and I had to grasp the edge of the pool to hang on. When I spoke, my voice had become far too breathy. “That implies there has to be touching involved to make it real.”
Something had changed—he wasn’t twitchy. He was resolved, closing in until there was barely a foot between us. Water glinted over the strong planes of his face, making those expressive, firm lips wet. I wanted to lick them, wrap myself around his strong, hard body, and hold on.
His eyes, pale as the glowing pool, pinned me to the spot. So much heat in them. Heat and need and a shadow of frustration, as though he didn’t want to want me. His voice lowered, thick as hot cream. “Em, if you’re naked in front of me, there’s going to be touching.”
Yes, please. Now would be good.
“Pretty presumptuous of you, honey pie.”
Lucian, the rat bastard, smiled, those hot eyes intent on my face. “Who said it had to be you I’m touching?”
“What?” I could barely think. His nearness was making me light headed.
“I’m not above taking matters into my own hand, if that’s the only option.”
I pictured him handling all that . . . girth. The bottom dropped out of me.
“Oh, well played—”
Water ripped, and he was there, big body surrounding me, his mouth inches from mine. “To be clear,” he murmured, “if you’re naked in front of me, I’d rather touch you.”
He was so close, vividly present. Deliciously beautiful. My lids lowered, my lips parting with the need to feel his. I wanted. I wanted.
Our legs brushed under the water, and a shiver danced up my thighs. Lucian grabbed the edge of the pool to brace himself, his arms bracketing me, which made it worse. Water droplets glinted on the dips and swells along his shoulders and arms, drawing my attention to the sheer strength of his body and how good it would feel to touch him.
He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to; his proximity was enough to make my insides dip and my mouth dry.
I had to take control of the situation. “You want a peek, don’t you?”
Over the quiet sounds of water lapping, I heard him swallow, surprise flickering in his gaze just before it lowered to my breasts. His voice dropped a register. “You gonna give me one?”
Lust punched through me, pure and hot. I loved sex—the dance leading up to it, the physicality of it, the release. But fame had changed sex for me. Men had started to expect a fantasy. They saw me as a virginal princess to be treated with reverence or a personal notch on their belt: I bagged Anya.
Lucian made it clear he didn’t see Anya when he looked at me. That in itself made me want to show him more.
The water was cool, but inside I burned as my hand slowly rose to the edge of my bikini top. Lucian’s gaze grew rapt, his lips parting on a shallow breath. God, that look. It had every inch of me drawing up tight. My breasts grew heavy, swelling with languid lust. I was utterly aware of him, of myself, as I traced the line of my bikini, flirting with the notion of pulling it to the side.
Lucian didn’t blink, didn’t move, but he seemed closer. My nipples stiffened, nudging against the thin fabric, begging to be seen by him. The tip of my finger hooked under the top, and I pulled it slowly to the side, feeling the drag.
Lucian grunted, low and protracted, as though the sound could make me go faster. The reaction in my body was a delicious clenching of my sex. I arched into that sound, my lids fluttering as I tugged the top farther over, stopping right at the edge of my nipple. And he jerked, the water sloshing.
“Em . . .” The plea came out in a thick rasp. “Baby . . .”
The muscles along his arms bunched as he gripped the lip of the pool, as though trying to hold himself back.
Oh, he wanted that peek. An ache built up inside me. My breasts had been seen by millions. But Lucian was right; that hadn’t been me. Here, now, this was me. This was him wanting to see me.
The tip of my finger traced a path of heat along the curve of my breast, back and forth. And he watched, a man starved. Licking my lips, I stopped. It seemed we both held our breaths. And then, with the slightest of