When I'm With You: The Complete Novel (19 page)

“Where did you find it?” she asked, her head lowered as she studied the watch, even though her entire focus was on Lucien.

“On the stairs. Baden dropped it. Why did he have your watch? Did he steal it from you?”

She stared sightlessly at the floor. She'd left out the part in her report to the police about her trying to give the taxi driver the watch for payment. Now she knew why she'd omitted that portion. She hadn't wanted Lucien to hear it. It was strange, but she honestly hadn't realized how potentially dangerous flashing around an expensive watch in this neighborhood could be.

Not until she considered her behavior through Lucien's eyes.

“Elise?” he asked pointedly. “Why did Baden have this watch? You weren't wearing it at Ian and Francesca's.”

She blinked, but her surprise faded quickly enough. Lucien took note of the smallest details.

“I . . . I didn't have enough money for the cab fare,” she said lamely.

An awful silence swelled.

“So you came up to your room to get something to give the taxi driver in lieu of payment, and you chose a designer watch worth several thousand dollars? Are you mad, flashing expensive jewelry like that around in this neighborhood?”

“It was the most reasonable thing I had to bargain with!”

“And Baden recognized that it was a valuable watch and took it?”

“Yes,” she whispered, shame stealing her voice.

“Baden was smart enough to realize that if you were willing to throw away a Cartier watch, there was even more valuable treasure to be had,” he said, glancing at the antique jewelry box on the dresser.

She closed her eyes in mortification. What might that lowlife have done to her if Lucien hadn't shown up?

Go home,
a voice in her head taunted.
Get married. Let someone else take care of you. You always make a mess of doing it yourself.

“What are you thinking, Elise?”

She met his gaze, chin tilted up proudly even though he had to see the irksome tears in her eyes. “The same thing you are, more than likely. That I should just run home to Paris before I cause some real damage.”

His rocklike expression collapsed for a moment so brief, she thought she'd imagined it. He stepped forward and took her into his arms.

“That's not what I was thinking. Don't give up now,” he said near her ear, his voice low and full of . . . regret? Concern? She couldn't say for sure. All she knew was that it felt like heaven to be in his arms. She put her cheek next to his chest and inhaled shakily when his long fingers threaded through her hair. He smelled so good—like clean soap, his addictive cologne, and just the hint of his former arousal. Her body stirred to life of its own accord as she recalled their illicit tryst at the penthouse. His hand moved. The back of her head seemed to fit perfectly in his palm.

“I'm sorry, Lucien. I would never want you to be hurt,” she said in a muffled voice as she tried to control the full feeling in her chest.

“I know that,” he said, his voice like roughened silk. “It's not me I'm concerned about. It's you. You are too impulsive at times. All you had to do was ask me for financial assistance.”

“I didn't think I needed any.”

She felt his fingers on her chin and looked up reluctantly.

“Well, you were wrong, weren't you?” He looked down at her with a hooded gaze. Her nipples pulled tight against his ribs. “I owe you a punishment for your impulsivity. I also owe you pleasure, for having pleased me so well earlier. Take off all of your clothes, Elise,” he said quietly.

“What?”
Her heart paused in its drumming to do a leap. Blood rushed into her cheeks.

“You heard me,” he replied.

He'd done it. He'd made her completely speechless. Her fingers seemed to have gone numb as she began to unloop the rope of pearls from around her neck. What was this feeling that swamped her? Was it shame? No . . . it was shyness. Her—Elise Martin—shy and awkward.

She wouldn't have thought it a possibility. But it wasn't just any man.

It was Lucien.

Chapter Six

He'd told himself he wouldn't be consumed by her fires, but the slow burn began as he watched her remove the looped rope of cultured pearls from around her neck. The pearls interested him. They weren't an expensive item. In fact, he'd frequently been proud of her during the past week in regard to the fact that she wasn't flaunting her wealth with expensive jewelry, clothing, and designer handbags. Elise was a very beautiful woman, after all, not to mention the daughter of a renowned fashion designer. She was known for wearing the most expensive clothes in the world like they were her birthright. She'd been staying under the radar, though—as well as a blazing meteor like Elise Martin possibly could.

The belt at her hips came off next. He'd noticed the moment that she approached him earlier this evening that the blue fabric of her dress emphasized her flawless, pale skin and sapphire eyes. Beneath the dress, she wore a matching pair of silk panties and bra. Her dress had fallen off her shoulder earlier when she'd been dancing so outrageously with Caden. He'd seen that the strap of the bra perfectly matched the color of her dress as she'd gyrated her hips, her gaze directly on him—daring him.

Arousal and irritation spiked through him at the memory.

She was petite, but built for sin. Her waist was so tiny, he would likely come near to encompassing it with his opened hands. She was far from slight, though. The curve from her waist to her round hips taunted a man's hand, tempted him to touch smooth, satiny stretches of skin. Just looking at the pale expanse of her taut belly and the juncture between shapely thighs made him hard and heavy—ready from a glance. Her breasts were full for her petite figure. He'd idly wondered if they'd been enhanced before, but somehow he doubted it. Elise's mother had been a screen goddess and praised for her hourglass figure. Despite her more compact size, Elise shared a lot of her mother's looks. She was Madeline Martin's beauty distilled and perfected.

