Devoured (18 page)

Sam is Lucas’s version of my Rebecca.

†

When we ditch the camera crew and I have Lucas all to myself in the limo, he tells me to come into his lap. I climb across the seats a little too eagerly, sliding my bottom down on top of him. He splays his hands out on either side of it and bounces me up and down, grinning at how I squirm in agony.

“I want you doing that over my face later,” he whispers as he squeezes my bottom.

“How much later?”

“Lunch with Cilla won’t take long and then we’ll—”

I freeze as soon as he says we’re having lunch with Cilla, the rest of his words drowning and suddenly becoming a warbled mess. Pulling away from him, I hug my arms around my stomach. “I didn’t know Cilla Craig was in Atlanta.” Despite all my best efforts to control myself, there’s a hint of wariness in my voice.

He opens my arms, spinning me around so that my back is to him. Positioning my arms behind his neck, he caresses my breasts, flutters his fingers softly against my nipples and then twists them just enough to send vibrations through me. “That’s what we’re here for,” he says between strokes, between kisses on my neck. “Besides the documentary, the only other reason I came to Atlanta is for Cilla’s birthday party tomorrow.”

“Oh,” I say.

He doesn’t seem to notice how angry I am by the time we arrive at the restaurant, or how my hand goes slack in his as he guides me inside. I almost want to retract my invitation to let him touch me even though I know doing so would be silly and a waste of time—he would simply refuse to stop. 

Though I’m hoping that Cilla’s beauty is a product of Photoshop and M.A.C, she turns out to be just as stunning as she is on all the magazine covers and music videos. Lucas introduces me as Kylie’s temp, and she nods at me, giving me a hint of a smile. Cilla’s got this husky, sexy voice that turns heads when she laughs and she orders Bud Light and a messy cheeseburger. 

Cilla doesn’t say much to me—she’s mostly focused on Lucas—but at one point, she tosses her mane of black hair over one shoulder and stares me down. “So, Pepper, how’d you get caught up with Luke?” she asks. “Because I didn’t even know Kylie knew what a vacation was. That kid works way too much.”

Lucas answers for me. “Sienna worked on the set of one of my music videos a few years ago. She does wardrobe in L.A.”

“Fun,” Cilla says, though she doesn’t look like she means it and I’m glad I never had to work on a Wicked Lambs music video.

The rest of lunch seems to drag by uncomfortably. Each second I spend watching Cilla and Lucas catch up is difficult. Finally, I excuse myself. I linger in the restroom longer than appropriate before going out to face them again. When I reach the table, Lucas is paying the check.

Cilla grins up at me. “I was just inviting Luke—and you, of course— to come over and—”

“I’m good,” I say, not even willing to hear what she’s got to say. Lucas’s hazel eyes narrow into tight slits. I look away from his face.

We’re quiet during the limo ride back to the hotel, sitting on opposite sides of the backseat with our bodies stiff with tension. But the moment we walk through the door of the suite, he drags me to him, pinning my hands above my head and forcing my lips apart until my knees go slack.

He pushes me away from him. Keeping his voice level, he points to the chair by the desk. “Sit down, Sienna.”

“No, I’m not going to—”

“Sit,” he repeats. I’m fuming and my body is trembling, but I sink down, my bottom hanging off the edge of the chair. Then he demands to know why I was so rude to Cilla. I turn my face away from him when I answer him.

“Because she looked over me like I wasn’t fit to lick her motorcycle boots.” Because I’m afraid of your past together. “Because I want you,” I whisper in a ragged voice.

He takes my face between his hands and kisses my lips hard. “Don’t tell me you’re threatened by Cilla,” he hisses against my mouth. I nod my head and he tangles his hands in my hair, releasing a low growl from the back of his throat. “You drive me fucking crazy, Sienna. She’s one of my best friends—we grew up together—but she’s not you. Never in a million years.”

It feels so good to hear him say those words, and I circle his neck. “I want you,” I tell him again, pulling back from him. “I want to be that person you need me to be.”

“I won’t believe that until you’ve calmed down, until you’re absolutely sure,” he says, but I grind my body against his. “Stop or I will punish you this time.”

I take his hand, pressing it between my legs. He cups my chin, turns my face until we’re eye to eye. Releasing a groan, he sets me away from him and removes his own t-shirt. I watch, holding my breath, as he rips it into several long strips with ease.

