When I'm With You: The Complete Novel

by BETH KERY

  “My room?” Elise said, startled.

  He studied her from beneath hooded eyelids. “I told you, we will do this at my pace. Are you willing to accept that?”

  She bit her lower lip, trying hard to disguise her disappointment. She’d been hoping to lie next to Lucien’s body, absorb his heat, his strength, tease him until he couldn’t deny her the delicious explosion of his male power. She longed to be taken, to be claimed. She craved having her fill of him—of letting him take his fill of her—of falling into an exhausted sleep only to awaken and begin all over again. . . .

  She’d never been so hungry, so starved for a man in her life.

  When she noticed he waited, his eyebrows raised, she nodded reluctantly. Apparently, Lucien had different ideas as to how he wanted things to proceed.

  “Say you accept that we’ll do this at my pace,” he said, and she realized he expected her to put the promise into words.

  She vanquished her frown. “I accept.”

  “Good. Just give me a moment to get things set for you.”

  She murmured with pleasure a few minutes later when he led her into a large bedroom suite decorated with toasty brown shining antiques, beige walls, and decadently soft-looking ivory bed coverings and furniture. Silk and fine wool curtains draped elegantly from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  “It’s a far cry from the Cedar Home Hotel,” she murmured teasingly as she tossed her purse on the luxurious four-poster bed.

  “I should hope so.” She glanced up curiously when he paused a few feet away from her. What would he do now?

  “There are fresh towels in the bathroom. My maid comes on Saturdays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. If you have any special requests for food or other products, just leave her a note on the board in the kitchen. She shops on Tuesdays.”

  “Okay,” Elise said uncertainly.

  “I’ll say good night. It’s been a long day. I’d imagine you’re tired.”

  “Lucien?” she called when he started to walk out of the room.

  He turned.

  “Thank you. I’ll . . . I’ll pay you back for this. Someday.”

  “You’ll pay me back by being good.”

  But I want to be bad.

  For a panicked moment when he narrowed his gaze on her, she wondered if he was practicing his mind-reading tricks again.

  A few hours later, Elise cautiously turned on the light in the sleek, modern kitchen and padded silently across the white alabaster marble floor.

  “Yes,” she whispered triumphantly a moment later when she spied a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator.

  After Lucien had left, she’d showered, read, and turned on the television in her suite and flipped distractedly through channels. Then—once she suspected Lucien slept—she had made a quick reconnaissance of the penthouse. It was larger than she’d thought, including a good-sized office, an elegant dining room, and a cozy, windowed breakfast area off the kitchen. She’d even discovered behind a closed door some stairs that led to a stunning private terrace on the roof of the building. The only room she didn’t peer into was Lucien’s, of course. She assumed his quarters were behind a closed, carved wood door at the end of the hallway. The door reminded her a little of the one that led to his office at Fusion.

  So like Lucien, to possess so many thick, elaborate closed doors in his life, she mused as she found a glass and began to pour herself some tea. The better to keep his secrets.

  “What are you doing?”

  She splashed some tea on her wrist when she jerked her chin around. She stared, her mouth gaping open. He stood at the entrance to the kitchen, wearing a scowl, a pair of ivory drawstring pants that hung low on his hips, and nothing else.

  Very clearly nothing else.

  “I . . . I was just getting some tea,” she said, flustered by his unexpected appearance . . . by his appearance in general—the gleaming caramel-colored skin tightly gloving bulging muscle and cut, ridged abdomen. The ivory pajama bottoms set off his coloring to perfection. His chest was smooth, but there was a thin path of dark hair that began at his navel and disappeared beneath the waistband of his pajama bottoms. If she’d had to describe his physique with one word, she couldn’t decide if she’d say lean or muscular because he was both—all sleek, coiled, primal male power.

  “It’s almost three o’clock in the morning.”

  “I know. I’m a night owl. I had trouble sleeping—I always have,” she admitted when he just studied her with an incisive stare and didn’t comment for several seconds. “Lucien?” she prompted.

  “You used to have problems sleeping, even when you were a child,” he said, as though he’d just remembered. “Your parents never gave you a bedtime. You were a law unto yourself in the nighttime hours, if I recall correctly.”

  She smiled and continued pouring her tea. “You used to be surprised that I would wait for you to come home.”

  “I’d come home from a night at the casinos in Monte Carlo in the early morning hours and find you curled up with a book in the parlor.”

  “I was just making sure you got home all right,” she said, putting the pitcher back into the refrigerator. “I was quite jealous, you know. Of Monte.”

  “Of my gambling?”

  “No,” she said, picking up her glass. “Of the women who got to accompany you.” She gasped in surprise when he approached her in two long strides and took the glass of tea from her hand. She watched in amazement as he matter-of-factly poured it down the sink. He glanced back and noticed her dumbfounded expression. He took her into his arms and she just looked up at him in amazement.

  “It’s not decaffeinated.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything? I never drink decaffeinated tea.”

  He smiled as he looked down at her face. “It’s time you started then, isn’t it?” he asked gently. “Do you want some water?” he offered politely. She shook her head, too confused to speak. He took her hand and pulled her out of the kitchen.

