Lucien's Khamsin

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  “Does that entice you, wench?” he asked.

  She jerked back, putting distance between them.

  Lucien sighed. “You are going to hurt my feelings sooner or later,” he said, stretching.

  Staring at his broad scarred chest with the thick mat of wiry dark hair, the rippled muscles along his abdomen and the solid mound of his pectorals, Khamsin felt a stirring between her legs she could not push aside.

  “Why try?” he asked and his voice was low and sultry, filled with temptation.

  “Of my own free will,” she said, putting out a hand to keep him from moving closer to her.

  Lucien smiled. “Am I touching you?” he asked.

  “Don’t use your powers on me,” she forbade.

  “I’m not,” he said. “What you see is what you want. Can I help that?”

  “Conceited oaf,” she muttered, forgetting to whom she was speaking.

  Lucien propped his head on his hand and looked down at her. “You slept well?”

  She felt rested and relaxed despite the niggling fear that poked at her. “Aye, well enough I guess.”

  “You weren’t ravaged while you slept,” he said.

  “Tell me you weren’t thinking of doing me,” she challenged.

  His dark brows drew together. “You slept well,” he said.

  “I said as much,” she reminded him.

  “You were not awakened by me groaning or crying out in my sleep?”

  “No,” she said.

  Lucien stared at her for so long she felt naked beneath his hooded gaze. “What?” she asked for his look made her exceedingly uncomfortable.

  “I’ve never allowed a woman to sleep untroubled through the night,” he said slowly.

  Khamsin rolled her eyes. “Aye, I bet you haven’t.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “They’ve always awakened when my nightmares came.”

  “Apparently you didn’t have any this time,” she said then realized he was looking at her with an expression that drove a wave of heat through her belly.

  “You banished the nightmares,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “You kept them at bay.”

  Khamsin shrugged. “Well, I guess that’s a good thing.”

  He allowed her to get out of the bed and watched her as she looked around her. “What are you searching for?” he asked.

  “A bathroom,” she muttered.

  “Through there,” he said, pointing at a slender door to the right of the armoire.

  As she made use of the bathroom, Lucien sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He was amazed he had slept the day through with Khamsin at his side and had not once wakened her with his groans and moans.

  “A significant breakthrough, wouldn’t you say, my Prince?”

  Lucien closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. He knew that voice well though he hadn’t heard it in over a decade.

  “Don’t be such a baby, Lucien,” Sibylline drawled. “Open those pretty eyes and tell me you like what I am wearing.”

  He opened his eyes and then cursed. “You aren’t wearing anything!” he complained.

  “No, I’m not. Do you like it?”

  Lucien flung the covers aside. “That’s disgusting, Sibylline.”

  “Disgusting? Well, then, so are you,” Sibylline chuckled.

  Knowing he had been relieved of what he had worn to bed grated on Lucien’s nerves and he glared at the woman sitting demurely on his settee.

  “Oh, all right,” she said and waved her hands, putting back in place the underwear that had covered him from her view. When he cocked an angry brow, she waved her hand again and the black britches he had been wearing when he’d lain down were once more fitting his lean frame snuggly. “Seems such a waste to cover all that potential though, Luc.”

  Khamsin walked in at that moment. She spied the incredibly lovely nude woman reclining on the settee and came to a dead stop.

  “She used to do this all the time. It got old then and it is still old,” Lucien snarled as he poured himself a goblet of water.

  Sibylline smiled warmly at Khamsin. “I had a helluva time finding the right woman for him and there you stand as though he was contaminated with running sores. What’s wrong with you, sweetie?” She pointed at Lucien. “Go. Fuck that man! You know you want to.”

  Lucien threw the crystal goblet as hard as he could against the wall where it shattered. “I’ve offered and she declined,” he snapped.

  Khamsin looked from one extraordinary physical specimen to the other and felt ugly. Sibylline—and it could be none other than the queen herself—was an imposing woman with flaming red hair piled high atop her elegant head. Her face was flawless with vibrant blue eyes, long dark lashes and high cheekbones. Buxom with a slender waist and flat abdomen, she had the curves any man would enjoy and every woman would envy.

  “You aren’t so bad yourself, dearling,” Sibylline suggested.

  “She’s a hundred times more beautiful than you,” Lucien snarled.

  Khamsin’s eyes widened. She glanced at the lovely woman across the woman as though she expected to be incinerated where she stood.

  “Pay no attention to him, Khammie. That’s just his cock speaking for him,” Sibylline laughed.

  “Get out, Sibylline,” he ordered, his voice low and dangerous.

  “Not until she gets into your bed and spreads her legs for you, my love,” the Queen of Revenants declared. “I want to see you rock her world. I didn’t go to all this trouble finding her for you only to be denied watching you screw her, Luc.”

  “Get out!”

  Khamsin jumped, for the command was bellowed at the top of Lucien’s lungs and he was stalking toward the object of his anger. She backed away, fear pumping her heart.

  One moment Sibylline was lying there—sticking her tongue out at Lucien—and the next she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of jasmine.

  “And stay out!” Lucien yelled.