“What are you—?”

“Be quiet and get naked.”

I strip down so fast he cocks an eyebrow as he comes toward me. He tosses one of the hotel towels in the chair. “Sit down,” he says and I slide into the seat. He kneels down in front of me. When I reach out to stroke his hair, he catches my wrist, tethering it to the arm of the chair. I gasp. Giving me a dangerous look, he ties my other wrist to the opposite side of the chair. Then, spreading my legs wide apart so that I’m completely exposed to him, he binds my ankles to the legs of the chair.

“Lucas, I—”

He covers my mouth with the tips of his fingers, bending his head to touch me. I squirm, grasping at air with my own fingers. For what seems like eternity, he tastes and bites and sucks. When I’m close to coming, when I’m rocking back and forth in the chair almost violently and bucking my hips to his mouth, he stops. 

“I’m going to make a phone call,” he whispers, untying me. “You are not to touch yourself until I return, do you understand?” 

I nod as he helps me to my feet. Opening my legs with his hand, he nudges his finger inside of me. “Do you understand?” he repeats in a harsh voice.

“Yes sir.”

The moment he leaves our suite, I sulk into the bathroom. 

“You were in there a very long time, Ms. Jensen,” Lucas muses, startling me, as I pad out of the bathroom. When had he come back to the room? He’s sitting in the seat he’d bound me to a couple hours ago, quietly strumming his guitar. Heat floods my body because I can’t help thinking about how his mouth had teased my body. How he’d warned me not to come. How he’d left me wanting more, wanting him to finish. 

“I was dirty from—”

“You were fucking yourself.” 

He’s not asking me, he’s telling me what I’ve been doing. Before I can think of something witty to say, I blurt, “You refused to finish.”

“And that’s what you want now. For me to finish. For me to keep fucking you.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes, what?”

“Sir.”

“There aren’t any more barriers between us,” he says, his words hovering somewhere in between a question and a statement. I nod my head.

He rises to his feet, placing the guitar to the side of the bed. Now, I’ve got his full attention. Static runs through my body, making every inch of me feel as if it’s been electrocuted. “Turn around and put your forearms and hands flat on the desk,” he says.

“Why? So you can spank me like a little kid?” I demand, recalling some of his earlier threats. There’s a sarcastic edge to my voice—one that lures a slow spreading grin from Lucas. God, why does he have to look so beautiful, so perfect, and yet so sinfully dangerous?

“Not at all like a child,” he says.

Shivering, I face the desk and bend over in the position he’s instructed. I would be stupid if I said I wasn’t the tiniest bit frightened, but the other feelings that course through me—blurry and wonderful and intoxicatingly confusing—trump the fear. 

I feel sadistic and crazy for wanting him and this.

I feel so fucking alive it burns.

Lucas removes the white robe from my body, leaving me bare. His fingers are feather soft against my skin as he guides my hips further away from the desk and bows my back so that my bottom is jutted up at him. 

Gliding his fingertips down my damp skin—down my hips, past my thighs—he squats down behind me. Carefully, he spreads my legs apart and repositions my feet so that there’s a wide space between them. When he stands up, his hard body slightly skimming mine along the way, I moan. “Lucas . . .”

He swats my left ass cheek with the palm of his hand, the same palm that was playing such beautiful music only minutes ago. It’s not hard enough to bruise, but the sting is enough to make me shiver.

In pain.

Anticipation.

Need.

Punishment lasts for approximately two more swats, one for each side of my bottom and then Lucas presses his lips to the base of my neck. My shoulder blades arch together. For a moment, I feel him go completely still. “You’re so fucking sweet. So beautiful.”

The dark cotton blindfold drapes over my eyes.

My breath catches in my throat.

I feel bare, deliciously blinded to the world around me. On the outside, I’m patient as I wait for his next move, but my heart is throbbing. My breath is coming out in short, choppy wisps. 

Please . . .

Running one of his hands down my arm, he intertwines my fingers with his and tugs me around to face him. “Do you want me, Sienna?”

I know what he wants from me. And I’m strong enough to give it to him. When I say the words, a ripple of pleasure flows through me. It settles into the pit of my belly. “Please . . . sir.” I sound submissive and confident, all at once.

