I couldn’t imagine ever letting go.
So, I wouldn’t.
She was mine now—as much as I was hers. And I would burn the world down before I let anything change that.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
ISADORA
Lucien kissed me like a man possessed. He didn’t merely tease—he devoured. And oh boy, he was good at it. He wrapped his arms around my waist and held me tight. So tight, I wasn’t sure I could escape. Not that I wanted to. The feel of his hard body pressed against mine awoke parts of me I’d long since thought had gone dormant.
At some point—I think after his hand slid under the hem of my blouse and settled possessively against my side—I tugged him toward the bed. I truly never thought I’d feel this way again. His touch lit me up and I was desperate for more.
Touching Trystan had felt more like an obligation. I’d done it to make him happy. But it’d been a long time since touching him had made me happy. Not that he’d noticed my disinterest. Neither had I, for that matter. It’d become the norm. I only realized it now, when for the first time in decades, my blood spiked with passion and need.
I pulled Lucien down onto the ruined mattress and our limbs tangled together as we fell. I pushed his suit jacket off his shoulders and kicked off my boots. I wasn’t entirely sure who had unfastened the top few buttons of my blouse, but they were open now, and Lucien traced his fingers over the swell of my upper breasts, like he was committing my curves to memory.
“Izzy,” he murmured.
It was the first time he’d called me that, and damn it, I melted. There was something about his voice whispering my nickname that undid me. When Thorne first told me about Lucien, I’d been prepared to hate him. Who knew the opposite would happen?
“Hey, Izzy—whoa!”
Thorne’s voice shot through the loft. I jerked my head toward her so fast, my vision spun. Lucien froze, his lips pressed against my collarbone.
Thorne stood halfway in the loft, one hand thrown dramatically over her eyes. “Oh gods. I am blind. My retinas are scarred. What did I do to deserve this?”
“You walked into a room uninvited,” Lucien mumbled, apparently unwilling to move off me.
I pushed until he gave a belabored sigh and sat up.
“You could have warned me!” she whined. “Put a sock on the stairs or something! Last I heard, you were threatening the toilet! How does that lead to this?”
“We’re all adults here—” I said while buttoning up my shirt.
“Some more than others,” Lucien added.
I rolled my eyes. “My point is, let’s all be adults, and just move on.”
“Not possible,” Thorne bemoaned. “The damage is done. I’m going to need therapy. And possibly a gallon of brain bleach. But feel free to carry on with your unholy groping—I’m leaving.”
She vanished back down the stairs.
“Unholy groping?” Lucien repeated.
“You’d think we were naked, the way she reacted. And she didn’t even tell us why she interrupted us.”
“I’m sure she’ll tell you later,” he replied. “But until then…” He pushed me back down onto the bed, his gaze raking over my length. “Where were we?” Then he popped open my top two buttons. “Ah, yes. Right. Here.”
Lucien didn’t give me a chance to object before his mouth reclaimed mine. He kissed me slower this time. Less devouring and more savoring, like he had all the time in the world. And I didn’t mind one bit. I couldn’t recall ever enjoying someone’s kiss like this before. Trystan’s had always been sloppy and rushed. But Lucien? He kissed like an artist.
He touched like one too—like a sculptor appreciating a masterpiece. His fingers glided in slow strokes over my stomach, my waist, my sides. Every brush had me arching into him. I pressed my hips against his and slipped my hands beneath his shirt to explore his muscled back. Gods, he was so warm and solid. And all mine.
The thought made my breath stutter. Which Lucien noticed. Because he noticed everything.
He pulled back from the kiss and gazed down at me. “Something wrong?”