  Plastered against the wall, Khamsin watched as Lucien picked up the settee and tossed it across the room as though it was a feather. She flinched as it crashed into a mirror but relieved the surface didn’t break. More bad luck was not needed in this room.

  “She came to taunt me,” he said, plopping down in a chair. “She’s good at that.” He buried his face in his hands. “Professionally so.”

  Khamsin could find nothing to say so she stood where she was, wringing her hands though her mind was working furiously.

  “No,” he said, lifting his head to look at her through the fan of his fingers. “I am not going to let you go and no, Sibylline poses no threat to you, wench. You heard what she said—she found you for me. I’d be stupid to throw her gift back in her face now, wouldn’t I?”

  A flash of annoyance traveled through Khamsin’s blue eyes and they snapped with fire. “I am no man’s gift, milord. Not even yours!”

  He settled back in the chair and lifted his foot to the cushion, resting his wrist on his crooked knee. “You know what Christina said about you?”

  She shrugged.

  “She said, ‘This one will give you a run for your money’.” He tilted his head to one side. “And I believe she was right. You are not the frightened, meek little girl I expected.”

  Khamsin raised her chin. “I am scared to death of you, but I will not let you break my spirit. What you do to me, I can not prevent, but I can voice my abhorrence to—”

  “Abhorrence,” he echoed. “You abhor me, wench?” Steepling his fingers, he thought about the meaning of the word. “You find me repugnant?”

  A wave of wrinkles formed on Khamsin’s smooth forehead. “Perhaps I used the wrong word.”

  “Then I’m not repugnant?”

  She pursed his lips and tossed her head as though his question was silly. “You know full well you are not, milord.”

  He half-smiled. “Do you find me appealing?”

  “I find the situation abhorrent,” she stated, nodding firmly. “That was what I meant.
”

  “That isn’t what I asked, wench,” he countered. “Do you find me appealing?”

  Khamsin shook her head but didn’t answer.

  “You don’t find me appealing?” he asked, shock making his voice a bit shrill.

  She almost laughed at the hurt look on his handsome face but sucked in a quick breath instead as he rose slowly from the chair and came toward her. Quickly she glanced behind her but there was nowhere for her to run. The wall was only inches away.

  “You don’t think I’m a good-looking man?” he asked, his voice deep and sensual.

  She backed up until she was pressed against the wall yet he kept coming, stalking her like a big graceful cat, the muscles in his shoulders bunching as he drew nearer.

  “Is my hair unkempt?” he asked when he was but a foot away.

  Khamsin knew he was playing with her. In her mind, she likened it to a cat teasing a helpless mouse and the illusion irritated her so she kept silent.

  He was so close to her she could smell the warm male odor of him. It was a pleasant smell, even heady.

  He braced his left hand on the wall beside her head and leaned into her. “Does my breath smell?” he queried.

  No, she thought and that surprised her. If anything she would have thought his breath would hint of the grave, of death—or at the very least—be iron-tinted from the blood he had consumed from the day before.

  “So,” he said, standing so close to her their bodies were almost touching. “I have no body odor, my breath doesn’t stink and my hair doesn’t look like I jammed my finger into a light socket.” His eyes roamed her face. “What, exactly, is it you find unappealing?”

  The heat from his body was causing her skin to prickle and she could not keep from glancing down at his chest. The livid scars drew her attention and she winced, knowing such mutilation would have caused immense pain.

  “At least that part of me fascinates you,” he drawled. “I guess you don’t find it abhorrent.”

  “Stop reading my mind,” she said through clenched teeth.

  He held up his right hand as though surrendering to her command, but said nothing. He simply leaned further toward her so she was forced to put her hands on his chest to keep him at bay.

  Electrical current passed through Khamsin’s palms and she groaned. He had automatically pressed closer so that now her hands were trapped between their bodies.

  “Am I ugly?”

  She shook her head, unable to speak, for her blood was racing so hard through her veins she could feel it pounding in her head—and between her legs.

  “Am I too short?”

  Again she shook her head.

  “Am I deformed in some way you find intolerable?”

  “You know you’re not,” she forced out the reply.

  “Then—for the sake of argument—let’s say you find me handsome.”

  Khamsin looked up into his eyes. He was a good foot taller than her, towering over her in such a way she felt even shorter. The backs of her hands were pressing into her breasts.

  “Let’s say you find me virile and sexy and altogether attractive.”

  Those pale green eyes were delving into her soul and she was caught by them—intrigued by the golden flecks that seemed to swirl through the irises.

  “Let’s say,” he purred, his voice low and sultry, “that your body is stirred by the nearness of mine.”

  She did not flinch when he lifted his hand and laid the backs of his fingers against her cheek. There was no rush of intense pleasure as there had been before.

  “No,” he said. “But if I turn my hand so my palm rests against your flesh, you will absorb the testosterone and it will speed like lightning to your womb.”

  His words were far more intoxicating than any potent wine and spoken with such gentleness, such seductive volume, they were doing strange things to her lower belly.

  “If you were to allow it,” he said and his voice was a mere whisper of sound as it fanned across her heated face. “I would pick you up in my arms and carry you to our bed.”

