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.
âMore,â he said roughly, palming her breast.
âYes.â Her nipples tightened, throbbing for his touch. âMore, more, more.â
âSo good.â
âAmazing.â
âTouch me,â he growled.
âAm.â
âNo. Me. â
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.
âMy pleasure.â 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. âYes, like that.â
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. âI love the feel of you.â
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 clubâs 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 heâd 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.
âI want you,â he bit out roughly.
âAbout time,â 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 Lucienâs woman. Lucienâs slave. She might never get enough of him, would have allowed him to penetrate her then and there if sheâd been able. Gods, reality was so much better than fantasy.
âI need to feel more of you. I need your hands on me.â 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.
âRight your clothing,â he commanded.
âButâ¦butâ¦â She wasnât ready to stop, audience or not. If heâd just give her a moment, she could flash them someplace else.
âDo it. Now.â
No, there would be no flashing, she realized with disappointment. His hard expression proclaimed he was done. With the kiss, with her.
Tearing her gaze from him, she looked down at herself. Her top had been anchored underneath her breasts. She wasnât wearing a bra, so the hardened pink tips of her nipples were visible, two little beacons in the night. Her skirt was around her waist, showing off the front of that barely-there thong.
She smoothed her outfit, blushing for the first time in hundreds of years. Why now? Does it matter? Her hands were shaking, an embarrassing weakness. She tried to will them