"Sydney." More tingling to her scalp, his tugging more insistent, more demanding. "Sweetheart … "
She parted her lips over the smooth knob of the head and engulfed it, dancing her tongue under the pronounced ridge. His scent was concentrated here, stronger and fused with the musk of sex. She loved it. Loved this act of simultaneous dominance and submission. The giving and taking. Because while she wrapped her hand around the base of his erection, languorously pumped while ravenously sucking him deep, she also received pleasure. Loving him, making him tremble and strain under her hand and mouth was the sweetest and most potent aphrodisiac. She squeezed her thighs against the merciless spasming of her core, wanted to slide her fingers beneath her skirt and stroke her aching clit and drenched folds. But that would require letting go of his cock or his hip, and she wasn't willing to do that.
Hard but considerate hands held her still as he took her mouth, whispering encouragement and praise when she allowed him deeper. She held on, trusting him, needing to see him lose the control he wore like a second skin. But as his cock swelled and his thrusts shortened, Lucas swore, jerked from between her lips, and yanked her to her feet. And when he crushed her mouth to his, the gentleness of before had evaporated under lust and a voracious greed. He wrenched her shirt over her head, snatched down the cups of her bra, and feasted on her breasts. Ecstasy boomeranged from her nipples to her core and back again. She clutched his head to her as he alternated between tugging on the tips with his fingers and tongue and drawing them deep into his mouth. It was so much-too much. She needed …
Reaching behind her, she grabbed the tab of her skirt.
"No." His fingers closed around hers, removing them. "Leave it on. Boots, too."
He hauled the skirt up her legs until the black material pooled around her waist. Cool air brushed over her legs, her behind, and the damp flesh between her thighs. A wrench, and her ruined underwear floated to the floor, leaving her even more bared. And vulnerable. With her bra shoved under her breasts and her skirt bunched around her hips, she shivered, the state of half dress somehow more exposing than if she were fully naked.
"Luke." She reached for him, needing his fierce passion to sweep her away. Hands cupping her ass, he maneuvered her to the brown leather couch against the far wall. He lowered to the cushions, drawing her down with him so she straddled his lap. The soft material of his suit pants brushed her inner thighs, a sharp contrast to the aggressive thrust of his cock against her folds and clit. She gasped, rolled her hips, and whimpered at the pleasure that lanced her.
Once more taking control, she rose on her knees, fisted the wide base of his erection, and slowly slid down. The head parted her, paving the way for the thick, large column to follow. Oh, God, he filled her. Stretched her. Branded her. After so many times, she should be used to the first resistance of her body to his penetration, but how could a person become accustomed to pleasure so acute it treaded the delicious, startling line of pain and ecstasy?
Tiny, breathless cries escaped her throat as she rose and fell, rose and fell, swallowing more of him on each return until she surrounded every inch of him. Beneath her, he strained, a fine tremble quivering through his big body as he fought to not take over the fucking. His fingers dug into her hips and would probably leave faint bruises. Bruises she would treasure.
"You feel so good inside me," she whispered in his ear. "So good. So thick. So hot."
Lucas groaned and went wild. He gripped her ass and led her in a wild ride that left her with no recourse but to hang on. Grasping his shoulders, she leaned her head back, let him lift and drag her down his cock, stroking into her over and over again. His hips thrust high with each downward plunge of hers, and the arias of her wet sex releasing him, flesh smacking flesh, and her broken cries filled the room in the most beautiful opera. Over and over, she welcomed and clasped in the most intimate of embraces, his cock marking her each time he buried it within her.
"Come for me, sweetheart," he breathed against her throat. "And take me with you." He reached between them, rubbed a thumb over her clit, circling the bundle of nerves three times before catapulting her into a sea of rapture.
When her head eventually crested the tempestuous waves, he bucked beneath her, straining, pumping, and spilling in short, powerful bursts. She clung to him. Depended on him to buoy her up, and he did. Even as the fire raged, simmered, than banked, he wrapped her in his arms.
And with her cheek pressed to his damp shoulder, she asked the question that had lurked in the back of her mind since he'd trusted her with his truth.
"Lucas?"
"Yes?" He rubbed a palm up her spine and back down in a calming caress.
"Your father's partner and best friend. The one who cheated with your mother." She paused, suspecting the answer as she asked. "It was Dad, wasn't it?"
A pause.
"Yes."
Grief, pain, and shame exploded inside her chest like emotional shrapnel. The cheating part didn't surprise her; Jason's issues with faithfulness had been a poorly kept secret around their house. But cheating his best friend out his livelihood while he was holed up in grief? Even as emotionally distant and critical as her father had become, she still couldn't match up the cold, conniving man Lucas described with the man she'd known.
A shudder ripped through her, and she curled her fingers into Lucas's waist as if trying to hold on to something she'd never really had.
A chance.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, barely able to push the apology past the thickness in her throat.
His hand paused in its soothing motion on her back.
"It's not your fault, sweetheart."
She didn't reply. Didn't point out the irony in his statement, since he'd made her pay part of the price for her father's sins. Despair weighed down on her like an anvil.
For a moment, a glimmer of hope had flickered inside her. But now, that glow had been snuffed out by the sense that she and Lucas had been doomed before they ever started.
Chapter Eighteen
How many of these events was a man required to suffer through before granted a pardon? Hell, they all started to run together after a while. Given where Lucas had grown up, he donated to foundations championing literacy, education, and technology in inner-city schools. But he would much rather have stayed home with Sydney tonight. Even watching one of those crime shows she enjoyed so much. Anything rather than attending another gala-was this one for animal shelters?-and spending time schmoozing. Or zoning out.
Like now.
He nodded and uttered the appropriate sympathetic reply when Mrs. Anita Gamble-wife of one of the wealthiest financiers along the East Coast-launched into another diatribe regarding the ill treatment of her beautiful shih tzu, Precious, at the hands of the groomer.
Jesus. Really? But he smiled, made the proper concerned responses and noises. He grinned and bore it all the while wondering when the brain bleed would begin.
In Chicago, he'd attended his fair share of social galas and parties, but as a single man and businessman, an absence or four could be excused. Not so as a married man. And definitely not for a man married under the scarlet banner of scandal.
Tuning out Mrs. Gamble's views on going "American" with groomers, he scanned the room for his wife. There. Surrounded by a bevy of women who flickered and faded into his peripheral vision. With her gorgeous curls tamed into a sexy sweep over a bare shoulder, she outshone every woman in the room. The curves he'd developed an obsession for were displayed to perfection in an elegant black-and-white corseted gown that hugged her breasts and small waist before falling dramatically to the floor. He, who admittedly knew shit about fashion, appreciated the flair of the dress. But it was the woman who made it unforgettable.
The warmth that blended with the sharper heat of desire both unnerved and settled him. Ever since he'd revealed his true history to her earlier that week, the unsettling emotion had taken root and had been impossible to eradicate. At some point in the study, he'd stopped viewing his wife as transitory and started thinking of her as more permanent.
And that scared the shit out of him.
He lost focus around her. Hell, he'd skipped out on work just to be with her. She made him question his every belief about women and marriage. And that kind of uncertainty-specifically at this critical time-was dangerous. Yes, Sydney was different from any woman he'd ever met. Yet he still hadn't revealed the entire extent of his plans regarding her father. Why? Did he simply not want her to look at him with hatred? Or did a part of him continue to mistrust her? Maybe a turbulent mixture of both.
"Penny for your thoughts," a sultry voice intruded on his brooding. He blinked, realizing Mrs. Gamble had moved on and Caroline Dresden stood in her stead. "Or are yours more expensive?"