href="#ucd35837d-9eb3-5838-8d4b-f0944f40e68d">Chapter 3
Lucien inhaled. God, she smelled so sweet. So different to the way he remembered. She’d smelled of innocence and illness, a little sunshine mixed with poison. Sweet, but with a playful, daring sense of mischief. She’d definitely changed, though. He’d first met her when she was nine years old and had last seen her on her nineteenth birthday. Six years later, she was dead. Or supposed to be.
He shifted even closer. He could feel her warmth, her heat, could smell her, something floral with a spicy edge. Today she wore a denim jacket, a shirt revealing that enticing glint of silver at her neck and jeans that looked real damn good on her. He stared into her brown eyes, saw the startled fear morph into something darker, warmer. She definitely wasn’t dead. Her gaze flickered briefly to his lips then back to his eyes.
He raised a hand to smooth her hair back behind her ear. “You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you?” Annoyance edged with disappointment washed over him, confusing him amid a rising tide of attraction. Her intentions were obvious. He’d watched her briefly from the lengthening shadows. She’d crammed pretty much everything barring the kitchen sink into her car. Thank God, he’d thought to disable the car. If she’d left...
Well, she had. She’d been ready to turn her back on him and walk away without a backward glance, and that probably hurt more than last night’s realization. He narrowed his eyes. Time for a different approach.
She lifted her chin. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she said. Her voice came out all soft and husky, and he could see the pulse fluttering in her neck, could hear the soft whisper of her breath and could almost feel the rise and fall of her breasts against his chest. If he leaned forward just a little more... He couldn’t help the flare of curiosity—what would she feel like, her body pressed against his? Her eyes darkened, just a little, but he couldn’t smell fear on her. No, there was something else, something innately familiar that his body recognized before his mind could.
Desire. It was like a shock, but a warm shock, as his body reacted before his brain could engage. This wasn’t the little girl he’d once befriended.
He trailed his hand from her shoulder down her arm to slide in and rest on the indent of her waist. Soft curves. Warm heat. Blood pooled in his groin, his breathing quickened.
“Then let’s not talk,” he murmured and dipped his head. She gasped at the move and his lips took hers.
There was no slow familiarization, no tentative movements. Instant arousal, hard and sharp, gripped his body as his tongue slid against hers. Her hands rose to his chest and, for a moment, her palms flattened against his shirt and he thought she was going to push him away. He leaned his hips against hers, knew she could feel the effect she had on him. Her hands clutched at the fabric, pulling him closer, and she opened her mouth to him.
He crowded her back against the wall, sighing as his body pressed fully against hers, feeling the soft swell of her breasts against his chest, her pants as his hand slid from her waist to her butt, pulling her closer, tighter. And all the time, their lips and tongues played.
God, it was so hot, so fierce, this need to have her. She felt so damn good in his arms. His attraction to her last night paled in comparison to the rushing heat and desire swamping him now. He angled his head, deepening the kiss, feeling her breath mingle with his as she panted against him.
He wanted her. Now.
He shifted slightly, pulling her toward the door, and again encountered that impenetrable wall of resistance from the house.
He growled, bending low and clasping her around the thighs, lifting her up against his rock-hard arousal. God, she felt so warm there. His cock swelled and all he could think about was her, surrounding him. Her arms slid around his shoulders and she thrust her breasts against him as he wrapped her legs around his waist, his coat enveloping them both.
“Let me in,” he whispered and rocked her against his hips.
She shuddered in his arms. Her nipples were tight little nubs against his chest. “Yes,” she moaned before dipping her head to catch his lips.
He felt the invisible wall in her doorway disappear and he stumbled inside her home.
With one hand cupping her butt, he trailed the other one up her body, pulling her shirt along with it. Her skin—God, it felt so good, so smooth and warm. He could feel her stomach muscles shift under his touch, and they both moaned when his hand found her lace-covered breast.
He strode into the room, angling his head briefly to peer beyond her, although she kept distracting him with those soft little pants and those sexy little hip rolls that she did against him. He tried to find some place, anywhere—The kitchen table caught his eye and he carried her over to it.
The surface was clear—not that he cared—and he kicked a chair away, ignoring the clatter it made as it skidded across the floor. His senses were preoccupied by the smoking-hot, writhing woman in his arms. His own arousal was at fever pitch, clenching his body in a tight grip. He was so hard, so ready, stunned with the force of it, but willing to let it take control.
He kissed her hard and long, tongue lashing against hers as he rested her butt on the edge. He took hold of her ponytail and lowered her down on to the table, their lips and tongues tangling.
She moaned as he stepped into the juncture of her thighs and he could sense her heat, her dampness, right where he wanted to feel it most.
His lips left hers, trailing across her jaw and partway down to her neck. He stopped short of the chain. Her pulse was hammering away in her throat, matching his in a frenzied beat. He kissed her behind her ear, gently raking his teeth against the sensitive curve of her neck. She flinched. Tensed. Then shoved him with enough force that he flew across the room until he hit the kitchen island and fell to the floor.
She sat up on the table, her eyes glowing silver, as she clutched her neck.
“You bastard,” she hissed.
* * *
How. Dare. He.
Natalie slid off the table, trying to calm her thumping heart, to wrestle her body under control. Her knees were like jelly and she had to lean back against the table for support. Tension gripped her; she couldn’t identify whether it was fear or desire that made her feel weak. Probably both. She pushed the memories from her mind. That wasn’t now. She wanted to run. She wanted to fight. She wanted to purr. She didn’t know what she wanted.
“You bastard,” she hissed again. She pulled her shirt down, trying to smooth it over her hips, wishing she could restore order to her pounding heart and desire-drenched body as easily as she did her clothing. Damn it, she hadn’t even thought to use her lariat or the dagger in her boot. Hopeless. She eyed Lucien.
He shook his head, as though stunned, and eyed the distance between them. “What happened?” he said, his expression confused and maybe a little frustrated. He glanced at the kitchen island that had stopped his flight. A chip of caesarstone fell to the floor.
“Get out of my house,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Lucien rose, rubbing the back of his head. He quickly composed himself as he leaned against the kitchen island. “No. You invited me in.”
He wore that stubborn look that had always struck her as annoying but sweet. Now, though, she didn’t think it was so sweet, just
