“Should . . . stop,” Elise mumbled miserably. “I can’t keep quiet. It’s not . . . possible,” she moaned.
But Lucien was too far gone to care about disgruntled neighbors. He liked Elise’s unguarded cries of excitement. He adored them. He continued to eat the sweetest pussy he’d ever tasted, determined.
“YOU! Don’t act like you’re not in there. Put a muzzle on it. Screaming like a banshee . . . giving my customers ideas . . . French,” the woman added bitterly under her breath.
Elise began to squirm beneath him—he couldn’t be sure if she did it out of arousal or if she was trying to get him to stop—but Lucien refused to be denied. He held her hips down on the bed and lashed at her clit ruthlessly while applying a firm suction. He felt her go rigid in his hands, a helpless whine ringing in her throat. He turned his head more and sucked her entire clit. The tension in her muscles broke. Her whine swelled to a sharp shout, quieted, then swelled again into a moan as another wave of climax hit her.
He soaked in the sensations of her hungrily: her desperate cries, her raking fingernails, her scent, her taste.
The woman pounded angrily on the door for the next several moments as Elise came and he drowned in her essence. By the time Elise sagged onto the bed, panting, and he took one last, reluctant lick between her swollen sex lips, all was quiet.
Elise lifted her head and met his stare. His rabid lust fractured for a moment from amusement. The dazed, vaguely bewildered expression on Elise’s sex-flushed face was priceless.
“Was that Ms. Inga?” she asked him disbelievingly.
His hands transferred to her waist, his fingers delving gently into the muscles of her back greedily. He grunted in satisfaction. Her punishment and orgasms had made her flesh noticeably suppler.
“I have no idea if it was Ms. Inga. I’ve never made the woman’s acquaintance, and have no desire to ever do so.”
Still, what she’d said partially penetrated his brain. He glanced around the room, seeing the paint peeling on the walls, the rust stain from a leak in the corner, the threadbare carpet. He closed his eyes and willed the throb of his heartbeat in his raging erection to slow. He kissed a soft, pale thigh and stood.
What was he thinking? It wasn’t time for this yet. He had coached himself not to become bowled over by her thousands of times, but the taste of Elise made logic a feeble thing.
“Get dressed,” he said, purposely avoiding looking at the flushed, naked splendor of her as she lay there with her legs parted. She was a sex-mussed, unmade bed that he wanted to spend about a week in . . . for starters. He needed to gather himself. He’d almost lost control several times tonight, come so close to throwing himself wholesale into the inferno of her.
“I’ll start to pack your things.”
“Pack my things?” she repeated, shock ringing in her voice. She sat up slowly.
He glanced at her. His cock lurched against his trousers, the stab of arousal a sharp pain. He looked away, hiding his wince, and opened the closet door.
“Yes. You can’t think I’d allow you to stay here,” he said as he pulled a suitcase from the closet.
“I didn’t think you had a say one way or another!”
“Again, you thought wrong. You’re coming with me,” he said, his tone brooking no argument as he tossed the suitcase on the bed and opened it. “Get dressed, Elise.”
From the periphery of his vision, he saw her rise and move toward the dresser.
“Where are we going?” she asked, her incredulity now replaced by amazement.
“To my place.”
When she didn’t reply, he turned. She stood before the dresser, a T-shirt clutched in her hands, the material covering part of her belly and her mons, but little else. It took him a distracted moment to realize she looked utterly floored.
“You want me to move in with you?” she asked, her voice sounding hollow with shock.
“Yes,” he said, his matter-of-fact tone belying his wariness about the plan. He began tossing the items on her bedside table into the suitcase. “You’ll stay at my place until we decide what to do.” He frowned as he picked up a bottle of her signature perfume from the dresser top—Hermès Perfume 24, Faubourg—and rolled it up hastily in a silk bathrobe. “It’s an . . . unusual circumstance, but we’ll have to make do.”
“Where do you live?” she asked breathlessly. He glanced back and wished she’d put on the T-shirt.
“Near Lake Shore and Astor. Not far from where we met at the market the other day.” He located a plastic bag and walked over to the closet, where he began scooping up loads of designer shoes and shoving them into it.
“That’s a very nice area. But . . .”
“What?” he asked, his irritation growing when she continued to stand there, frozen.
Naked.
Lovely.
He raised his eyebrows in impatient expectancy when she didn’t immediately reply.
“Well . . . don’t you want to . . . finish?” she asked, staring at the bed and then down to his heavy cock.
His body leapt into full, throbbing readiness once again as he stared at her naked beauty and experienced the graphic fantasy of him laying her on that sagging bed and sinking into the glory of her. It was because of her uncertainty—what he could only call shyness—that he found his strength. How could such a flagrant wild child seem so naïve at times?
“I will not make love to you for the first time in this hellhole, but on my terms and in my place of choosing,” he stated simply.