When I'm With You Part IV (2 page)

“It's almost three o'clock in the morning.”

“I know. I'm a night owl. I had trouble sleeping—I always have,” she admitted when he just studied her with an incisive stare and didn't comment for several seconds. “Lucien?” she prompted.

“You used to have problems sleeping, even when you were a child,” he said, as though he'd just remembered. “Your parents never gave you a bedtime. You were a law unto yourself in the nighttime hours, if I recall correctly.”

She smiled and continued pouring her tea. “You used to be surprised that I would wait for you to come home.”

“I'd come home from a night at the casinos in Monte Carlo in the early morning hours and find you curled up with a book in the parlor.”

“I was just making sure you got home all right,” she said, putting the pitcher back into the refrigerator. “I was quite jealous, you know. Of Monte.”

“Of my gambling?”

“No,” she said, picking up her glass. “Of the women who got to accompany you.” She gasped in surprise when he approached her in two long strides and took the glass of tea from her hand. She watched in amazement as he matter-of-factly poured it down the sink. He glanced back and noticed her dumbfounded expression. He took her into his arms and she just looked up at him in amazement.

“It's not decaffeinated.”

“What's that got to do with anything? I never drink decaffeinated tea.”

He smiled as he looked down at her face. “It's time you started then, isn't it?” he asked gently. “Do you want some water?” he offered politely. She shook her head, too confused to speak. He took her hand and pulled her out of the kitchen.

“Lucien? What are you doing?” she asked when he led her into the room he'd designated as hers.

He paused next to her bed, her hand still held fast in his.

“Take off your clothes and get into bed, belly down.”

She swallowed at the sound of his low, sexy voice. “Why?”

“I'm going to help you sleep. I can do it a fair bit better than that caffeinated iced tea would have.”

He just stared at her following this disconcerting comment. She didn't know how to respond.

“You said you'd accept my rules. This is the chance to prove it,” he said, his voice a quiet challenge. “Now, take off your clothes.”

“All of them? Even the panties?” she asked a moment later as she peeled off her T-shirt.

“Yes.”

For the second time that evening, she stripped in front of him, highly conscious of his stare on her.

“Are you going to spank me?” she asked shrilly as she drew her yoga pants down her thighs.

“No. I told you. I'm putting you to bed, in a very adult way.”

She stood before him, naked and self-conscious, but he was busy drawing down the comforter and sheets. He waved at the bed. “Belly down, your hands above your head,” he said. “Lie in the middle,” he prompted when she sat at the edge of the bed. When she lay prone with her face in the pillow, he grasped one of her wrists. She jerked her head up and yelped in surprise when she felt him loop something over her hand. It was a thick black cloth cuff. He tightened it around her wrist. She pulled slightly and realized it was attached to a strap that appeared to be affixed somehow to the corner post.

“Do you often restrain people who stay in your guest bedroom?” she asked, amazed.

“I just put the restraints on this bed when we arrived, specifically for you.” She stared at him incredulously. “I already have some on my bed.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to disguise her anxiety. “Your maid must think that's pretty interesting every time she makes the bed.”

“Maria is the soul of discretion,” he replied levelly. “I will restrain you often. This will be a good opportunity for you to get used to being bound.”

“But I thought you said you weren't going to punish me.”

“I did. But I will restrain you for other things.”

Her clit pinched in excitement. She resisted an urge to ground it against the soft sheets. “For what things?” she asked.

“For sex, certainly. For pleasure, frequently. When you find it difficult to submit, I'll use restraints, with your permission, to make submitting less of a challenge for you. You will have no choice but to accept what I give you. Tonight, I'm going to teach you to let go and relax . . . to begin to train you to my hand.”

No choice but to accept what I give you.

Train you to my hand.

The phrases uttered in his low, decadently sexy voice reverberated in her brain and vibrated in her flesh. He sat next to her on the bed and she looked up at him in helpless excitement.

“I'm going to restrain your ankles and wrists. You will be at my mercy, but I will keep you safe, Elise. Always. If you let go and submit, I'll know it. I'll give you pleasure if you do. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she mouthed.

He smiled and brushed a tendril of hair off her cheek. A shiver of pleasure went through her at his touch. “Then turn your face away from me and rest your cheek on the pillow. Your eyes have a way of undoing me. Try to relax. I'm going to finish restraining you.”

