He closed his eyes briefly and glanced away. He hated the note of desperation in her tone. “You needn’t sound so defensive. I know you have talent. Do you think I didn’t sample selections of your lunch?”
“I hadn’t realized,” she said, her surprised tone sounding genuine.
“I wouldn’t serve my patrons anything that wasn’t up to my standards. You surpassed them. You have an innate understanding of the French and Moroccan blend I’m looking for.”
“Aha!”
His fierceness returned like flicking whip at the sight of her smug grin. Perhaps she sensed his knife-sharp lust mingling with anger, because she forced her smile to vanish. For a few seconds, they just regarded one another in silence.
“I agree with what you said. I didn’t have many friends in Paris,” she said softly. “But you were my friend once, Lucien, when we first met in Nice when I was a child. Lend me a hand again. Please.”
She was ruthless. He suspected she knew very well that he’d respond positively to a wide-eyed, sincere plea. Still, respect for her tenacity tempered his irritation.