I gasp as he lifts my body effortlessly and slides my bottom onto the wide desk behind us. There’s part of me that’s dying to see the expression on his face—whether or not his hazel eyes have darkened or if he’s staring at me with animalistic lust—but I love the way my senses seem heightened. The way my skin tingles in some places before he even touches me, almost as if it’s sensing his next move.

He slides his hands between my thighs, splaying his rough fingertips on my smooth skin. Slowly his fingers move up, and I feel one—no, two . . . three—slide inside of me, delving into the wetness. My knees buckle together. He opens them back apart and positions his body between them. 

I grind my teeth together to keep from moaning, and I feel a tiny sting across my right breast, as he flicks me with . . .
something
. Momentarily surprised, I gasp. Then, I wiggle my hips against his hand.

His fingers push and pull, filling me, taking me under. I arch my back. “Please,” I say, barely recognizing my own voice and he gives a raw chuckle. 

A second later, I get the sweet release he refused to give me a couple hours ago.

I pray he’s nowhere near done.

Lucas tugs the blindfold down. I blink rapidly as my eyes adjust to the light. When they finally focus in on him, he brings his fingers to his mouth. Teasingly, he flicks his tongue over the tips, tasting me. I groan and reach out to him. He captures my fingers in his, kissing them, tasting them too.

When he guides my hand to his cock, I’m hesitant at first. What if he’s only wanting to tease me again and has no intention of fucking me? What if—

He nods his and closes my grip around his shaft.

I run my hand up and down the length of his hardness, slow at first, and then faster, tighter until he’s moaning. He shoves away from me for a moment, staring down at me with a look that’s enough to make me come without even being touched. Then, lifting me up and off the desk, he cups my bottom in his hands. His cock slides inside of me in one breathtaking thrust.

The room seems to tilt on its side.

He shudders when I tighten around him—my arms circling his neck, legs locked together around his waist and the length of him clenched deep inside of me. 

And suddenly, my back is to the wall and his hands have left my ass to tangle into my long red hair. He drives his cock into me, slides my body up so that I lose him, lose
this
. Then he grinds his hips up. 

He’s inside of me again.

Out.

In.

Gritting my teeth, I say, “Oooh, Lucas”—another sting, this time my left breast—“I want to fucking come again.”

Shaking his head, he crushes his lips to mine. I taste wine and menthol and myself. His tongue and cock seem to be working in unison, exploring and demanding until I’m incoherent.

Until I’m begging him. 

Then, he lets go of my hair. It spills between our faces, clinging to our slick skin. His hand squeezes between our bodies, and he rubs my clit between his thumb and forefinger. Crying out, I squeeze my legs around him. 

I’m falling. 

Hard.

Fast.

And in more ways than one.

A moment later, he shivers, and presses his hands into the perspiration at the small of my back. Keeping himself inside of me, he carries me into the bathroom. When he unravels our bodies, he kisses the tips of my fingers. 

His eyes never leave mine. 

Not when he starts the shower and we wash each other’s bodies. 

Not when we towel each other off.

And not even when we lay facing each other, exploring, squeezing. Tasting.

It’s only later—after he’s asleep— that I find the object he flicked my breasts with whenever he caught me grinding my teeth in the palm of his hand.

It’s a black and red guitar pick.

Lucas’s 7am wakeup rule flies out of the window the next morning because we both oversleep. The sound of the hotel room’s telephone shrilling in our ears is what drags us out of bed at a little after nine. I answer the phone, and I’m greeted by a chilly female voice.

“Kylie, put Lucas on the phone, it’s Sam.”

Sam. I try to remember where I’ve heard the name and then I realize this is the person Lucas’s mother had mentioned yesterday, the person who made him tense up in anger. And she’s a woman. I bite my bottom lip, clutching the phone until I feel like I’m seconds away from shattering it.

“I’m sorry you—”

“Don’t you dare try that I’m sorry you’ve reached the wrong room act with me. I talked to your mom, so put him on the goddamn phone.” 

Lucas is sitting up in bed now, staring down at the receiver with a blank expression on his face. “It’s Sam,” I say, hoping to elicit some kind of reaction from him. Nothing happens and a chill turns my blood to ice.