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Alrightie, then. She turned and bent down to the floor. Her skirt rode up her thighs and gave him another, better, glimpse of her blue thong and the wings stretching from the center. As she pushed to a stand, mimicking the motions of sex as she did so, she slowly circled, offering a lingering full-body shot.
He sucked in a breath, every muscle in his powerful body tense. “You smell like strawberries and cream.” As he spoke, he looked like a predator about to pounce.
Please, please, please, she thought. “Bet I taste like it, too,”
she said, batting her lashes despite the fact that he’d made the fragrance seem like a horrendous affront.
He growled low in his throat and took a menacing step toward her. He raised his hand to—grab her? Hit her? Whoa, what was that about?—before stopping himself and fisting his fingers. Before remarking on her scent, he’d been distant but maybe-kinda-sorta interested. Now he only seemed interested in throttling her.
“You’re lucky I do not strike you down here and now,” he said, proving her thoughts. Still, his hand lowered to his side.
Anya ceased moving, staring up at him in open mouthed astonishment. Because she smelled like fruit, he wanted to hurt her? That was—that was supremely…disappointing. Her mind had tried to supply the word devastating, but she’d cut it off. She barely knew the man; he couldn’t devastate her.
Wasn’t like she’d expected him to fall at her feet, but she had expected him to respond favorably. At least a little.
Men liked women who threw themselves at them. Right? She’d observed mortals for too many years to count, and that had always seemed to be the case. Key word, chica—mortals. Lucien wasn’t, and had never been, mortal.
Why doesn’t he want me?
In all the days she’d watched him, he hadn’t favored a single woman. Ashlyn, his friend’s lover, he treated with kindness and respect. Cameo, the only female warrior in residence here, he treated with gentleness and almost parental concern. Not desire.
He didn’t prefer men. His gaze didn’t linger on males with hunger or any hint of softer emotion. Was he in love with a specific woman, then, and no other would do? If so, the bitch was going down!
Anya ran her tongue over her teeth, and her hands clenched at her sides. Smoke continued to billow through the building,
hazy, dreamlike. The human females began to crowd the dance floor again, trying to lure the Lords back to their sides. But the warriors continued to observe Anya, waiting for the final verdict of just who and what she was.
Lucien hadn’t moved an inch; it was as if his entire body were rooted in place. She should give up, walk away, cut her losses before Cronus found her. Only the weak giveup. True. Determined, she raised her chin. With only a thought, she changed the song blasting through the speakers. The beat instantly slowed, softened.
Forcing her expression to follow suit, she sauntered the rest of the way to him, closing that hated distance between them. She trekked her fingers up his strong, hard chest and shivered. No touching—ha! He would learn. Anarchy was hardly an obedient lapdog.
He didn’t pull away, at least.
“You’re going to dance with me,” she purred. “That’s the only way to get rid of me.” Just to taunt him further, she stood on her tiptoes and gently bit his earlobe.
There was a rumble in his throat as his arms finally wrapped around her. At first she thought he meant to push her away. Then he jerked her deeper into the curve of his body, flattening her breasts against his torso and forcing her legs to straddle his left thigh. That quickly, she was wet.
“You want to dance, then we will dance.” Slowly, decadently, he swayed her side to side, their bodies staying meshed together, her core rubbing just above his knee. Spears of pleasure ignited, traveling through her bloodstream and leaving no part of her unaffected.
Gods in heaven, this was better than she’d imagined. Her eyes closed in surrender. He was big. Everywhere. His shoulders were so wide they dwarfed her; his upper body so muscled it enveloped her. And all the while, his warm exhalations caressed her cheek like an attentive lover. Trembling, she moved her hands up his back and tangled them in his dark, silky hair. Yes. More.
Slow down, girlie. Even if he wanted her the way she wanted him, she couldn’t have him. Not fully. In that respect, she was as cursed as he. But she could still enjoy the moment. Oh, could she enjoy it. Finally, he was responding to her!
His nose nuzzled her jawline. “Every man in this building wants you,” he said softly, yet his words were so sharp they could have cut like a knife. “Why me?”
“Just because,” she said, inhaling his heady rose perfume.
“That answers nothing.”
“Nor was it meant to,” she said, parroting his earlier words. Her nipples were still hard, so hard, and rubbing against her corset, enhancing her desire. Her skin was wonderfully sensitive, her mind hyperaware of Lucien’s every move. Had anything ever felt so erotic? So…right?
Lucien gripped her hair tightly, almost pulling some of the strands from her scalp. “Do you find it amusing to tease the ugliest man here?”
