She tilts her head, confused, then realization dawns in her eyes. A slow, wicked smile spreads across her face as she deliberately takes another bite, this time letting out a moan that’s so obviously exaggerated it would be comical if I wasn’t newly celibate except for me and my hand.
“Are you?” she asks innocently, scooping up more custard. But instead of bringing it to her mouth, she holds the spoon out toward me. “Maybe you should have a taste.”
Chapter 22
Seraphina
I’ve never felt so powerful in my life as I do watching Lucien’s eyes darken at my little performance.
The custard glistens on the spoon, a drop threatening to fall onto the pristine tablecloth. I’m not even sure why I’m doing this—teasing him like this when we’ve spent two weeks willfully avoiding each other. Maybe it’s the adrenaline from confronting Vincent. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe I just want to see how far I can push.
Lucien stares at the offered spoon, then at me. The look in his eyes makes my thighs clench involuntarily. Fuck, he’s even gorgeous when he’s struggling for control.
“You’re playing with fire, Little Sinner,” he warns, his voice rough and low.
I raise an eyebrow, keeping the spoon steady. “Are you scared of some sugar?”
Something shifts in his expression—a flash of something almost playful beneath the hunger. It’s so unexpected that I almost drop the spoon. For a brief moment, he doesn’t look like the dangerous heir to a secret society or the man who’s been tormenting me for weeks, no years. He looks…young. Almost carefree.
“Never,” he says, pushing his chair back from the table.
My heart rate kicks up as he stands and walks to my side. I expect him to take the spoon, maybe make some crude comment about what else I could put in my mouth. Instead, he surprises me by dropping to his knees between my legs, pushing my chair back to make room.
My breath catches in my throat as he looks up at me from his position on the floor. It’s so fucking surreal—Lucien Devereux on his knees before me, his broad shoulders between my thighs, his hands resting casually on my bare legs.
He leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine, and takes the bite from my spoon. His lips close around it, and I swear I can feel the phantom sensation on my skin.
“Yeah, it’s good,” he says after swallowing, his thumb drawing lazy circles on my inner thigh, “but that’s not what I want a taste of.”
My entire body flushes hot at his words, at the raw hunger in his eyes. He pushes my legs further apart.
“What are you doing?” I manage to ask, my voice embarrassingly breathy.
“Exactly what I’ve been wanting to do since you walked downstairs in my fucking jersey,” he says, his hands sliding up my thighs. His touch sends goosebumps through my entire body, his fingertips barely grazing my skin as they move up and down, teasing me. I should push him away. This is dangerous territory—but my body betrays me, my legs falling open wider.
“This,” he murmurs, fingers tracing the hem where it’s ridden up my thighs. “Seeing my name across your back does things to me.”
“It was just to piss off your father,” I lie, my voice catching as his hands move higher.
He smirks, clearly not believing me. “Was it, though?”
His fingers hook under the edge of the dress, slowly pushing the material higher until it’s bunched around my waist. His eyes darken when he sees the bright red lace of my panties, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“Well, look at this,” he says, tracing a finger over the damp patch at the center. “Someone’s excited.”
I try to close my legs but his damn shoulders are too broad, keeping me spread open for him. My face burns with embarrassment—and something else I don’t want to give name to.
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
He looks up at me through those ridiculously long lashes, his eyes practically glowing with hunger. “If I taste you, are you going to claw my eyes out?”
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t want this. But fuck, I do. How many people can say they’ve had Lucien Devereux on his knees for them? Not many, if any.
I try to go for playful, to hide how much I actually want this. “I thought you liked my claws and being scratched by me.”
A wicked grin spreads across his face. “I fucking love it when you leave marks on me,” he says, his voice dropping to that register that makes my insides turn to liquid. “Makes me feel owned.”
Before I can process what he’s said, he hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties and drags them down my legs. I lift my hips automatically to help him, and he slides them off completely, wrapping them around his wrist like a trophy.