Another reason Madeline had envied her daughter.

“Take off the bra. I'll remove the panties,” he told her gruffly.

His breath burned in his lungs as she unfastened the rear hook and her breasts spilled out of the cups. His cock lurched against his boxer briefs.

No. Most definitely the real thing.

Her lithesome arms fell to her sides, leaving her high, pink-tipped breasts exposed. Her eyes were still downcast. It was so strange to see her in anything remotely resembling a submissive pose. Unusual . . . and extremely arousing.

He closed his eyes briefly, blocking himself from the potent vision of her, and turned his attention to the grungy room where she'd been living. His mouth tightened when he again took note of the bars on the windows. He stepped over to the dresser and picked up the long-handled silver and enamel hairbrush he'd seen there earlier.

“Pick up your pearls and come over here,” he said, waving toward the end of the sagging double bed. It was made. He'd give her this—she'd kept the room as neat and clean as she possibly could. Again, his heart squeezed in his chest at the thought of this gem of a woman living in such squalor.

He sat at the edge of the bed, making the springs squeak in protest. He noticed she still hadn't moved and was looking in turn at him, the hairbrush in his hand, and the heap of pearls she'd set on the desk.

“I'll tell you what I'm going to do with them. Bring them here.” She scooped up the pearls and approached him, her gaze flickering from his face to his lap. His cock twitched as if she'd touched him.

He did his best to ignore the flagrant display of naked beauty just inches away from fingers that were itching to touch. He set down the hairbrush and held out his hands. She blinked, realizing what he wanted, and handed him the pearls.

“These pearls are valuable to you personally,” he stated rather than asked as he held the creamy, heavy gems in his hands. She blanched.

“How did you know that?” she asked.

“Because while they are lovely, they're cultured and irregular in shape. You said the watch was the least valuable thing you could offer, but these”—he held up the pearls—“were a hundred times cheaper. More so.”

“
Don't
call them cheap.”

“I'm not casting aspersions on your pearls. I'm just pointing out, the cabdriver would have likely prized their value over the watch. It would have made more sense to offer them. Who gave you the pearls?”

He saw the mini-revolt spark in her beautiful eyes and something else . . . something he didn't like. “That's none of your business.”

He examined her closely for several seconds, but she revealed nothing more. Anger flickered in him at her show of defiance. So did something else. Jealousy.

“I'm going to bind your wrists. Go like this.” He held out his arms and put his wrists together, palms facing inward. For a split second, he saw panic flash across her beautiful face. Despite the outlandish reports of her sexual antics, this was not a woman used to being bound.

“What are you going to do after that?” she asked suspiciously.

“I told you earlier I owed you a punishment for teasing me the way you did. Now you're going to get something extra for living in this hellhole and putting yourself at risk.” His eyelids narrowed when he saw her confusion . . . her desire. “Is there something you want to ask me?”

“No.” Even though she said nothing else, her defiant expression said loud and clear,
I can take whatever you can dish out. It's all the same to me.

“You are still pulling at the reins,” he said softly. “When you stop it and submit, the time will have come.”

He saw bewilderment shadow her features, but then her gaze met his. Her anxiety seemed to vanish. Slowly, she held out her hands to be bound.

He exhaled. Her show of trust aroused him even more than the vision of her gorgeous body. He resisted an urge to touch . . . caress . . . consume . . .

. . . possess completely.

“You're going to restrain me with
pearls
?” she asked incredulously from above him a moment later as he began to twist the gems around her wrists.

“If you struggle or try to get your hands free, you might break the silk.” He glanced up into her now flushed face. “I find that something delicate can restrain better than metal if the wearer values what binds.”

He determinedly focused on the task of looping the pearls around her wrists, making the long strand stretch snugly from lower wrists to forearms. Her thrusting breasts fractured his focus, trembling slightly as she breathed and he maneuvered the necklace. He could imagine in graphic detail how soft the skin of them would be sliding against his lips. When he'd finished restraining her wrists, he looked up at her face.

She was exquisite, her skin gleaming more luminously than the pearls. Her scent filtered into his nose—clean, light, extremely feminine. Her eyes looked large in her pale face, but they grew wider when he reached up, unable to resist, and stroked the under-curve of her left breast. He watched the rosebud tip darken and tighten. Blood pulsed into his cock.

For a second, a haze of lust fogged his vision, stealing his will.

“Lie down in my lap,” he murmured after he'd steadied himself. She complied without speaking. He guided her, taking some of her weight since her wrists were restrained. He noticed how careful she was of not stretching the silk and pearl bond and felt a stab of irritation.

Who had given her the necklace? She clearly held it dear.

Her skin felt like warm silk as he grasped one hip, holding her steady. The fingers of his other hand trailed down her back. He felt her ripple beneath his touch, mounting his lust. She settled in his lap, the sweet pressure of her body taunting his erection.

“I didn't tell you last time, but it gave me great pleasure to punish you,” he said, his hand flowing against her skin.

“It . . . it did?”