Her heart began to thump uncomfortably against her breastbone as she lay there and allowed him to bind her naked body. When he got to her ankles, he flipped back the luxurious comforter and drew her legs toward each corner of the bed. It felt strange when he'd finished, to be spread-eagled, unable to move . . . vulnerable. He carefully covered her again with the sheet and comforter. By the time she felt his weight sink into the mattress next to her ribs, her breathing was coming erratically from nerves.

He drew back the bed coverings down to the top of her buttocks, exposing her back. He stroked the muscles deeply with a big, warm hand, and she shuddered in a release of anxiety and pleasure.

“That's right. It's time to give up control,” he murmured. “Just relax.”

He massaged her deeply, expertly for the next several minutes. She tried to resist, but his hands kneaded her rigid flesh into submission. Wherever did he learn the intricacies of pressure and release so well? She gasped when he swept his hand from her tailbone to her neck, applying a firm pressure. He repeated the movement, seeming to iron her anxiety and her resistance right out of her. She made a desperate noise in her throat as she tried to control an upwelling of emotion she couldn't comprehend.

“Let it go, Elise,” he ordered, digging his fingers deftly into her shoulders. “Let go, period. I've got you. Just relax.”

“No,” she grated out when he grasped her rib cage, holding her completely at his mercy, and worked his thumbs along her spine. She had no idea why she was protesting. His massage was heavenly. It was the fact that he was telling her to let go of control.

“Yes,” he said simply. He pressed his thumbs beneath her shoulder blades and maintained a relentless pressure. The air burned in her lungs. It hurt unbearably. It felt
so
good. She couldn't hold it in any longer. What was he doing to her with those devil hands? Something snapped in her.

She choked as emotion erupted out of her throat.

“That's right,” she heard him say as if from a distance as he rubbed her back muscles, working the remaining tension out of her. She sunk into the mattress, gasping, every muscle in her body going limp, even though she never gave them permission to do so.

He continued to rub her—for how long she didn't know—occasionally murmuring to her in soothing tones, sometimes in English, sometimes in French. The torrential rush of emotion she'd experienced was unlike anything she'd ever known. She wasn't crying from sadness or anger, but from some kind of whirlwind of unnamable feeling that felt as if it'd been living in her body, residing in muscle and flesh without her permission.

The tears on her cheeks dried. A wave of sleepiness overwhelmed her, and her entire awareness focused on the sensation of Lucien's magical hands. He peeled back the covers, exposing her ass and upper thighs.

Her eyelids flew open. Tension sprang back into her muscles. His low chuckle and warm touch on her thighs reassured her anxiety, but did nothing to alleviate mounting excitement.

“Don't get worked up all over again. You did well. I'm proud of you. It's hard to let go, when you feel like the rest of the world could turn into an enemy at any moment. You come by your vigilance honestly. But you must learn to let down your guard with me,” he chided. “Now . . . I'm going to give you a reward, something for especially sweet dreams.”

His hand moved between her thighs, cupping her sex. Before she had a chance to say anything or respond, his finger deftly burrowed between her labia. She cried out, her arousal sharp, immediate, and unexpected. Had he done that somehow, built tension in her sex without her being aware of it? He rubbed and circled and pulsed, and she had no choice but to lie there with her legs spread wide, her spirit split open, and take every bit of pleasure he offered her.

She twisted her head on the pillow, desperate to see him while he touched her so intimately. Through several tendrils of hair, she saw him sitting at the edge of the bed, one knee on the mattress, his arm stretched between her thighs. With his other hand, he stroked his naked cock.

She stared, transfixed, her arousal mounting exponentially. She'd never actually seen his cock before.
God
, he was so beautiful. His pajama bottoms were bunched below the protruding shaft, hiding his balls, but his cock was large and thick, the crown shaped like a fleshy, tapering mushroom cap. She recalled how succulent it had felt next to her lips and tongue. Her mouth watered. He stroked himself as he stared at his other hand moving between her thighs. She watched, transfixed. Something about her helplessness, her inability to touch him, somehow sharpened her desire until it cut at her.

It was all too much. She dropped her head to the pillow as the pleasure crested and broke.

“Yes, that's right,” he said gruffly from above her as she began to shake in delicious orgasm. “Now you're beginning to learn what it means to submit to me.”

He nursed her through her climax, his fingers agile and knowing in the slippery flesh. The entire time, she kept her gaze pinned to his big hand moving like a piston over his swollen cock, faster and faster.