  “Lucien? What are you doing?” she asked when he led her into the room he’d designated as hers.

  He paused next to her bed, her hand still held fast in his.

  “Take off your clothes and get into bed, belly down.”

  She swallowed at the sound of his low, sexy voice. “Why?”

  “I’m going to help you sleep. I can do it a fair bit better than that caffeinated iced tea would have.”

  He just stared at her following this disconcerting comment. She didn’t know how to respond.

  “You said you’d accept my rules. This is the chance to prove it,” he said, his voice a quiet challenge. “Now, take off your clothes.”

  “All of them? Even the panties?” she asked a moment later as she peeled off her T-shirt.

  “Yes.”

  For the second time that evening, she stripped in front of him, highly conscious of his stare on her.

  “Are you going to spank me?” she asked shrilly as she drew her yoga pants down her thighs.

  “No. I told you. I’m putting you to bed, in a very adult way.”

  She stood before him, naked and self-conscious, but he was busy drawing down the comforter and sheets. He waved at the bed. “Belly down, your hands above your head,” he said. “Lie in the middle,” he prompted when she sat at the edge of the bed. When she lay prone with her face in the pillow, he grasped one of her wrists. She jerked her head up and yelped in surprise when she felt him loop something over her hand. It was a thick black cloth cuff. He tightened it around her wrist. She pulled slightly and realized it was attached to a strap that appeared to be affixed somehow to the corner post.

  “Do you often restrain people who stay in your guest bedroom?” she asked, amazed.

  “I just put the restraints on this bed when we arrived, specifically for you.” She
stared at him incredulously. “I already have some on my bed.”

  She rolled her eyes, trying to disguise her anxiety. “Your maid must think that’s pretty interesting every time she makes the bed.”

  “Maria is the soul of discretion,” he replied levelly. “I will restrain you often. This will be a good opportunity for you to get used to being bound.”

  “But I thought you said you weren’t going to punish me.”

  “I did. But I will restrain you for other things.”

  Her clit pinched in excitement. She resisted an urge to ground it against the soft sheets. “For what things?” she asked.

  “For sex, certainly. For pleasure, frequently. When you find it difficult to submit, I’ll use restraints, with your permission, to make submitting less of a challenge for you. You will have no choice but to accept what I give you. Tonight, I’m going to teach you to let go and relax . . . to begin to train you to my hand.”

  No choice but to accept what I give you.

  Train you to my hand.

  The phrases uttered in his low, decadently sexy voice reverberated in her brain and vibrated in her flesh. He sat next to her on the bed and she looked up at him in helpless excitement.

  “I’m going to restrain your ankles and wrists. You will be at my mercy, but I will keep you safe, Elise. Always. If you let go and submit, I’ll know it. I’ll give you pleasure if you do. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” she mouthed.

  He smiled and brushed a tendril of hair off her cheek. A shiver of pleasure went through her at his touch. “Then turn your face away from me and rest your cheek on the pillow. Your eyes have a way of undoing me. Try to relax. I’m going to finish restraining you.”

  Her heart began to thump uncomfortably against her breastbone as she lay there and allowed him to bind her naked body. When he got to her ankles, he flipped back the luxurious comforter and drew her legs toward each corner of the bed. It felt strange when he’d finished, to be spread-eagled, unable to move . . . vulnerable. He carefully covered her again with the sheet and comforter. By the time she felt his weight sink into the mattress next to her ribs, her breathing was coming erratically from nerves.

  He drew back the bed coverings down to the top of her buttocks, exposing her back. He stroked the muscles deeply with a big, warm hand, and she shuddered in a release of anxiety and pleasure.

  “That’s right. It’s time to give up control,” he murmured. “Just relax.”

  He massaged her deeply, expertly for the next several minutes. She tried to resist, but his hands kneaded her rigid flesh into submission. Wherever did he learn the intricacies of pressure and release so well? She gasped when he swept his hand from her tailbone to her neck, applying a firm pressure. He repeated the movement, seeming to iron her anxiety and her resistance right out of her. She made a desperate noise in her throat as she tried to control an upwelling of emotion she couldn’t comprehend.

  “Let it go, Elise,” he ordered, digging his fingers deftly into her shoulders. “Let go, period. I’ve got you. Just relax.”

  “No,” she grated out when he grasped her rib cage, holding her completely at his mercy, and worked his thumbs along her spine. She had no idea why she was protesting. His massage was heavenly. It was the fact that he was telling her to let go of control.

  “Yes,” he said simply. He pressed his thumbs beneath her shoulder blades and maintained a relentless pressure. The air burned in her lungs. It hurt unbearably. It felt so good. She couldn’t hold it in any longer. What was he doing to her with those devil hands? Something snapped in her.

  She choked as emotion erupted out of her throat.

  “That’s right,” she heard him say as if from a distance as he rubbed her back muscles, working the remaining tension out of her. She sunk into the mattress, gasping, every muscle in her body going limp, even though she never gave them permission to do so.

