When I'm With You: The Complete Novel (9 page)

Her eyes sprang wide when she fully absorbed his dimensions . . . his heat. Liquid surged at her core, an answer to his primal call. Abruptly, he was gone.

“Damn those eyes,” he muttered thickly. “Look at that desk or I swear you won’t sit comfortably for a week.”

She turned, staring sightlessly at the leather blotter on his desk, panting shallowly as he cracked off the last two strokes.

Through the swelling sounds of the symphony and her own pounding heart, she heard the rough, soughing sound of Lucien’s breath behind her. She didn’t move.

What would he do now? Her pussy was hot and wet between her thighs. She experienced his arousal behind her like a distant but powerful fire, his heat seeming to emanate against her naked ass, teasing her sex. Surely he wouldn’t walk away? Perhaps he’d take her from behind? The thought panicked and excited her. She hadn’t prepared for this. She started to raise herself in order to touch him . . . in order to pleasure him . . . to satisfy him . . .

. . . in order to take control of this volatile situation.

That
she could handle. He’d said they wouldn’t have sex, but that was before they’d generated all this heat. She stood and turned, gratified to see the fixed, rigid expression on his face as he stared at her ass. He grabbed her wrist lightning quick when she reached for his pants. Suddenly, she was spinning and her back was pressed tightly to his front, her bottom pressed against his hard thighs, her lower back against the flagrant fullness of his sex. She gasped when he gathered her other wrist and restrained both of her arms in his hand. He leaned down, cupping her body to his long, hard length.

“It aroused you. Didn’t it?”

A shudder of excitement went through her at the sound of his delicious voice in her ear.

“I . . . I hated it,” she lied, fighting for the upper hand even though she knew she was losing . . . even though she increasingly didn’t know what losing or winning meant when it came to Lucien. Her gasp turned into a moan of disbelieving arousal when he abruptly plunged a long finger between her labia and rubbed.

“Very warm.
Very
wet,” he groaned near her ear, increasing her shudders of pleasure. “I’m going to cure you of this tendency for lying. I felt you submit there at the end, even if you are denying it now, and you were very brave in accepting your spanking. Here is your reward.”

Her head fell back against his breastbone. It felt divine, the friction from his rubbing finger optimal. Her clit began to sizzle beneath his touch. Her hips ground against the pressure. He pressed her tighter against him, so that she could feel his cock throbbing against her lower back and hip. He’d been right about how wet she was—she could tell by the easy slide of his finger. She could even hear him moving in the lubricated flesh. How humiliating.

How
exciting
.

She subtly gyrated against him, growing wild with mounting arousal, her teeth clenched tight. She couldn’t seem to stop it. He pleasured her more knowledgeably than she pleasured herself, something about his restrained strength and obvious skill creating a riot of bliss in her flesh. Her entire body grew rigid, and her nipples tightened almost painfully, making her wish he’d touch them, pinch them to ease the sharp pressure.

“Damn you,” she muttered brokenly.

“Come,” he demanded. The music swelled in her ears, cresting.

She clamped her eyelids shut and shook in delicious release.

“That’s right,” she heard him say, his voice seemingly both far away and so close it was like he was inside her head. “One day you’re going to come like that while I’m buried in you, and it’s going to feel so incredibly good.”

His hand continued to work between her thighs, stimulating her until she sagged against him, panting. Her eyelids opened sluggishly a moment later when she felt his hand slow and stop.

For a moment, she didn’t move or breathe as he cupped her outer sex in a possessive gesture and she felt his cock pulse against her, hard, heavy and more than ready.

He released her. She whimpered at the sudden loss of his heat.

“Get dressed,” he said, his voice sounding rough. She watched as he strode across the office to a closed door. When he jerked it open, she realized it was an entrance to a bathroom.

The door snapped shut behind him.

He came out a moment later as she finished fastening her pants. She studied him anxiously from beneath lowered eyelashes as she pulled down her smock. His short, thick hair looked sexily mussed. The strands at his temples and nape were damp, as if he’d splashed his face and neck with water. She felt as if she had suddenly been transported to a strange country and didn’t understand the language. She didn’t know how she was supposed to respond to him. None of her former experience with sex had prepared her for this.

