Leather & Lark (The Ruinous Love Trilogy, #2) (82)

Dear God.

“You should have bat-signaled me,” I finally say.

There’s a brief, suspended moment where neither of us moves, and then Lachlan laughs—really laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle with delight. “All right, you feckin’ catastrophe. Next time I’ll just use this instead of the phone, since you didn’t think to check your texts,” he says as he holds up the remote control.

“I left my phone in the dressing room.” I tear my attention from Lachlan’s unwavering stare and open the text notifications on my watch.

Dressing room. Now.



“Oh. That’s, um …”

Lachlan raises a single brow.

“Bossy.”

“Bossy,” he echoes.

I nod and try to resurrect my confidence. “But if you’re going to use the remote instead of the phone moving forward, you should probably test it. See if it still works.”

“I did test it. In front of an audience of what, three hundred—”

“Five hundred.”

“—five hundred people. My wife. On stage. Having an orgasm. In front of five hundred feckin’ people.”

My wife. The possessive edge in it cuts through my thoughts. Echoes in my head. Ricochets in my chest. I try to shrug it off and give him a haughty look, but those two words rattle around in my mind. “You’re the only one who noticed.”

“I doubt that very much, duchess.”

“And that bothers you?”

“You meant what you said in that song? That you forgive me?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Answer my question first.” Lachlan leans closer, his eyes never straying from mine. Every word is slow and distinct when he says, “Did. You. Mean. It?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

Lachlan eases back just a little and I try not to move with him even though my body is burning for his closeness, begging for his touch. His eyes break away from mine to drop down the length of me, from the sweat that dots my hairline to the tips of my boots and back again. When he meets my eyes, there’s fire and need and longing staring back at me.

“Does it bother me?” he says, returning to my question. “To see you on that stage and know I’m the one making you come and yet I can’t touch you?” Lachlan edges closer. He leans forward to cage me between his arms as he grips the counter, but he’s careful not to touch me. “Yes, it feckin’ bothers me, duchess. It bothers me very feckin’ much. In the best and worst of ways.”

I bite my lip and Lachlan watches the motion as though it’s the only thing he can see, like nothing else exists in the world except for that small display of need. “What are you going to do about it?” I whisper.

A slow, feral, ravenous smirk tugs at one corner of his lips as his eyes turn lightless, the color consumed by desire. He raises the remote clutched in his hand and turns it on. Even at its low setting, the vibration shocks my swollen clit.

“You’re going to show me that toy,” he commands, “and then you’ll find out.”

With a flash of motion, Lachlan lifts me by the waist and sets my ass on the bathroom counter.

We stare at each other. Lips parted. Breaths ragged. We’re separated by mere inches of air and thin layers of fabric and the determination to not be the first to bend so far they snap.

It’s Lachlan who makes the first move, Lachlan who slowly leans forward. Lachlan who bridges that gap to graze my cheek with his lips and summon shivers through my flesh, his plea a caress against my ear.

“Duchess,” he whispers. His voice is a lush, luxurious spell. “Show. Me.”

Lachlan pulls back just enough to solder his eyes to mine. He never breaks eye contact as he folds his hand around mine and guides it to the tulle that covers my legs. He curls my fingers into the fabric before he lets his hand drift away.

I take two shallow breaths and then bunch the fabric in my fist to drag it up my leg. The more fiercely the need burns in his eyes, the slower I move, drawing out both his torture and my own. The hem inches up my skin. Only once the edge skims Lachlan’s hand where it rests against my thigh does he look down. His thumb follows in the wake of the fabric. Tension radiates from his coiled muscles. I slow to a crawl of motion as the fabric climbs higher until it finally reaches the lace edge of my panties.

And then I stop.

Lachlan’s eyes snap to mine, dark with a dare. His thumb traces the hem. “Thought you didn’t like to wear these,” he says, his voice low and husky.

“Special circumstances.” I press my hand over his when he grips the edge of scalloped lace. “I want you,” I say before doubt can blossom in his thoughts. “You know things about me and my past that I don’t tell anyone.”

His face creases with pain. He takes a breath to reply, but I press my fingertips to his lips.

“Just don’t go thinking I want you to play nice.” A slow smile creeps across my lips. “I’m not your demure little duchess. I’m your fucking whore, understand?”

I slip my thumb into his mouth. Lachlan groans as he wraps his lips around my flesh and sucks. When I move to pull my thumb free he bites down, his teeth bared, his eyes hooded as he drinks in my reaction. I’m caught in the balance of pain and pleasure. The push and pull of power. Lachlan lets me go and turns up the vibration on the toy and I suck in a tremulous breath.