Princess in the Iron Mask - By Victoria Parker Page 0,54

he dipped into her heat, felt warm moisture coat his fingers. A moan—his, hers, entwined—filled the air.

His heart struck up a ferocious beat. Blood roared through his head. Lucas knew he was flirting with disaster, stumbling across unknown territory, yet nothing could stop him. She would be gone soon enough.

‘So wet, cariña. You want me inside you?’

‘Yes, yes...’

Sweat beaded his brow as he settled between her legs, hard and achingly heavy. And when she moved against him for a frantic beat he wondered if he would last.

He grasped her hair, cupped her head in one hand and brought her mouth to his so he could plunder, drink in her cries when she came for him. With his free hand he caught her nipple with his thumb and forefinger, rolling the tight tip until she undulated against him, working up to a frenzy. Then he stroked down her toned thigh and sank into her with one deep thrust.

A hoarse cry broke from his very soul and poured into her mouth. Tight, hot, she gripped him in her slick heat, drawing him deeper under her spell until he didn’t know where he ended and she began.

The need to watch her orgasm for him, so he could remember, became an almighty obsession. So he stroked down her waist, over her hip, round to the soft curve of her luscious rear and lifted her thigh-high over his waist to deepen his thrust and grind against her.

‘Oh, Lucas...’

Her fingernails bit into the skin on his shoulders and a fever unlike any other took hold of his blood as a torrent of fire built inside him, far stronger than the first time, and Lucas knew—just knew—he would never recover from this explosion of feeling. Never in a million years.

Lips locked, she cried into his mouth, the sound of her sensual elation throwing him over the edge, tossing him into the black depths of ecstasy.

Hurling him into the unknown.

* * *

Light flickered in his brain and Lucas prised his eyes open to the darkness of night. He’d slept?

Warmth smothered the right side of his body and half of his chest...Claudia. She mumbled something, almost a cry, the high pitch snapping him to full lucidity, and Lucas tightened his hold on her waist.

‘Claudia?’

She struggled against him and he instantly loosened his grip, cupped the back of her head, softly kissed her temple. ‘Wake for me, angel.’

She stilled before the tension drained from her spine and she fell back against his chest. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m okay. Truly.’

‘You were dreaming?’

‘It’s being back here. So strange.’

Her skin was damp, clammy. ‘Not a good dream,’ he said. Statement. Fact. Lucas knew too well the cold sweats, the shaking so hard it was impossible even to drink water.

‘Not really,’ she mumbled, snuggling into his side, hiding her face. ‘It’s nothing.’

His stomach tensed and he nudged her softly with his arm, needing to see her face. She turned her head and lay down, facing him. ‘Do not hide from me, Claudia. I cannot bear it.’

Nibbling on her bottom lip, she gave him a searching look. ‘I just have this nightmare sometimes. It’s a memory, that’s all.’

‘Ah, that’s all?’ he said, trying to tamp down on the flare of anxiety because he knew the power of memories. How they could haunt you. Drain your very soul.

She had demons of her own; he’d known that, hadn’t he? ‘You tried to tell me on the plane, I remember.’

‘Did I?’

That she couldn’t recollect spoke volumes. But then he remembered her panic, the fear that had sliced through the very heart of him.

‘Tell me your dream,’ he said, sweeping a lock of damp hair from her cheek with his fingertip.

He could see the hesitation in her eyes, couldn’t understand it. ‘Claudia?’

Searching his eyes for a long moment, she seemed to look for sincerity or wonder if she could trust him—not with her body or her safety but with her secrets. Her past.

‘Trust me, cariña.’

Wriggling from his hold, she rolled onto her back and pulled the sheet up to her neck. Lucas ignored the cold chill sweeping over his body; she needed space. He understood. So he moved onto his side to face her, bent his elbow and rested his head on the ball of his hand.

Staring up at the ceiling, she began to talk, her voice detached. ‘I must’ve been twelve. It’s my last memory of being here.’ Her brow creased as she delved into the past. ‘It was one of those hot clammy days that made