“Lucien,” she cried out as he coaxed yet another climax out of her. He glanced at her face for the first time, both of his hands still moving . . . pleasuring them both. A convulsion went through his rigid facial muscles and she realized he was coming too. Jets of white semen shot onto his flat, ridged abdomen as he jacked himself with a forcefulness that both stunned and aroused her. She felt his gaze on her as she watched him ejaculate.

It was an incredibly intimate, powerful experience.

His hands slowed. Their soughing breaths cut through the silence. Eventually, he reached for some tissues on the bedside table and used them to mop up his emissions, his manner matter-of-fact. Arousal prickled at her sex once again, but her climaxes had been so powerful she was mostly utterly satiated. By the time he stood and released her restraints, she was a muscleless mass of limp flesh. She wanted to turn around and look at him when she felt him sit on the bed next to her, his touch reassuring on her back, but she was too overwhelmed with heavy, warm drowsiness.

“Are you awake?” he asked quietly when he'd covered her, tucking the sheet firmly around her.

She made an incoherent sound.

“We will do this every night at eleven thirty until your body learns when it's time to rest and your mind learns to let go and relax. Do you understand?”

She understood and was more than willing. It'd been a delightful, wonderful experience.

Yes,
she attempted to say. How frustrating. She was having trouble moving her lips. They weighed far too much. Trying to say the word out loud was the last memory she had until morning.

Chapter Eight

Four days later, Denise Riordan watched and instructed Elise as she put the finishing touches on a new dish they were doing for a special—smoked salmon terrine with mushrooms. Elise glanced up distractedly when the kitchen door swung open. She noticed Lucien's singular form and started, cursing under her breath when she poured some aioli sauce on the table instead of the plate.

“It's okay. Here,” Denise said, taking the sauce from her and handing her a towel. “It looks marvelous,” Fusion's new chef said with a smile before she handed the dish to a waiting server.

Elise glanced at Lucien skittishly. It had become rare for her to encounter him. She thought she might have seen more of him before she moved into his penthouse than she had in the past four days.

Of course . . . he
did
put her to bed every night, getting her used not only to falling asleep but to the restraints. Not to mention his magical hands. The hard part wasn't accustoming herself to his touch. The difficult thing was not aching for his touch every second of the day and night.

Heat rushed into her cheeks at the compelling memories of watching him masturbate, of him touching, rubbing, and pleasuring her until she was a mass of quivering goo.

That's all she really saw of him, those scant, decadently erotic moments when she was restrained and he masterfully coaxed her body to relax . . . let go . . . release. Last night, she hadn't even seen him, because he'd insisted on blindfolding her.

“You are refusing to cooperate,” he'd said as he tied a silk scarf he'd found in her drawer around her eyes. “I tell you to keep your head turned, but you keep watching me, don't you? Greedy little thing,” he'd murmured as he tightened the knot, his tone warm and amused.

It'd been worse—far worse—leaving things to her imagination, graphically picturing him stroking his cock while he made her shudder in bliss.

He said he was busy finalizing the details on the hotel purchase, and she supposed that was true, because he was rarely either at Fusion or the penthouse. She knew he occasionally went to his club for a polo match, but as of yet, he hadn't asked her to accompany him. The only hint of hope she had in that direction was that he'd alluded to the fact that he'd look for a mount for her so that they could ride together on the grounds.

She'd never felt so good as she had after so many nights of solid, deep sleep. Yet each morning, she woke up alone. All that extra energy was nice, but it was also leaving her with an unsatisfied edge. Not once had she been treated like this in her life. She was accustomed to men going too far in the other direction—bending over backward to please her, following her every demand to the letter, even pulling crazy stunts to get her to notice. Erik Cebir, for instance, the man her parents wanted her to marry, had asked her once if she liked fishing, and she'd idly replied that she did. Erik had responded by buying a brand-new yacht—complete with eight bedrooms—which he'd proudly dubbed
The Golden Elise
. He'd hidden his irritation quite well when he'd finally gotten her out in it to learn she knew absolutely nothing about, nor had any interest in, deep-sea fishing. When she'd told him she enjoyed fishing, she'd been referring to dropping a line off the end of a dock, like she had with Lucien during that summer of her youth. Despite her lackluster interest in hooking a gigantic tuna, Erik had rallied to please her in other ways.

