When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine 2)

“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.

“You are refusing to cooperate,” he’d said as he tied a silk scarf he’d found in her drawer around her eyes. “I tell you to keep your head turned, but you keep watching me, don’t you? Greedy little thing,” he’d murmured as he tightened the knot, his tone warm and amused.

It’d been worse—far worse—leaving things to her imagination, graphically picturing him stroking his cock while he made her shudder in bliss.

He said he was busy finalizing the details on the hotel purchase, and she supposed that was true, because he was rarely either at Fusion or the penthouse. She knew he occasionally went to his club for a polo match, but as of yet, he hadn’t asked her to accompany him. The only hint of hope she had in that direction was that he’d alluded to the fact that he’d look for a mount for her so that they could ride together on the grounds.

She’d never felt so good as she had after so many nights of solid, deep sleep. Yet each morning, she woke up alone. All that extra energy was nice, but it was also leaving her with an unsatisfied edge. Not once had she been treated like this in her life. She was accustomed to men going too far in the other direction—bending over backward to please her, following her every demand to the letter, even pulling crazy stunts to get her to notice. Erik Cebir, for instance, the man her parents wanted her to marry, had asked her once if she liked fishing, and she’d idly replied that she did. Erik had responded by buying a brand-new yacht—complete with eight bedrooms—which he’d proudly dubbed The Golden Elise. He’d hidden his irritation quite well when he’d finally gotten her out in it to learn she knew absolutely nothing about, nor had any interest in, deep-sea fishing. When she’d told him she enjoyed fishing, she’d been referring to dropping a line off the end of a dock, like she had with Lucien during that summer of her youth. Despite her lackluster interest in hooking a gigantic tuna, Erik had rallied to please her in other ways.

She knew very well most men were doing it because of the lure of her status and wealth, and that it had absolutely nothing to do with her value as a person. They didn’t really know her, and for the most part, none of them seemed that interested in discovering her character. But that didn’t change the fact. It was what she had grown to expect from men, even if it wasn’t necessarily what she desired.

Lucien had changed all the rules on her, and she suspected he knew perfectly well what he was doing. He knew her habits and her former lifestyle as well as anyone, after all. Her frustration was mounting by the hour. She couldn’t possess what she wanted most—the gorgeous, insufferable, aloof man who stood regarding her now like she was about as interesting as the dirty pans stacked next to the sink.

“May I steal Elise from you for a moment? I need some clarification on her tax information from when she was under salary. I promise it won’t take long,” Lucien said to Denise.

“Of course; she’s been working nonstop, and the lunch rush is almost over,” Denise said as she ladled some steaming tomato bisque into a bowl and garnished it with goat cheese and freshly baked croutons. Elise respected Denise and was thankful that they got along so well. Compared to many chefs she knew, Denise possessed a very even temperament. She’d never learned better how to shut up and tamp down her pride than she had in cooking school, working with so many large personalities.

No, that wasn’t entirely correct. She’d never learned better how to restrain her pride until she’d encountered Lucien in Chicago, she thought as she wiped off her hands and approached the tester-of-her-temper himself. He tilted his head in a request for her to follow him. By the time he’d led her silently to his office and shut the heavy carved door, she was starting to get nervous. She hadn’t believed him for a moment when he’d mentioned the tax information. Everything she’d given him had been correct and up to date.