Page 36 of Until She's Mine
He stirs a spoonful of honey into one of the cups. “I haven’t slept well in years. But tonight... yes. Maybe I will.”
Lucian hands me the cup, and I cradle the warm porcelain in my hands, letting the heat seep into my palms as I take a tentative sip. The tea is soothing, its floral notes calming the flutter of nerves in my stomach.
“Thank you.” I meet his gaze over the rim of the cup. “Is that how you charm all your guests? Chamomile tea and perfectly sized clothes?”
“Are you asking me if women often find themselves in your position? No, Evelyn. You’re singular. There hasn’t been anyone else since the moment I saw you.”
“For three years?” I ask disbelievingly.
“Three years,” he confirms. “Three years of seeing you with him, watching you hold his hand, hearing him call you his. And each moment of it was agony.” He puts his cup down and closes the distance between us in two steps. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to want someone so desperately that it becomes the only thing you can think about? To know that every move you make and every word you speak is calculated to bring you closer to that one moment when they’ll finally see you?”
There’s an obsession, and there isthis.
Watching. Waiting. Wanting.
I set the cup down on the counter.
There’s nothing I can say that would be enough, so I don’t try. Instead, I reach for him, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His breath catches, and his eyes flutter closed, savoring the simple touch.
“You don’t have to wait anymore,” I whisper.
His eyes snap open, dark and hungry. “Then let me have this. Let me have you.”
My lips are on his before I can think, before I can stop myself. His lips are warm, insistent, and I melt into him, my hands finding their way into his hair. The world narrows to this moment—this room, this man, this kiss that could consume me whole. He deepens it, his tongue brushing against mine, and a soft moan escapes me before I can stifle it.
When we pull apart, both of us are panting.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says.
“I think I might, because you do the same to me.” I press my hand against his chest and push Lucian back until he’s leaning against the counter, his body rigid with restraint. I unbutton his shirt, one by one, revealing the smooth expanse of his chest. He grips the edge of the counter behind him, holding himself back from devouring me.
I trace my fingers down his sternum, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and then lower until I reach the waistband of his trousers.
As slowly and seductively as I can manage, I slide my hands beneath the fabric, my fingers brush against the hard line of his arousal. He inhales sharply, his body tensing beneath my touch, but he doesn’t stop me. He watches me with intensity that makes my knees weak, his gaze locked on mine as if daring me to continue.
My desire coils tighter, a molten heat pooling low in my stomach as I stroke him slowly, teasingly.
“You’re testing my patience,” Lucian says. His hands leave the counter and find my waist, gripping me possessively.
“Good.” I lean in to brush my lips against his neck. His pulse jumps beneath my mouth. “Because I don’t want your patience tonight. I want you to fuck my mouth.”
I want to taste him. I want to feel him come undone under my hands, my mouth, to hear him say my name like a prayer.
I need to burn away the memory of Tobias, our lies, the life I was supposed to live but never wanted. I need to forget about how I humiliated Tobias tonight, and how with one word from his mouth, my entire world could crumble.
Tonight, I don’t want to think about consequences or propriety or what anyone else might say. I want to be selfish.
I want to take what I’ve been denying myself for three years.
Lucian’s body goes still. For a moment, I think he might refuse, might pull back and reassert control. But then his hands slide up to cup my face, tilting my head back to meet his gaze.
“On your knees,” he commands.
I sink down slowly. The tile is cold, but I barely notice. My hands tremble as I unfasten his trousers. The sound of the zipper sliding down echoes in the quiet kitchen.
His cock is as intimidating as the rest of him—thick and heavy in my hand, the tip already glistening with precum. I lick my lips, my mouth watering. He steps closer, his fingers tangling in my hair as I take him into my hand, feeling the weight and heat of him against my palm.
I glance up at him through my lashes, seeing his clenched jaw, his chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Then I lean forward, my lips parting as I take the tip of his cock into my mouth. A deep, guttural sound escapes his chest, and he grips my hair tighter.
