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Over the edge of the building, he dangles from the parapet, held only by his arms. His bottle of liquor lies in a scatter of broken glass on the ground below him. Muscles tremble and stretch as he holds himself from falling.
“Mr. Blackthorne!” I kneel down to put most of my weight on one side, and lean against the wall to reach over the edge. “Take my hand.”
The guy probably weighs twice as much as I do, but I don’t care. Watching him fall to the cement below is a sight that would stay with me for the rest of my life.
“Take my hand, Lucian.”
Still holding onto the edge with one hand, he hoists himself enough to clutch my arm, and I grasp onto him with both hands, straining and flexing to keep him from slipping.
“If this ain’t some shit karma.” He chuckles again, slipping enough to yank me forward until my breasts are pressed into the stone wall.
“Somebody, help! Help us! Makaio!”
“Makaio can’t hear you. He’s on th’other side of th’castle.”
“Rand!”
“Rand, too.”
“Jesus Christ, somebody help!”
“Stop yellin’, girl. Fuck.” Jaw hardening with the effort, he pushes himself up, perhaps exerting most of the pressure on the hand clutched to the parapet. Still, I brace myself on the wall of the roof and tug him until my muscles are weak with the effort. My wrists burn where he grips my skin, but once his shoulders breach the edge, I slide my hands beneath his armpits and drag him toward me.
“Don’t slip, Lucian. Use your legs!”
Every muscle in my body is both hot and cold with the toil, until his entire upper half is finally on my side of the wall, and he drops down. The gravelly bed crashes into my spine, and his big body topples onto mine, held up by his massive arms planted at either side of me.
In the pause that follows, I pant to catch my breath and look up to see him staring down at me, his eyes dilated, swirling with the excitement of a wily cat, before they shift toward my lips.
“Say my name again,” he whispers, eyes riveted on my mouth.
“Lucian.”
Stiff and paralyzed beneath him, I watch as his gaze leads his body closer, and he lowers himself, until the first gentle brush of his lips feathers across mine. The scent of him is an intoxicating mix of liquor and cologne, his breath a sweet whiskey that waters my mouth for a taste.
His tongue circles my parted lips, as if he’s sampling me, and my stomach clenches with the contact.
My heart is pounding so hard inside my chest right now, it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it.
My boss, the Devil himself, the wealthiest, most reclusive man on this island. And he’s kissing me. Muscles still trembling, I try to calm my breathing, as the air stutters through my nose on each shaky exhale.
He slants his face over mine, his tongue dipping past my teeth, deepening the kiss. Nothing like the sloppy, gagging tongue-dives of boys my age. Expert and unrushed, his maturity shines through in his focus and attention. I feel so juvenile and inexperienced with this man who’s clearly perfected the art of the French kiss.
Air expels from his nose on a groan, and he presses me harder into the gravel, but I don’t care. I taste everything pouring out of him, into me--the desperation, the sadness, the loneliness. His kiss speaks to me beyond the slurs of his drunkenness from moments before.
It tastes of whiskey and longing.
A whimper escapes me. I’ve never been kissed this way before in my life. Boys have taken from me, stolen kisses in teasing and play, but never with so much passion as this. I want to consume it all, commit every second to memory, so I’ll never accept anything less again.
The weight of his body presses down on me, trapping me beneath him as his kiss turns aggressive. Forceful. The moan from his throat vibrates in mine, making me dizzy with want. A warm, strong hand slides up the edge of my body, beneath my shirt, and I gasp in his mouth when his fingertips reach the edge of my breast.
He breaks away from me, his hand sliding back down to plant on the ground beside me. Flickers of remorse or shame, I can’t tell, are punctuated by the stern pinch of his brows. The mask of his drunken stupor lifting to the sobering reality beneath it all.
“Lucian?” I reach up to cup his face, and he pushes off me, falling backward against the wall behind him. Sitting up from the ground across from him, I watch him silently chide himself through the shocked and disgusted expression on his face.
I don’t know what’s worse: the way he looks right now, brimming with regret, or the arrogant smirks the boys in school used to wear when they were finished with me.
The thought of them leaves me frowning, as well.