“Why don’t you go and wash up as well,” he said, his tone softer than she would have expected, given his palpable tension level and obvious continued arousal.

Elise welcomed the opportunity for temporary escape from Lucien’s disturbing, compelling presence. She didn’t want him to know how stupid she felt, how inadequate. She rushed into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. The cheeks of the woman in the mirror shone red. Her eyes shone. It was another novel experience, seeing her reflection after she’d been so undone by desire.

How could she possibly feel so humiliated at what Lucien had just done to her, and yet be so turned on by it at once? And why, despite her anxiety about what Lucien would do next, did she also experience a strange calmness after what he’d done . . . a newfound steadiness.

You can do this, Elise. You can handle Lucien Sauvage. You’ve talked dozens of powerful men into doing precisely what you want
.

None so formidable as Lucien
.

She clamped her eyelids shut, silencing the annoying self-conversation in her head.

What had occurred in Lucien’s office was so alien to her, so powerful, the only way she could think to handle it was to ignore it. She would plow forward with her plan. Lucien had admitted to wanting her, after all. She wasn’t entirely weaponless.

She washed and exited the bathroom, her chin up. He remained standing, his arms crossed, clearly waiting for her to return. He’d turned down the stereo in her absence. His eyes gleamed from beneath a lowered brow as he studied her.

“Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” she said almost flippantly, glad to hear her voice sounded even. Let him think she’d been spanked dozens of times, just like he believed she’d fucked half the men in Paris. She would not tip her hand and reveal her vulnerability. She would not let him know that he’d just rocked her world, or that she had no idea precisely how he’d done it.

“Are you finished
keeping me in line
?”

“For the time being.”

“Good. Can we talk about my job now?”

Her clear, melodious voice replayed in his mind again and again. He shook his head once as if to dislodge it.

“You haven’t got a job,” he said.

“Let me work here until you get another chef. You need the help, Lucien. You can’t close the restaurant for days on end. Think of all the money you’d lose. If that doesn’t matter to you, think of your disappointed customers.”

His jaw ached when he unclenched it. It was a wonder to him Elise couldn’t see his body shaking. He vibrated with barely contained lust. He didn’t want to have a rational conversation with Elise Martin; he wanted to bend her over his desk and fuck her until every logical thought in his brain was incinerated by a glorious, explosive climax at her farthest reaches. Perhaps he shouldn’t have punished her. The recollection of her courage in accepting it—the memory of her plump, pink ass—would undoubtedly drive him over the edge into madness.

No, he’d been
right
to punish her. He knew that on some gut level. He’d sensed a serenity to her, a strength, that was compelling to behold. She
did
require some kind of limit to her world. Lucien had understood that since he was twenty-one years old.

Still, she was right back to her bargaining and manipulation.

“What good would it do you to work at Fusion? You need a master chef to stage with and complete your training, correct?” he reminded her, frustrated by her tenacity over this topic.

“Yes, but I could continue to fill in until you find one. With any luck, the chef you hire will want a stage. Knowing the caliber of chefs you always choose in your restaurants, I’m sure he or she will be acceptable to my school in order to get my degree. I’m very good at what I do, Lucien. I have talent.”

He closed his eyes briefly and glanced away. He hated the note of desperation in her tone. “You needn’t sound so defensive. I know you have talent. Do you think I didn’t sample selections of your lunch?”

“I hadn’t realized,” she said, her surprised tone sounding genuine.

“I wouldn’t serve my patrons anything that wasn’t up to my standards. You surpassed them. You have an innate understanding of the French and Moroccan blend I’m looking for.”

“Aha!”

His fierceness returned like flicking whip at the sight of her smug grin. Perhaps she sensed his knife-sharp lust mingling with anger, because she forced her smile to vanish. For a few seconds, they just regarded one another in silence.

“I agree with what you said. I didn’t have many friends in Paris,” she said softly. “But you were my friend once, Lucien, when we first met in Nice when I was a child. Lend me a hand again. Please.”

