He came to me, his body inches from mine. “What do you mean?” he innocently inquired.
He was so male, so intoxicatingly male. His smell, the heat from his body… Suddenly, I didn’t care if he was something other than human. In fact, that possibility made me more curious than ever. And my body responded accordingly. All I could think of was sex, sex with Lucien, sex with a man that was possibly something more than a man.
What would that be like?
Taking the camera from my grasp, Lucien smiled and asked, “May I take some photos of you, Dahlia?”
I was never one to have my picture taken, but with Lucien offering to go behind the lens, I didn’t much care.
I nodded as I breathed out a sultry, “Yes.”
“Great.” He took a step back.
“What do you want me to do?” I inquired, glancing around the room.
Fidgeting with the camera settings, he distractedly gestured for me to go to the red leather couch. “Lie down on the sofa,” he said. “I think your hair will look nice up against the leather.”
“Auburn on crimson,” I said, giggling.
I was feeling strange, kind of drunk. What was he doing to me?
“Yes,” Lucien agreed, “there is that. The auburn on crimson, as you put it. But I’m also curious to see how your porcelain pale skin looks against the bright red.”
I nodded, acquiescing. I was eager to please Lucien, so I went to and leaned back on the sofa, carefully so as to avoid placing the heels of my boots on the supple leather.
When the bottom hem of my wrap dress fell away, exposing the creamy skin of one thigh, I hurriedly adjusted the fabric.
“Oh,” I said, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Lucien sauntered over to where I was awkwardly lying on the sofa. He helped me scoot up and positioned me the way he wanted—up against the plush leather arm. Gently, he drew my auburn hair off to one side and brought it around to the front.
I let out a nervous laugh, but the truth was I was feeling even more turned on than earlier, so much so that I didn’t mind one bit when Lucien’s fingers trailed down from my neck to my chest.
He lingered. His eyes met mine as he toyed with the silky, green material barely covering my cleavage. “May I,” he asked. His fingers grazed my skin, creating a heated path.
“Yes,” I replied, my chest heaving with excited breaths.
With his eyes still holding mine in a seeming trance, he opened the front of my dress, exposing both of my breasts. I leaned back my head and gasped as his knuckles grazed over my left nipple, the peak aching to be touched by him.
“There,” he said softly, “let’s start like that.”
Scooting back, he took a couple of shots. “Look at me, Dahlia,” he suddenly commanded.
I did as he asked.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
“Open your dress a little more.”
I did as he asked.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
“Show me a little more thigh.”
I did that, too.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
And then he was back in front of me, his hand at the ribbon sash keeping the dress from falling completely open.
“How would you feel if we were to lose the dress?” he asked.
I stared into his eyes. So mesmerizing. I’d never felt as sexy as I did in that moment. I also never felt as turned on.
I licked my lips, and he asked with a smirk, “Does this, my photographing you, excite you?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Do I turn you on, Miss Vaughn?”
“Call me Dahlia,” I murmured. “Remember. We’re on a first-name basis.”
“Yes, Dahlia,” he purred. “Now, answer the question.”
“Yes,” I admitted. A flood of heat hit me, making me moan and arch my back. “You turn me on.”
I was so wet, so fucking dripping wet. I wanted him to touch me. I needed him to touch me. “Please,” I begged.
“Please what?” he asked, like he had no clue.
But he knew. He was toying with me, but I didn’t even give a damn.
Nimbly, I undid the tie on my dress. The fabric fell away, exposing all of me to Lucien. “Touch me,” I pleaded.
And he did.
With the camera in one hand, he touched me with his other. He toyed with my breasts, caressed his knuckles down my abdomen, and placed two fingers at my core.
I gasped, “Ohh…”
He touched me gently, and I loved every minute of it. But when he slipped a finger into me, I jerked away.
“Are you untouched, Dahlia?” he asked, concern creasing his brow. Or was that some other emotion?
His finger remained in me, unmoving. And though it felt somewhat uncomfortable, I moved a little, instinct taking over.
“Dahlia?” he prompted, twisting his finger.