“Ugliest?” When he appealed to her as no one else ever had? “But I’m nowhere near Paris, sugarpop.”
That gave him pause. He frowned and released her. Then he shook his head, as if trying to clear it. “I know what I am,” he growled with the faintest trace of bitterness. “Ugly is being kind.”
She stilled, peering into his seductive bi-colored eyes. Did he truly have no idea of his attractiveness? He radiated strength and vitality. He exuded savage masculinity. Everything about him enthralled her.
“If you know what you are, sweetness, then you know you’re sexy and deliciously menacing.” And she needed more of him. Another of those shivers raked her spine, vibrating into her limbs. Touch me again.
He glared down at her. “Menacing? Does that mean you want me to hurt you?”
Slowly she grinned. “Only if it involves spanking.”
His nostrils flared again. “I suppose my scars do not bother you,” he said, completely devoid of emotion now.
“Bother me?” Those scars didn’t ruin him. They made him irresistible.
Closer…closer… Yes, contact. Oh, great gods! She glided her hands over his chest, luxuriating in the feel of his nipples as they reached for her, savoring the ropes of strength that greeted her. “They turn me on.”
“Liar,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she admitted, “but not about this.” She studied his face. However he’d gotten the scars could not have been pleasant. He’d suffered. A lot. The knowledge suddenly angered her as much as it entranced her. Who had hurt him and why? A jealous lover?
Looked like someone had taken a blade and carved Lucien up like a melon, then tried to put him back together with the pieces out of order. Still, most immortals healed quickly, leaving no evidence of their injuries. So even if he had been carved up, Lucien should have healed.
Did he have similar scars on the rest of his body? Her knees weakened as a new tide of arousal flooded her. She’d watched him for weeks, but she hadn’t gotten a single peek at his delectable form. Somehow, he’d always managed to bathe and change after she left.
Had he sensed her and kept himself hidden?
“If I didn’t know better, I would think you were Bait, as my men do,” he said tightly.
“And what makes you know better?”
He arched a brow. “Are you?”
Had to venture down that road, did you? If she assured him she wasn’t Bait, she would seem to be admitting that she knew what Bait was. She thought she knew him well enough to know that, in his eyes, the acknowledgment would negate the claim that she wasn’t. He would then feel obligated to kill her. If she claimed that she was Bait, well, he would still feel obligated to kill her.
Total lose-lose.
“Do you want me to be?” she said in her most seductive tone. “’Cause I’ll be anything you want, lover.”
“Stop,” he growled, that ever-calm mask loosening its hold on his features for the briefest of moments and revealing a stunningly intense fire. Oh, to be burned. “I do not like this game you are playing.”
“No game, Flowers. I promise you.”
“What do you want from me? And do not dare lie.”
Now, there was a loaded question. She wanted all of his masculinity focused on her. She wanted hours to strip and explore him. She wanted him to strip and explore her. She wanted him to smile at her. She wanted his tongue in her mouth.
At this point, only the last seemed achievable. And only by playing unfairly. Good thing Devious was her middle name.
“I’ll take a kiss,” she said, gazing at his soft, pink mouth. “Actually, I insist on a kiss.”
“I didn’t find any Hunters nearby,” Reyes said, suddenly standing beside Lucien.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Sabin replied.
“She’s not a Hunter and she is not working with them.” Lucien’s attention never wavered from her as he waved his friends back. “I need a moment alone with her.”
His assurance stunned her. And he wanted to be alone with her? Yes! Except his friends stayed put. Jerks.
“We are strangers,” Lucien told her, continuing their conversation as if it had never ceased.
“So? Strangers hook up all the time.” She arched her back, pressing the core of her into his erection. Mmm, erection. He hadn’t lost it, was still aroused. “There’s no harm in a little bittie kiss, is there?”
His fingers sank into the curve of her waist, holding her still. “You will leave? After?”
His words should have offended her, but she was too caught up in the tide of pleasure that simple embrace elicited to care. All of her pulse points began a wild dance. A strange, luscious warmth fluttered inside her stomach.
“Yes.” That’s all she could have from him, anyway, no matter how much she desired more. And she’d take it any way she could get it: coercion, force, trickery. She was tired of imagining his kiss and craved the reality of it. Had to have the reality of it. Finally. Surely he would not taste as amazing as she dreamed.
“I do not understand this,” he muttered, eyes closing to half-mast. Dark lashes cast shadows over his jagged cheeks, making him appear more dangerous than ever.
