He just loved to see me broken. I was sure of it. My humiliation was his entertainment, my desperation his symphony.
My hands fumbled at the lapels of his suit, my fingers clumsy and desperate as they clawed at the pristine fabric. I wasn't trying to undress him; I was trying to tear down the last barrier between his control and my skin.
"I never knew you were this starved," he murmured, his voice a dark caress against my ear.
Then his hand shot up, gripping my throat, pinning me harder against the cold, unyielding concrete. "When was the last time you had sex, Camilla?"
His other hand slid beneath my gown, his fingers pushing aside the thin silk of my underwear. His thumb found the aching, throbbing centre of me and pressed down—a hard, deliberate rhythm that stole the air from my lungs.
"I… d-don't… know," I moaned, my hips jerking involuntarily toward the pressure, betraying my every plea.
"No." His thumb pressed harder, a delicious, punishing weight. "You must answer me. How long?"
He didn't stop. The rhythm continued, relentless. A second finger joined, curling inside with devastating precision, and my world shattered into a blinding, full-body orgasm that ripped a ragged, broken cry from my throat.
"F...our years," I gasped, the words torn from me on a wave of pleasure so intense it felt like shame.
"Really?" He laughed, a low, dark sound of pure satisfaction.
Then, as I was still trembling from the confession and the climax, he broke away. His hand slipped free, leaving me empty, exposed, and achingly unfinished against the wall.
I could finally breathe—great, shuddering gulps for air that did nothing to calm the storm inside me.
He looked at me, his gaze scanning my body as if deciding where to begin his true conquest. Without breaking eye contact, he shrugged off his suit jacket. It fell to the floor, a splash of ruined elegance.
His fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, methodical, unhurried. They gave way one by one.
The fabric parted, revealing a body so flawlessly sculpted it felt like a weapon. Hard planes of muscle, a chest that spoke of brutal strength, abs carved like stone. On his right shoulder, an eagle tattoo was etched in dark, intricate lines.
Fuck.
Even through the drunken haze, I could see that every part of him was engineered for dominance.
Why was he so perfect?
"Do not move."
His command was a guttural growl, issued seconds before his lips claimed my neck. He sucked hard enough to brand the skin, his teeth grazing as he moved lower, his mouth hot even through the cloth of my gown.
I could still feel him—the ghost of his touch, the heat of his skin, the promise in his breath. I could only let my head fall back and pray this terrifying, glorious relief would never end.
Slowly, I peeled the black gown from my body, letting it pool at my feet. I stood before him in nothing but a pale pink bra and matching panties.
"Pink." The word left his lips like a stunned exhale. He was shocked.
I knew it was ridiculous. They were the only new, unworn things I could find.
"Ehmmmm…" Before I could stammer an explanation, his hand slid from my flat belly, lower. His palm pressed against the lace with a firm, deliberate pressure, establishing a slow, torturous rhythm.
"Ahh… ah… ah!" I tried to bite back the sounds, but he was too fast, too precise. Two of his fingers slipped beneath the silk, into me, curling in a way that was nothing like memory.
Memories of Bran detonated behind my eyes—clumsy, sweet, exploratory. It had never felt like this. There was no technique, just love.
But this… this was skill. A brutal, knowing art. It wasn't even him inside me yet, and I was already sweating, my hips moving helplessly to the fast, ruthless cadence of his fingers.
"You're shaking too much. I told you not to move." Lucian pinned my waist harder against the wall as his fingers fucked me. His other hand slipped into my bra, his palm pressing against my breast in a rough, possessive rhythm.
Then he tore the bra away. The sound of rending lace was lost beneath my gasps.
His hand closed over my breast, his thumb and forefinger finding my nipple, pinching and rolling with a persistence that made tears well in my eyes.
Ah...ahhh..ah!
It was too much, his fingers working inside me and his hand on my nipple, orchestrating a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain.
"How perfect can you be, Lucian?"
The words slipped out before I could stop them, a breathless, broken taunt.
He stilled.
For one terrifying heartbeat, his fingers stopped moving inside me, his grip on my nipple tightening just enough to make me whimper. His eyes, dark as a storm, locked onto mine.
"Don't." His voice was a blade, sharp and final. "Don't pretend this is about me."
Then he was moving again, his fingers thrusting deeper, curling in a way that made my vision blur. His other hand left my breast, sliding down to grip my hip, holding me in place as he leaned in, his lips grazing my ear.
"This is about you, Camilla. About how fucking wet you are for a man who doesn't give a damn about you."
His words were a slap, a truth I didn't want to acknowledge. Because he was right. My body was betraying me, arching into his touch, my hips rocking against his hand like some desperate, starved thing.
I hated him.
I hated the way his fingers knew exactly where to press, the way his breath hitched when I clenched around him, the way his body—God, his body—was a living testament to every fantasy I'd ever denied myself.
And then, just as another wave of pleasure crested, threatening to pull me under, he withdrew.
I gasped, my body jerking forward, chasing the loss.
Lucian smirked.
He took a deliberate step back, his gaze raking over me—my heaving chest, my trembling thighs, the ruined lace of my panties clinging to my skin.
"Look at you," he murmured, almost to himself. "Four years without being touched, and now you're begging for it like a whore."
The insult should have stung. It should have made me recoil, slap him or do something.
But all I could do was stare at his hands as they undid his belt, the leather sliding free with a whisper of finality.
My breath hitched.
He was hard. Thick. Impossible.
Why was it large...
I'd seen Bran's body, soft and eager, a boy's curiosity. But Lucian was something else entirely—a man built for conquest, every inch of him designed to ruin me.
His fingers wrapped around himself, stroking once, twice, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Tell me you want it," he demanded.
I swallowed. My mouth was dry, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my throat.
"Say it, Camilla."
I opened my mouth—to refuse, to scream, I don't know—but what came out was:
"Yes."
The word was barely a whisper, but it was enough.
His hand was on my waist again, spinning me around, pressing my chest against the cold concrete wall. His body covered mine, his heat searing through me as he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"Good girl."
Then he was pushing inside.
My world shattered.
-----------------------------
To be continued...