Page 137 of Things We Left Behind

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring down between my legs at what I could only assume was the wettest thong in the history of thongery. His hands slid from my knees and fisted at his sides. Another display of self-­control. I’d had enough of it. I wanted him off the leash.

I reached for his belt. “Lose the shirt.”

He hesitated for the barest of seconds before complying.

He worked the buttons free with one hand while the other loosely collared my neck. A show of dominance I found… Well, honestly, I found it fucking hot.

I yanked his belt open and got to work on his fly. His erection was straining so hard against the fabric it was a damn wonder it hadn’t ripped free yet. He probably had a tailor reinforce all his crotch seams.

With his zipper finally opened, the treasure I sought was barely contained by a silky pair of black boxer briefs.

Lucian ripped the shirt down his arms, baring his disgustingly awesome torso. There was muscle. A lot of it. The scars I’d known he had were gone. In their place were tattoos.

My heart lurched.

Without thinking, I ran my finger over one long, slivery imperfection over his ribs. The scar had been partially camouflaged with an inked griffin. A symbol of strength and power.

Lucian sucked in a breath as if I’d hurt him somehow, then shoved the remains of my dress up to my waist.

“That’s better,” I said, rewarding his show of impatience by smugly sliding my palm up the length of his shaft. He was so thick, so hard now that the blunt crown had breached the waistband of his underwear.

He towered over me, one hand behind me on the mattress. The other he used to stroke my cheek, my jaw, my neck. Our eyes met. I didn’t recognize what I found in his, but it took my breath away. His gaze bored into me, an unbreakable connection.

As we stared straight into each other’s souls, he released my face and trailed his fingers all the way down my torso to the naughty, red satin that covered my center.

“You’re fucking soaked and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

He sounded annoyed by that fact.

“What’s your point?” I retorted.

“Is it for me, or was it for one of them downstairs?”

“Does it matter?”

His thumb pressed against the wet spot, causing my legs to spasm around his hips. My empty channel pulsed greedily, craving more. “It matters,” he gritted the words out.

Rather than answer him, I hooked my fingers in the band of his briefs and yanked the silky material away from my prize.

I barely managed to swallow my gasp. King-­size didn’t do it justice. Lucian Rollins was the proud owner of the biggest cock I’d ever seen in my life.

“Jesus, Lucifer. What do your dates usually do? Unhinge their jaws?” I demanded.

His eyes seemed to glow as he looked down at me. “You and your fucking mouth.”

He looked like he wanted to punish me for the last two decades of misery, and some dark, depraved part of me wanted him to try.

“What are you going to do about it?” I taunted, gripping the thick base of his shaft.

His nostrils flared and a bead of moisture welled up from the slit in his crown.

My entire focus zeroed in on his thick, rigid erection. I was going to come so fucking hard.

If I could get him to fuck me from behind, I could muffle my screams in a pillow so he wouldn’t know. Women had been faking orgasms for centuries. I could fakenothaving one. And wouldn’t that throw him for a loop? I liked the idea of getting off while dinging his self-­confidence.

“Whatever it is you’re plotting, it won’t work,” he said.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied and began to stroke the thick column of flesh.