“Couldn't you tell?” he asked drolly. His cock lurched in arousal. She stilled beneath him and he knew she'd felt it. “Put your hands above your head,” he instructed. She followed his command. Sensing her nervousness, he stroked her until she softened a little, her flesh becoming more malleable beneath his hand. Feeling the deep knots in her muscles, he molded and rubbed.

“You really are a tight little knot. I will work this tension out of you one day. You are so stiff,” he said, listening to her soft, sexy moans as he massaged her back.

He'd always instinctively had an understanding of muscle, innately comprehended how stress, trauma, emotional and physical pain was stored and carried in the flesh. He'd learned to read a horse's tension from an early age by stroking muscle, seeing how an animal's body language altered with strenuous exercise, soothing words, and a touch . . . a concisely applied swat of the crop. Later, he'd learned to read his lovers' tension level, grew to understand how to build it with punishment, release it with an explosion of pleasure. . . .

Never had he touched a woman as tightly strung as Elise. He rubbed her shoulders and heard her exhale in a mixture of pain and pleasure. He winced. So much pain she carried.

“Is that better?” he asked, running his palm along her side, admiring her delicate rib cage and feeling her heart throbbing inside it.

“I think so,” he heard her say. She lay with her forehead pressed to the bedspread, reminding him of a child who closed their eyes before a painful procedure, like getting a shot. He smiled and caressed her just above the elastic band of her panties. She shivered as he stroked the patch of skin along her spine.

“Then we'll begin,” he said, using both hands to peel her panties down over her buttocks. She moaned softly, and he wondered if she'd felt his body's response to the vision of her, the decadent erotic feast she made, lying there nude and helpless in his lap. He worked the panties down her thighs in order to have full access to the lower curve of her plump buttocks.

He grasped one of her cheeks with his hand. “You knew you were teasing me, didn't you?” he asked gruffly.

“Yes.”

He gave her a brisk swat. She jumped slightly in his lap.

“Stay still,” he ordered, using his hands to palm both buttocks at once. She made a whimpering sound and settled in his lap. He released her and slapped each cheek again, grunting in grim satisfaction when she remained immobile. His cock swelled tight at the evidence of even that small submission on her part. He placed a flurry of spanks, letting her feel the burn. He watched in fascinated lust as her pale bottom began to blush pink.

She was a fantasy to spank, her ass plump and firm. He landed a brisk slap on each lower curve of a buttock, grimacing in lust at the erotic vision of her bouncing flesh. He shut his eyes and resisted an almost overwhelming urge to grind her body against his straining erection.

“I really didn't mean to say anything about our past association earlier tonight,” she squealed a moment later when he slapped both ass cheeks at once. She clenched her bottom tight.

“Perhaps, but you are impulsive. You act before you think. Relax,” he prompted, slapping very lightly several times at her ass until she released the contracting muscles. She continued her confession as if she hadn't been interrupted.

“And I only followed you because I was wondering what you were doing in the penthouse. Oh . . .
merde
 . . . that stings,” she moaned as he swatted her several more times. Her hips twisted feverishly in his lap, making him grunt in pleasure. He stilled her wriggling bottom, pressing her down against his straining cock. They groaned in unison. She was blushing pink now. He would have to be careful of her. Her skin was quite delicate, and he would never want to cause her any true harm. “Lucien?” she asked raggedly. “What
were
you doing, listening to Ian that way?”

“That's my affair,” he said distractedly, molding an ass cheek in his hand and treating it to several focused slaps. Her ass was turning nice and hot.

“But why were you spying on Ian Noble?” she persisted.

He snarled in irritation and lust and slapped her one last time. Hard. He shoved her panties down her legs and whipped them over her feet. Unable to stop himself, he slid his fingers between her legs, touching her outer sex.

Ah,
bless
it. Warm wetness slicked his skin. She gasped at his touch and then wiggled her bottom down closer to his hand, tempting him.

“Stand up,” he said sharply, his restraint a brittle thing.

Even though he commanded her, he helped her, mindful of her bound state. He rose. She stood before him, her luscious breasts plumped by her pearl-bound arms, her hair a sexy muss of golden waves and curls. Something about the six – or seven-loop strand of creamy gems around her wrists and forearms next to her naked skin really did it for him. Everything about her did it for him. He paused for a moment when he glanced at her face and saw the pink flush of her lips and cheeks.

He frowned. She ought to be outlawed for the things she inspired in a man—dark, dirty things . . . out of control things he'd surely later regret.

“What were you saying?” he asked, mouth tight, straining to recall why he'd been irritated.

“I . . . I didn't mean
spying
 . . . like . . . like . . .”

“My father?” he prompted quietly.

She scraped white teeth over her plump lower lip, the damp drag spellbinding him momentarily, making him forget his anger.

“I don't think you're like your father, Lucien. At least I hope you're not. But that man in Paris, he mentioned Ian Noble. I don't understand—”

“I'm not asking you to understand,” he said, touching her cheek and feeling her warmth. “I'm asking you to trust me. Do you?”

She nodded, but he saw the wariness in her eyes. He frowned and picked up the hairbrush from the bed. “Do you at least trust me enough to bend over for the rest of your punishment?” he asked.