She knew very well most men were doing it because of the lure of her status and wealth, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with her value as a person. They didn't really know her, and for the most part, none of them seemed that interested in discovering her character. But that didn't change the fact. It was what she had grown to
expect
from men
,
even if it wasn't necessarily what she desired.

Lucien had changed all the rules on her, and she suspected he knew perfectly well what he was doing. He knew her habits and her former lifestyle as well as anyone, after all. Her frustration was mounting by the hour. She couldn't possess what she wanted most—the gorgeous, insufferable, aloof man who stood regarding her now like she was about as interesting as the dirty pans stacked next to the sink.

“May I steal Elise from you for a moment? I need some clarification on her tax information from when she was under salary. I promise it won't take long,” Lucien said to Denise.

“Of course; she's been working nonstop, and the lunch rush is almost over,” Denise said as she ladled some steaming tomato bisque into a bowl and garnished it with goat cheese and freshly baked croutons. Elise respected Denise and was thankful that they got along so well. Compared to many chefs she knew, Denise possessed a very even temperament. She'd never learned better how to shut up and tamp down her pride than she had in cooking school, working with so many large personalities.

No, that wasn't entirely correct. She'd never learned better how to restrain her pride until she'd encountered Lucien in Chicago, she thought as she wiped off her hands and approached the tester-of-her-temper himself. He tilted his head in a request for her to follow him. By the time he'd led her silently to his office and shut the heavy carved door, she was starting to get nervous. She hadn't believed him for a moment when he'd mentioned the tax information. Everything she'd given him had been correct and up to date.

She watched him as he went behind his desk and sat. He was wearing a pair of jeans today, the fit of them highly distracting, along with an open collared white shirt and a black blazer that emphasized his wide shoulders. Behind his huge mahogany desk, he looked every inch the commanding, compelling lord of the manor.

“What's wrong?” she asked him shakily.

He blinked at her question. “Nothing is wrong. Why would you assume something is?” he asked, a smile pulling at his mouth.

“It's just . . . you don't usually call me back here.” Her hand instinctively strayed to her bottom as she recalled him punishing her here in his office. His gaze flickered downward. His smile widened.

“Have you been bad, Elise?” he asked, his tone a low, sexy tease.

Damn those dimples of his. Realizing she'd been touching her ass, she pulled her hand away.

“Of course I haven't. Why did you ask to speak with me?” she asked curiously.

“I thought you'd like to know I have bought you a mare.”

Her heart leapt. His smile widened as he studied her reaction.

“You bought me a horse?” she asked excitedly, approaching his desk. “Where is she? When do I get to see her?”

He held up his hands in a pause gesture. “I'll take you to the stables this evening after I close Fusion.”

She made a frustrated sound.
Lucien had bought her a horse.
“I can't wait that long.”

“You will, because you must,” he told her with a pointed look that was softened by a fond smile. “You're going to love her.”

“I know,” she said irrepressibly.

“How do you know?” he said, chuckling as he stood and came around the desk.

“Because you bought her for me,” she said. He looked surprised when she rushed him and threw her arms around his waist. When she glanced up after she'd given him a hug, she saw that he was also pleased. His arm slid around her back. He reached up and touched her cheek softly.

“You look radiant,” he murmured, caressing her. “It's like holding on to sunshine, having you in my arms.”

Warmth flooded her at his off-the-cuff compliment.

“It must be the beauty rest you're getting every night,” he said.

“If it is, it's the beauty rest you give me,” she said breathlessly, feeling lightheaded at suddenly finding herself in his arms. She arched against him provocatively, pressing her breasts against his ribs and chafing the tips by rubbing back and forth an inch or two. She felt his body stir. A low sound of satisfaction purred in her throat.

His expression hardened. He gently peeled her arms from around his waist, ignoring her frown as he moved away.

“From a few things Denise has said to me, I gather you haven't told her about moving into the penthouse.”

“That's right,” she said. “I thought you'd want me to keep it a secret. Was I wrong about that?”

“Not at all. But we hadn't discussed it. I want to thank you for being discreet. You technically work for Denise, not me, but she is my employee. I wouldn't want her to feel uncomfortable, or that the situation is unfair in any way.”

“I would never allow our relationship to interfere with my training,” she said resolutely. He didn't reply for a moment, and she reviewed what she said. She blushed. “Not that we really . . . you know . . .”

