Twenty-Three
ISADORA
Lucien opened the door to his home and guided me inside. I removed my boots, then followed him to what looked like his living room. Based on what I’d seen in his office, it was exactly what I’d expected from him. Luxury, elegance, but there was also a warmth to it.
I ventured into the space and studied it with a small smile. Dark hardwood floors, a vaulted ceiling, massive windows framed with lush curtains, and a low-burning fireplace across from a canape sofa and oversized chaise lounge chair. I glanced at the fireplace and noted that the fire hadn’t been burning for very long. Most likely, Lucien had called someone and asked them to prepare the house for us. Whether that staff member had hung around after, I wasn’t sure. Nor did I care.
The room smelled of wood polish, bloodwine, and a hint of something wholly Lucien that I couldn’t name. Whoever had decorated the place had hung artwork, all painted in a naturalistic theme—forests, rivers, misty mountains.
It was homey and absolutely nothing like the cold, pristine stone and glass estate I’d shared with Trystan. A person could relax here after a long day, kick her feet up, and read a good book.
I instantly fell in love with it.
“Do you like it?” Lucien asked, studying me from the doorway.
“It’s perfect,” was all I said.
I crossed toward the couch and trailed my fingers along the back. Trystan had never believed in comfortable seating. He’d always said that appearances superseded comfort. Instead of couches, he’d opted for glamor, furnishing our home with stiff-backed chairs and hard chaises. He’d wanted elegant, formal, but not welcoming. No blankets, no cushions, no warmth.
Lucien’s was the stark opposite of that, based on the blanket draped haphazardly across the settee. Sitting atop the blanket was a book, and between the pages was a bookmark, indicating where he’d left off.
Curious, I approached and glanced at the cover and title—Rebecca. “Daphne du Maurier,” I murmured. I glanced over my shoulder with a raised brow. “I didn’t peg you as a gothic romance sort of guy.”
Lucien chuckled. “It’s more than that.”
I stared at the room in all its wonder and smiled. “Your place is not what I expected.”
He pushed off the doorframe and strode toward me, his shoes echoing against the floor. “No?”
“No,” I said. “I half-expected to find your walls covered with brooding portraits of yourself.”
“I only bring those out for parties,” he retorted playfully.
I grinned. “I knew it.”
Chuckling, Lucien walked to the bar cart next to the fire and poured us two glasses of bloodwine. He handed one to me before taking his own sip. We locked eyes over the glass rims, not speaking. We just stood there, sipping our wine like we had all the time in the world.
After a few moments, Lucien reached for my glass and gently took it from my hand. He didn’t say a word as he set it down on the fireplace mantle, then placed his next to mine.
When he turned back to me, our eyes met once more, and my heart started racing. I wasn’t sure who moved first. Maybe we both did. All I knew was one moment we stood two feet apart, and the next, we were in each other’s arms.
His mouth slanted over mine and I wrapped my arms around him, my fingers gripping his shirt. He lifted his hands and cupped my face, pushing my hair back from my cheeks. I melted into him, drawn to his body like a moth to a flame.
Lucien backed me toward the couch and lowered me onto the cushions, his body covering mine. He slipped a hand beneath my blouse, his thumbs brushing against my breasts. Goosebumps pebbled my skin when I realized there was no one here to interrupt us this time. It was just the two of us. And this could go as far as I wanted—or didn’t want. Luckily for me, I wanted this to go as far as it could.
Lucien pulled back from the kiss and gazed down at me, his eyes almost hazy with desire. He brushed his lips against the tip of my nose, my lips, my chin.
“Are you sure you want this?” he finally asked. “I don’t want to push you.”
I cupped his face and pulled him down for another kiss, my tongue stroking his. When we parted, both breathless, I said, “Don’t worry. You’re not.”
“I mean it,” he said, his voice gruff. “You haven’t been alone in a hundred years. Are you sure you want this? Me? I don’t want to be—what’s the word kids use these days—a rebound guy?”
My heart melted into a puddle of goo. I slid my fingers through his hair and massaged the back of his head. His eyes fluttered shut, his expression going slack. If he was a cat, he’d be purring.
“I’m not confused or lonely,” I told him. “And I didn’t come here tonight hoping for a quickie. I want you. Because you make me feel like myself again. I haven’t felt this excited, electrified, or eager to be touched in a very long time. I didn’t realize how numb I was until I was finally free from Trystan. In my head, and in my heart, he and I haven’t been a couple in a very long time.” I moved my hands back to Lucien’s cheeks and waited for him to open his eyes and look at me. “I know exactly what I want.”
Lucien didn’t say a word. He simply stared at me. Then, something fierce flashed in his gaze, and he kissed me. Hard.
