She was glad then that that her eyes were closed and glad of the damp, steamy room too, because they disguised the tears that welled up at his words. He had no right to be so damn romantic when he denied that romance even existed outside of fairytales.
No one except Sophie’s hairdresser had washed her hair for her since she was six years old. It was an unexpected and distinctly sensual experience having it done for her by Lucien, somewhere between an intimate massage and a loving gesture.
He was unhurried, scooping up all of her hair, making a thorough job of it, spinning it out until she was deeply relaxed under his touch. Then he picked up a glass from a nearby shelf to wash away the lather he'd created, rinse after rinse of cascading warm water and tender hands as she tipped her head back and let him minister to her.
Sophie felt there was a poignant symbolism in his actions, in the gentle way he handled her. Almost as if he wanted to let her know through his careful attentions rather than his words that this evening meant as much to him as it did to her, that this wasn't easy for him either.
She opened her wet eyelashes slowly at the sound of Lucien placing the glass down on the ledge beside the bath. She turned and caught his gaze as he looked at her, and the unguarded emotion in his eyes stopped her breath. And then it was gone, replaced as if it had never been there by raw desire that darkened his air force blue eyes to midnight.
"Thank you," she whispered as he drew her against him. Coils of anticipation unfurled in her belly as his mouth touched hers. She slipped onto her side in his arms, and as his tongue moved into her mouth, his knee slid between hers in the warm water.
Something about the heat of the room and the closeness of their wet, naked bodies heightened the intimate sense of this being the way they should be. Natural. There were no clothes to get in the way, no desks to bend over, or even beds to lie on. They were cradled together in the cocoon of Sophie's tub, and Lucien's hands moved easily over her body as he bit his way slowly across her bottom lip, corner to corner, small nips just the right side of painful as he twisted her wet hair around his hands. His thigh pleasurably pinned her legs apart, although he seemed in no rush to touch her there. He touched her everywhere else instead.
A brief, skilled shoulder massage, a circlet of fingers around her throat, then he moved lower, to her breasts. He drew soapy circles around her areolae with his index finger as he blew lightly over them, cool air that stiffened her nipples before he sucked them inside the sudden, damp heat of his mouth. His fingers twined with hers for a few seconds, and he raised her hand to his face and kissed her palm.
Watching him, Sophie's heart splintered like cinder toffee. Water spiked his closed eyelashes into delicate spiders on his cheekbones, and as his open mouth moved silently against her palm, he looked like a man saying his prayers. Sophie wished she could hear them, and wished that they were the same as her own.
When he reached under the bubbles, she knew what was coming next. The glass of the dildo had taken on the heat of the water; she felt it when he touched it briefly against her mouth, then trailed it down her body, making a slow sweep as he hooked his calf over hers to hold her legs open. Not that he needed to. Sophie wanted Lucien beyond all rhyme and reason, full of insane longing and delight when he at last stroked the warm, bulbous glass over her clitoris. The knowing hint of a smile touched his lips again.
"Feel nice?"
He laid the glass column flat against her flesh, its raised swirls massaging the length of her sex as he twisted it in his fingers.
Nice? Now she understood his mocking repetition earlier. Nice was nowhere near the right word for this sensation of finally being touched where she most needed it, and Lucien knew it full well.
Just as he knew she needed more, and gave it willingly.
He kissed her neck as he slowly pushed the dildo inside her body, its oh so hard, oh so warm solid presence filling her until she moaned with deep, deep satisfaction.
The last time Lucien had used the dildo had been under very different circumstances. Shackled to his bed, he'd plunged the glass phallus into ice and shocked her into orgasm. Tonight he went to the opposite extreme. He held her rather than shackled her, and used the unyielding, warm glass to build steady, sublime sensations that left her breathless.
His other hand roamed over her bottom, his deliberate fingers tracing the sensitive dip between the curves. Sophie didn't stop him. Tonight she was his, and he was hers, and there were no taboos. When his finger pressed gently against the tightness of her rear, she turned her head and kissed him, a silent invitation that he accepted, shifting slightly to give himself more room to touch her. And then he had her filled twice over; the slow glide of glass between her legs, the gentle probe of his finger behind her. Incredible. More than incredible. Sophie fought her orgasm as it started, because she wanted to stay in that one moment forever. Pleasure so exquisite that her entire body thrummed with it, and emotions so expansive and consuming that she didn't know where Lucien ended and she began. Her ecstatic surrender was inevitable when his thumb moved up over her clitoris. As defeats went, it was one hell of a way to go down.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sophie sat on the sofa cradling the good measure of whisky Lucien had just handed her, even though it was turned two in the morning. She hadn't asked for it, and he hadn't poured himself one. She didn't even know where he'd unearthed the bottle from. It was left over from some distant Christmas, she presumed, not really her sort of drink, but she sipped it anyway, letting the warmth of the liquid fill her throat, giving her something to concentrate on besides Lucien's impending departure. He was dressed again, and she was wrapped in her bathrobe, her hair almost dry after the most memorable hair wash of her life.
She sensed that Lucien didn't know how to leave, and she wasn't ready to make it easy for him. She loved this man beyond all rhyme and reason. Let the neighbours talk, let them hang her out to dry as the scarlet woman. Love didn't respect timescales, and it wouldn't wait around until she'd spent a respectable year or two cast as the spurned wife first. It was here, and it was now, and there wasn't a damn thing either of them could do about it.
"Mine," she said, raising her chin and looking him in the eye. "That's what you called me earlier. Mine."
Sophie saw the way he swallowed hard as he looked away and scrubbed his hand uneasily down the side of his face. "I don't remember."
"Don't do that, Lucien," she chastised him softly. "You don't lie."
He perched on the arm of the chair with a heavy sigh. "Sophie please... don't look for what isn't there."