“What?” he prompted

“Have a relationship,” she said, glaring at him. Her scowl deepened when his smile returned.

“It's too bad you don't think so, as I usually don't ask women I'm not in a relationship with to move in with me.”

“To the spare bedroom,” she added under her breath.

“Pardon me?” he asked politely.

“Nothing.”

“Is there something you want to ask me?” he prompted. His sudden intensity confused her. Why was he always asking her that? She shook her head stubbornly. She'd be damned if she begged him to take her completely . . . to claim her. He either wanted her or he didn't.

“All right, if there's nothing. There's something else I thought I should mention, even though I'm sure it's not necessary. You showed so much discretion with Denise and the other employees here at Fusion,” he said as he picked up an envelope from his desk.

“What do you mean?”

He glanced up and she sensed the tension he'd been trying to disguise as he rifled through his mail with seeming distraction.

“I spoke with Ian a few moments ago about our fencing practice tomorrow. He and Francesca are coming here for dinner tonight. Ian mentioned Francesca wants to speak with you about setting a time and date for a run.”

The silence pressed on her eardrums. She was beyond grateful and excited over the fact that he'd bought her a horse, but something about this topic sent up a warning flag in her brain. Suddenly, she was absolutely certain that this issue over Ian and Francesca was the real reason he'd called her back to his office, not the gift of the horse—or at least the horse had been secondary.

“And you wanted to make sure I didn't spill anything about moving into the penthouse with you to Francesca, either tonight or when we get together for the run?” she clarified.

He shrugged. “It would seem odd, wouldn't it? For you to be living with me after such a short period of time?”

“You're worried that you won't be there during the run to monitor me with Francesca.”

He gave her a bland look. “As long as we understand each other.” He casually strolled around his desk as he opened a piece of mail.

“I'm not sure I
do
understand,” she said slowly.

He froze and glanced back at her, his gaze hooded.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you care so much what Ian Noble thinks? Why are you so . . .
interested
in Ian Noble, period? Does he have something you want? Are you maneuvering for something? Business-wise?”

“Of course not.”

“Why can't you just tell me what you're doing? Maybe I could help you.”

“Drop it, Elise.”

She blinked at his sharp, quiet command. She didn't want to ruin this moment after he'd told her about the horse, but something uncomfortable fluttered in her chest and settled like lead in her belly. She'd grown up in an atmosphere of deceit and cunning. Every move her mother or father ever made was premeditated, designed for a specific result. She knew Lucien had grown up under similar circumstances. Worse ones. Lucien's father could have taught Machiavelli a few things.

“Ian Noble has got nothing to do with you—with us,” he said.

She made a scoffing sound.

“I refuse to be blackmailed,” he said. “If you feel that it's so imperative, go to Noble and tell him what you think you know.”

“Oh, right. And then you'd toss me out on my butt,” she said hotly. Had he just asked her to stay with him at his penthouse because he wanted to have something over her head to keep her quiet? Was it just more convenient for him to keep her under control if she was nearer to him?

“There's no question of me tossing you out. Don't get worked up over things that don't concern you. Not everything is about you, Elise.”

“I know that!” she said, stung. “I just don't understand why you're being so secretive.”

“It's not up for discussion. You either trust that I'm not up to something harmful, or you don't. I'll leave that up to you,” he said, sitting down at his desk. He opened a leather-bound journal and a pen and began to enter some numbers.

She'd been dismissed.

She turned and stalked out of the office, feeling bewildered and irritated over the combination of his thoughtful gift and subsequent maneuvering for her silence. Her desperation mounted.

Lucien wasn't anything like his father.

Of course he wasn't.

So why did he behave so secretly at times?

* * *

Lucien was glad to see that she stayed late that night. He thought she might leave Fusion in a temper when her duties were done, refusing to accompany him to the stables after their earlier disagreement. He'd observed her interaction with Francesca and Ian earlier and she'd done well with the possible exception that she'd pointedly omitted him from her warmth and charm. He could tolerate that himself, but Ian, at least, definitely noticed her giving him the cold shoulder.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked evenly as he entered the kitchen. Most of the lights had been turned down. She stood behind a wooden chopping table, stacking some plates. He saw that she'd changed out of her chef's smock and wore a pair of white Martin jeans, the flagship product of her father, Louis Martin's, famous fashion house. With the jeans, she wore a dark blue fitted T-shirt that emphasized her small waist and full breasts.