“That’s okay. I don’t, either.”
He leaned into her, hot, floral-scented breath scorching her skin. “What will a single kiss accomplish?”
Everything. Anticipation beating through her, she traced the tip of her tongue along the seam of her lips. “Are you always this talkative?”
“No.”
“Kiss her, Lucien, before I do. Bait or not,” Paris called with a laugh. Good-natured as the laugh was, it was still edged with steel.
Lucien continued to resist. She could feel his heart beating against his ribs. Was he embarrassed by their audience? Too bad. She’d risked everything for this, and she wasn’t about to let him back out now.
“This is futile,” he said.
“So what. Futile can be fun. Now, no more stalling. Only doing.” Anya jerked his head down to hers and smashed her lips against his. His mouth instantly opened, and their tongues met in a deep, wet thrust. There was an intense rush of heat through her as the addictive flavor of roses and mint bombarded her.
She pressed deeper, needing more of him. All of him. Plumes of fire infused her entire body. She rubbed against his cock, unable to stop herself. He fisted her hair, taking complete control of her mouth. Just like that, she was caught in a whirlwind of passion and thirst only Lucien could quench. She’d entered the gates of heaven without taking a single step.
Someone cheered. Someone whistled.
For a moment, she felt as if her feet were swept off the ground and she was without any kind of anchor. A moment later, her back was shoved against a cold wall. The cheers had somehow suddenly died. Frigid air nipped at her skin.
Outside? she wondered. Then she was moaning, unconcerned, and winding her legs around Lucien’s waist as his tongue conquered hers. One of his hands crushed her hip in a bruising grip—gods, she loved it—and the other tunneled through her hair, fingers once again curling tightly around the thick mass and angling her head to the side for deeper contact.
“You are—you are—” he whispered fiercely.
“Desperate. No talking. More kissing.”
His control vanished. His tongue thrust back inside her mouth, their teeth banging together. Passion and arousal were a hot blaze between them, a raging inferno. Truly, she was on fire. Frantic. Achy. He was all over her, already a part of her.
She never wanted it to end.
“More,” he said roughly, palming her breast.
“Yes.” Her nipples tightened, throbbing for his touch. “More, more, more.”
“So good.”
“Amazing.”
“Touch me,” he growled.
“Am.”
“No. Me.”
Understanding dawned, and with it an intensification of her desire. Maybe he did want her. After all, he yearned to have her hands on his skin, which meant he longed for more than just a kiss.
“My pleasure.” With one hand, she gripped the hem of his shirt and lifted. With the other, she caressed the ropes of his stomach. Scars. She felt scars and shivered, the jagged tissue wonderfully hot.
His muscles clenched against each stroke, and he bit her bottom lip. “Yes, like that.”
She almost came, his reaction like fuel to an already blazing fire. She did moan.
Her fingers traced the circle of his nipples before dabbling at the tips. Each time she grazed them, her clitoris throbbed as if she were touching herself. “I love the feel of you.”
Lucien licked his way down the column of her throat, his tongue leaving a trail of sensual lightning. Her eyelids cracked open, and she nearly gasped when she realized they were indeed outside, leaning against the club’s exterior in a shadowed corner. He must have flashed them there, the naughty boy.
He was the only Lord capable of transporting himself from one location to another with only a thought. A skill she possessed, as well. She only wished he’d flashed them to a bedroom.
No, she forced herself to add, fighting a wave of despair. Bedroom bad. Bad, bad, bad. Bad Anya for thinking otherwise, even for a second. Other women could enjoy the electric press of skin against skin and naked bodies straining for release, but not Anya. Never Anya.
“I want you,” he bit out roughly.
“About time,” she whispered.
He raised his darkly haloed head, blue and brown irises intense, before pinning her with another scorching kiss. On and on it continued, until she was willingly, blissfully drowning in him. Branded to her very soul, where she was no longer Anya but Lucien’s woman. Lucien’s slave. She might never get enough of him, would have allowed him to penetrate her then and there if she’d been able. Gods, reality was so much better than fantasy.
“I need to feel more of you. I need your hands on me.” She dropped her legs from him, standing, and was just reaching for his fly, wanting to free his cock and wrap her fingers around its swollen thickness, when she heard a nearby echo of footsteps.
Lucien must have heard them, too. He stiffened and jerked away from her.
He was panting. So was she. Her knees almost buckled as their gazes locked together, time momentarily suspended. Passion-lightning still sparked between them; never would she have guessed a kiss could be that combustible.