  Khamsin’s breath was ragged—coming quickly and her breasts were aching from the pressure of her hands against them.

  “With infinite care, I would remove your gown and let my eyes wander over the beauty of your naked body.”

  Her knees felt weak and had he not been pressed so close to her, she suspected she would have sagged against the wall.

  “I would very gently—and with the greatest respect—trail my fingers down your arm from shoulder to wrist, down your side from just beneath your armpit to the flange of your hip, along the top of your thigh from the crease of your pelvis to the rise of your knee.”

  She could almost feel that spectral touch easing down her flesh.

  “I would run my nails under your knee and into the sweet hollow where the skin is so soft.”

  Khamsin whimpered. She was unaware that her fingers were moving against his chest hair or that he had moved back just far enough for her to pluck at a wiry stand.

  He lowered his mouth to her ear and his words caused her to shiver as they wound their way through the auditory canal and reached into the pit of her womb.

  “I would mold my hands lovingly, gently over the globes of your breasts, my naked leg hooked over yours and I would be just close enough for you to feel the heat of my staff against your thigh.”

  Completely oblivious to the fact she had spread her hands along his waist and was now holding him, Khamsin closed her eyes as his enthralling words slithered through her mind.

  “I would run my thumbs over your nipples, pluck softly at those turgid peaks, worrying them with just enough friction to cause shivers to ripple along your spine.”

  Her hands moved to his back of their own accord so that she was holding him against her, her palms flat against his flesh.

  “Then I would replace those fingers with my warm, moist mouth and suckle you reverently, laving those erect nubs with my tongue.”

  His right hand now cupped her shoulder, lightly squeezing. Very slowly, he insinuated his right knee between her legs, pushing hers apart.

  “I would trail kisses over your breasts and down your chest, spiraling my tongue into that sweet concavity of your navel. With the utmost care, I would worship you as I pressed my face into the curls at the juncture of your thighs.”

  Khamsin sucked in a breath and spread her hands upward, grasping at the strong muscles of his upper back.

  “Very gently, very delicately I would press the tip of my tongue against your clitoris and taste the nectar that oozes from that sweet nub. I would put my thumb to the hood and move it back so I could lave the surface of the little bud.”

  “No,” she whispered, her hands clutching at him.

  “I would slide my tongue down your nether lips and flick it against the opening to taste the starchy dewlets that hover there.”

  “Please,” she begged, and the word was nothing more than a breath against his neck.

  “Delving inside you with the very tip of my hot, moist tongue for just a brief moment, I would replace that small muscle with this.”

  His hand left her shoulder and moved slowly, insinuatingly down her arm, across the flare of her hip and when he cupped her sex through the obstruction of the fabric of her gown, she groaned.

  “Don’t do this to me,” she said.

  “What am I doing, wench?” he asked softly.

  “You are mesmerizing me,” she protested.

  “No, I am not,” he told her. “I am fondling you with nothing but my words and this strong hand.”

  She could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric as he was holding her between the legs. One finger—she knew it was the middle one—tapped lightly at her opening as though bidding to be allowed inside.

  “You are using your power to break down my defenses,” she challenged.

  “No,” he said, drawing out the denial. “I am merely allowing you to understand what I would do for you, to you, if you would bu
t allow it. I am giving you free will to accept or deny me, wench. It is your choice. The only coercion is the warmth of my flesh through the restriction of your clothing.”

  Khamsin opened her eyes and found his hot gaze locked on her face. There was possessiveness running rampant in that look and despite his gentle words, she knew he would never allow her to gain her freedom of him. He had claimed her and she would be his.

  “But only when you desire it,” he said and stepped back, breaking her hold on him. He took another step back so that now their bodies were no longer in contact.

  The removal of his palm from between her legs, the weight of his body pressing into hers, his soft breath against her face, made Khamsin ache from the heaviness of her breasts to the throbbing that had enveloped her lower body.

  “Only when you desire it,” he whispered and turned his back on her. “I will never force you.”

  “Please!” she heard herself say and quickly covered her mouth as though she could snatch the word back.

  He looked around but did not turn to face her. “Please, what?”

  Her eyes pleaded with him but she said nothing. She felt like a whore and tears gathered.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You aren’t ready yet, wench.”

  She watched him walk away—never turning to look at her as he left the room. The door closed behind his exit with a finality that brought a gasp to Khamsin’s lips. She slumped down the wall, her hand still tight against her lips, until she was squatting on the floor. A keening sound of surrender pushed from her constricted throat and she let the tears fall.

  Chapter Seven

  Petros frowned when he saw Lucien coming toward him. There was a bitter cast to the prince’s lips that did not set well for whoever had caused the mulish expression.

  “What did she do?” the Lord of Security asked.

  Lucien’s brows drew together. “Who?”

  “The special one.”

  Lucien surprised Petros by smiling broadly. “Nothing yet but give her a day—or less—and she’ll do whatever I bid.”

  “It’s nice to have such power, eh?” Petros asked with a grunt.

  “I’m not using my power,” Lucien said. “I’m merely offering her the use of my body.”