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“Makaio can’t hear you. He’s on th’other side of th’castle.”
“Rand!”
“Rand, too.”
“Jesus Christ, somebody help!”
“Stop yellin’, girl. Fuck.” Jaw hardening with the effort, he pushes himself up, perhaps exerting most of the pressure on the hand clutched to the parapet. Still, I brace myself on the wall of the roof and tug him until my muscles are weak with the effort. My wrists burn where he grips my skin, but once his shoulders breach the edge, I slide my hands beneath his armpits and drag him toward me.
“Don’t slip, Lucian. Use your legs!”
Every muscle in my body is both hot and cold with the toil, until his entire upper half is finally on my side of the wall, and he drops down. The gravelly bed crashes into my spine, and his big body topples onto mine, held up by his massive arms planted at either side of me.
In the pause that follows, I pant to catch my breath and look up to see him staring down at me, his eyes dilated, swirling with the excitement of a wily cat, before they shift toward my lips.
“Say my name again,” he whispers, eyes riveted on my mouth.
“Lucian.”
Stiff and paralyzed beneath him, I watch as his gaze leads his body closer, and he lowers himself, until the first gentle brush of his lips feathers across mine. The scent of him is an intoxicating mix of liquor and cologne, his breath a sweet whiskey that waters my mouth for a taste.
His tongue circles my parted lips, as if he’s sampling me, and my stomach clenches with the contact.
My heart is pounding so hard inside my chest right now, it’s a wonder he doesn’t hear it.
My boss, the Devil himself, the wealthiest, most reclusive man on this island. And he’s kissing me. Muscles still trembling, I try to calm my breathing, as the air stutters through my nose on each shaky exhale.
He slants his face over mine, his tongue dipping past my teeth, deepening the kiss. Nothing like the sloppy, gagging tongue-dives of boys my age. Expert and unrushed, his maturity shines through in his focus and attention. I feel so juvenile and inexperienced with this man who’s clearly perfected the art of the French kiss.
Air expels from his nose on a groan, and he presses me harder into the gravel, but I don’t care. I taste everything pouring out of him, into me--the desperation, the sadness, the loneliness. His kiss speaks to me beyond the slurs of his drunke
It tastes of whiskey and longing.
A whimper escapes me. I’ve never been kissed this way before in my life. Boys have taken from me, stolen kisses in teasing and play, but never with so much passion as this. I want to consume it all, commit every second to memory, so I’ll never accept anything less again.
The weight of his body presses down on me, trapping me beneath him as his kiss turns aggressive. Forceful. The moan from his throat vibrates in mine, making me dizzy with want. A warm, strong hand slides up the edge of my body, beneath my shirt, and I gasp in his mouth when his fingertips reach the edge of my breast.
He breaks away from me, his hand sliding back down to plant on the ground beside me. Flickers of remorse or shame, I can’t tell, are punctuated by the stern pinch of his brows. The mask of his drunken stupor lifting to the sobering reality beneath it all.
“Lucian?” I reach up to cup his face, and he pushes off me, falling backward against the wall behind him. Sitting up from the ground across from him, I watch him silently chide himself through the shocked and disgusted expression on his face.
I don’t know what’s worse: the way he looks right now, brimming with regret, or the arrogant smirks the boys in school used to wear when they were finished with me.
The thought of them leaves me frowning, as well.
“I’m sorry.” Lucian’s voice draws my thoughts back to him, where he’s slouched with his shirt opened, his tie undone, clutching his skull with one hand. Completely disheveled and tormented.
“You regret kissing me?”
“I regret wanting to. It was wrong.”
Wrong. Wrong to kiss me.
No. I won’t let him cheapen the moment and turn me into some kind of mistake.
“Maybe for you.”
His gaze slices to mine, the darkness in his eyes burning with intensity, but he doesn’t reveal whatever is spi
Starving for something.
Clambering to my feet, I hold his stare and back myself to the door. Perhaps it’s not regret that he feels in this moment, but the realization that I got a small peek of the man he hides beneath his business suits and indifference. I just had a taste of the passionate man underneath those scars. One who’d probably never admit that he makes love harder than most.
In fact, I’m pretty sure he just bared his soul in a single kiss.
“Goodnight, Mr. Blackthorne.”
Cool satin sheets slide over my legs as I writhe across the bed, my view trapped behind the pitch blackness of a blindfold. Soft, silky bands tighten at my wrists, when I tug my arms to no avail, while quiet, indiscernible whispers of a man fill my head, as if spoken in another language. A palm slides over top of the sheets, and the sensitive tickle at my thigh, only dulled by the thin barrier, tells me I’m naked beneath.
“Please.” Exhaustion weighs heavy on my voice while I plead with my captor. “Let me go.”
“Shhh, Isa Bella.” The deep timbre of Lucian’s voice skims across my skin like a feather, and I shiver, dizzy with the sensation. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We want to watch.”
“We?”
The veil over my eyes is lifted, and I glance to the side, catching sight of my arm tethered to the bed by silk ties. Lucian stands alongside me in my room, wearing a half-buttoned white shirt, and he brushes his knuckles over my cheek.
A hand glides across my belly, and I look to my right. Lying beside me is a second Lucian, this one wearing a black shirt, his hands rough, demanding, as they slip beneath the sheets.
I snap my attention back to the first Lucian, who leans in for a gentle kiss along my jaw.
“You belong to both of us, Isa.”
A finger travels down between my thighs, over the sensitive cleft there, and I arch up, pulling my knees together.
“Relax, Isa,” the gentle Lucian breathes. “Don’t fight him.”
My knees are pried apart, and the Lucian beside me settles closer, keeping my leg tucked against him. “He’s going to make love to you, Isa. But I’m going to fuck you.” His jaw hardens at the same time that he thrusts his fingers hard up inside of me.
I shoot upright on a gasp, fingers curled tight around the bedsheets that I hold to my chest. Quick pants of breath fail to fill my lungs. I search my surroundings for the two of them, finding only the curtain softly fluttering across from me in the otherwise still room.
Sliding my hand beneath the pillow, I prod the pocketknife there, the cold metal a comfort against my fingertips, and exhale a long breath.
I raise a trembling hand to my forehead, mentally noting none of my limbs are tied down, and pat down my chest and legs to find my sweats and T-shirt from earlier in the night are still in place.