Chapter 4

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. His words hung in the air between us, heavy and electric.

"Forget him?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

Lucien leaned back slightly, giving me space but never breaking eye contact. He was giving me an out. A chance to laugh it off, to retreat back into the safety of my complicated relationship with Jake. But God, I didn't want to.

"How would you even do that?" I asked, surprising myself with the boldness in my voice.

He reached for my hand, his fingers brushing against my knuckles before turning it palm up. He traced a lazy circle in the center of my palm, and I felt it everywhere—a direct line from his touch to the ache building low in my belly.

"You've been with him for what? Two years?" Lucien continued, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. "And in all that time, has he ever made you feel like the most beautiful woman in the room?"

My silence was answer enough.

"Has he ever looked at you the way I'm looking at you right now?"

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. His eyes were dark pools of desire, and I was drowning in them willingly.

"Lucien…" His name came out as a plea. "You're my dad's best friend."

The reminder hung between us. He was forty-two. I was twenty. He'd known me since I was a child, had watched me grow up, had been at every birthday dinner and family barbecue. This was wrong. Every rational part of my brain screamed it.

But my body didn't care about rational.

"I know exactly who I am," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "And I know exactly who you are. I've watched you, Bella. For longer than I should admit."

He brought my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my racing pulse point. "I watched you grow into this stunning woman and I've watched you come alive in ways he doesn't even notice."

My heart stuttered. "You've been watching me?"

"Every goddamn day. And every day, I told myself to stay away. You're too young. You're my best friend's daughter. It's wrong." His jaw tightened. "But you are irresistible"

He trailed off, his eyes burning into mine.

"And I'm done pretending I don't want you."

The confession sent a jolt of heat straight through me. My thighs pressed together under the table, seeking friction, seeking relief from the growing ache.

He stood suddenly, his chair scraping back. He extended his hand to me. "Come with me."

It wasn't a question.

I stared at his outstretched palm. My father's best friend. A man twenty-two years my senior. A man who had known me when I was in pigtails and braces.

The smart thing would be to stay. To finish my risotto, go to my room, and figure out the mess with Jake. To remember every boundary that existed between us.

But smart had never gotten me anywhere good.

I took his hand.

He led me through the dining room, past the kitchen where the staff had conveniently disappeared, up the winding staircase. His grip was firm, his stride purposeful. Neither of us spoke. Words felt inadequate for what was about to happen.

We stopped in front of a door I'd never noticed before—the library, I realized, as he pushed it open. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, a fire crackling in the massive stone fireplace. A velvet chaise lounge sat in the center, bathed in the warm glow of the flames.

He closed the door behind us. The click of the lock was deafening in the quiet room.

I turned to face him, suddenly aware of how close we were. How the firelight danced across his sharp features. How his chest rose and fell with controlled, deliberate breaths. He was so much taller than me, so much broader. Everything about him screamed power and experience—things Jake couldn't even dream of possessing.

His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing my bottom lip. The touch was gentle, reverent, like I was something precious.

He was so close now. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if I just leaned forward an inch…

"Your father would kill me," he said, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Hell no." His eyes darkened. "What happens in this room stays between us."

The moment our lips met, the world collapsed. His mouth was demanding, hungry, claiming me as his. His hands tangled in my hair, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss. I moaned against his lips, my fingers finding purchase on his shoulders, pulling him close

He walked me backward until my back hit the bookshelf. His body pressed against mine, hard and unyielding, and I gasped at the feel of him—all of him—pressing into my hip.

"You have no idea," he breathed against my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point, "how long I've imagined this. How many nights I've thought about having you exactly like this."

I whimpered, my head falling back against the spines of forgotten novels.

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else," he whispered, his lips trailing down my neck. "By the time I'm done with you, you won't even remember his name. You won't want anyone else."

His hands found my hips, lifting me effortlessly onto the edge of his desk. He stepped between my legs, spreading them wider, fitting himself against me in a way that made my entire body tremble.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, his forehead pressed to mine. "Tell me you want me."

"I want you," I gasped. "I want you, Lucien."

"Good girl."