She was ruthless. He suspected she knew very well that he’d respond positively to a wide-eyed, sincere plea. Still, respect for her tenacity tempered his irritation.

“I am a fool to even consider it,” he said after a billowing silence. “But I suppose it will allow me to monitor you even more closely.”

She scowled at that. She really did delight him at times. When she noticed his fond smile, she smoothed her expression. “I won’t disappoint you. You’ll see. I
will
make this work.”

He stepped toward her. “You will not tell your mother and father, or anyone of our common acquaintance in France, that you know of my location. You will not say a word to anyone here in Chicago that we knew each other previously. To everyone else in the world, we just met last night. You aren’t to mention anything about our former acquaintance. Not. One. Thing,” he said succinctly. “Am I making myself clear, Elise?”

“Crystal,” she assured.

“You will follow my instructions in regard to your job without back talk and sass. The second you step out of line or try to manipulate me, you will know a consequence. I will not have you defying me day in and day out. If you can’t agree to that, then you can’t stay at Fusion. Those are my terms. I will put you on a salary until I can find a new chef. If and when you enter your official training again, your salary and official job here will end.”

“I have enough money set aside to get me through the stage. If you pay me a salary until my training begins, I can stretch what I have to make it work.”

He gave her a droll glance, his gaze sticking on the vision of her reddened cheeks and lips. No, it was not his lustful imagination. Little Elise Martin had been aroused by her punishment.
Very
aroused. It was going to be such a pleasure, training her to his hand. His cock throbbed next to his thigh, as if in protest at being ignored. It only added to the boiling brew of emotion he experienced. He turned away from the intoxicating sight of her, worried that if he inhaled in such close proximity, he might catch her scent. He would snap then, for certain.

“Your papa would not see you starve,” he said sardonically, moving around his desk.

“No. But I would starve myself before slithering back to him for another handout.”

He lowered to his chair, glad the desk blocked his still primed arousal. He found her quiet conviction appealing. Elise had what it took to make a success of whatever she attempted. It was her doubt in her strength, determination, and perseverance—in
herself
—that was her demon. Whether she could conquer that demon or not, Lucien was unsure.

He forced his mind to the practicalities at hand.

“I’ll have Sharon bring you a job application. I’ll have a contract drawn up for you as an interim chef. Saturday is market day,” he said, picking up an invoice and studying it. “Since you’re so adroit at driving a race car, I assume you can drive a four-wheel-drive truck?”

He glanced up when she didn’t immediately reply. “You might have heard how much I value locally grown food in my restaurants. I want the freshest, most pristine, locally grown ingredients. It’s one of my chef’s duties to shop for the items he or she needs for the week at a farmers’ market. There is more to being a chef than just cooking, Elise,” he added when she continued to look amazed.

“Of course. I know how important marketing is,” she said defensively.

He nodded. “But being new in town—in the country, for that matter—I’m sure you’ll need some guidance through the process. Usually Javier or Evan will go with you to assist, but this Saturday, I will. We should get there early to get the best produce. Can you be ready by six?”

“Yes.”

He studied her through a narrowed gaze, sensing her bewilderment.
Good
. She’d been throwing him off balance since her arrival last night. It was about time she looked a little tongue-tied. “I’ll need your address in order to pick you up.”

“I’ll just meet you near the market if you tell me where,” she said breathlessly.

He designated an intersection in the Gold Coast neighborhood for them to meet.

“I will set up medical exams for both of us tomorrow,” he said.

“Medical exams?”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “We should both know we are safe for sexual interaction. I know that I am, but I want to assure you of the same. Are you on birth control?” he asked levelly.

She nodded.

“Good. In the meantime . . .”

“Yes, darling?” she prodded when he faded off.

His gaze flashed to meet hers.
Darling
. The word sounded completely contrived, frequently practiced, and yet . . . undoubtedly alluring uttered from her flushed, ripe lips. Damn her. Always turning the tables. She waited, just a hint of amusement shining in her eyes.