  He continued to rub her—for how long she didn’t know—occasionally murmuring to her in soothing tones, sometimes in English, sometimes in French. The torrential rush of emotion she’d experienced was unlike anything she’d ever known. She wasn’t crying from sadness or anger, but from some kind of whirlwind of unnamable feeling that felt as if it’d been living in her body, residing in muscle and flesh without her permission.

  The tears on her cheeks dried. A wave of sleepiness overwhelmed her, and her entire awareness focused on the sensation of Lucien’s magical hands. He peeled back the covers, exposing her ass and upper thighs.

  Her eyelids flew open. Tension sprang back into her muscles. His low chuckle and warm touch on her thighs reassured her anxiety, but did nothing to alleviate mounting excitement.

  “Don’t get worked up all over again. You did well. I’m proud of you. It’s hard to let go, when you feel like the rest of the world could turn into an enemy at any moment. You come by your vigilance honestly. But you must learn to let down your guard with me,” he chided. “Now . . . I’m going to give you a reward, something for especially sweet dreams.”

  His hand moved between her thighs, cupping her sex. Before she had a chance to say anything or respond, his finger deftly burrowed between her labia. She cried out, her arousal sharp, immediate, and unexpected. Had he done that somehow, built tension in her sex without her being aware of it? He rubbed and circled and pulsed, and she had no choice but to lie there with her legs spread wide, her spirit split open, and take every bit of pleasure he offered her.

  She twisted her head on the pillow, desperate to see him while he touched her so intimately. Through several tendrils of hair, she saw him sitting at the edge of the bed, one knee on the mattress, his arm stretched between her thighs. With his other hand, he stroked his naked cock.

  She stared, transfixed, her arousal mounting exponentially. She’d never actually seen his cock before. God, he was so beautiful. His pajama bottoms were bunched below the protruding shaft, hiding his balls, but his cock was large and thick, the crown shaped like a fleshy, tapering mushroom cap. She recalled how succulent it had felt next to her lips and tongue. Her mouth watered. He stroked himself as he stared at his other hand moving between her thighs. She watched, transfixed. Something about her helplessness, her inability to touch him, somehow sharpened her desire until it cut at her.

  It was all too much. She dropped her head to the pillow as the pleasure crested and broke.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said gruffly from above her as she began to shake in delicious orgasm. “Now you’re beginning to learn what it means to submit to me.”

  He nursed her through her climax, his fingers agile and knowing in the slippery flesh. The entire time, she kept her gaze pinned to his big hand moving like a piston over his swollen cock, faster and faster.

  “Lucien,” she cried out as he coaxed yet another climax out of her. He glanced at her face for the first time, both of his hands still moving . . . pleasuring them both. A convulsion went through his rigid facial muscles and she realized he was coming too. Jets of white semen shot onto his flat, ridged abdomen as he jacked himself with a forcefulness that both stunned and aroused her. She felt his gaze on her as she watched him ejaculate.

  It was an incredibly intimate, powerful experience.

  His hands slowed. Their soughing breaths cut through the silence. Eventually, he reached for some tissues on the bedside table and used them to mop up his emissions, his manner matter-of-fact. Arousal prickled at her sex once again, but her climaxes had been so powerful she was mostly utterly satiated. By the time he stood and released her restraints, she was a muscleless mass of limp flesh. She wanted to turn around and look at him when she felt him sit on the bed next to her, his touch reassuring on her back, but she was too overwhelmed with heavy, warm drowsiness.

  “Are you awake?” he asked quietly when he’d covered her, tucking the sheet firmly around her.

 
She made an incoherent sound.

  “We will do this every night at eleven thirty until your body learns when it’s time to rest and your mind learns to let go and relax. Do you understand?”

  She understood and was more than willing. It’d been a delightful, wonderful experience.

  Yes, she attempted to say. How frustrating. She was having trouble moving her lips. They weighed far too much. Trying to say the word out loud was the last memory she had until morning.

  Chapter Eight

  Four days later, Denise Riordan watched and instructed Elise as she put the finishing touches on a new dish they were doing for a special—smoked salmon terrine with mushrooms. Elise glanced up distractedly when the kitchen door swung open. She noticed Lucien’s singular form and started, cursing under her breath when she poured some aioli sauce on the table instead of the plate.

  “It’s okay. Here,” Denise said, taking the sauce from her and handing her a towel. “It looks marvelous,” Fusion’s new chef said with a smile before she handed the dish to a waiting server.

  Elise glanced at Lucien skittishly. It had become rare for her to encounter him. She thought she might have seen more of him before she moved into his penthouse than she had in the past four days.

  Of course . . . he did put her to bed every night, getting her used not only to falling asleep but to the restraints. Not to mention his magical hands. The hard part wasn’t accustoming herself to his touch. The difficult thing was not aching for his touch every second of the day and night.

  Heat rushed into her cheeks at the compelling memories of watching him masturbate, of him touching, rubbing, and pleasuring her until she was a mass of quivering goo.

  That’s all she really saw of him, those scant, decadently erotic moments when she was restrained and he masterfully coaxed her body to relax . . . let go . . . release. Last night, she hadn’t even seen him, because he’d insisted on blindfolding her.