Anri POV
I felt him watching me like a storm pressing against glass.
His silence was louder than footsteps, thicker than breath. And I could feel it—how tightly he was holding himself back.
But I didn't stop.
I reached for the clip on the bench and twisted my damp hair up slowly, letting the movement draw out. My back arched as I secured it in a loose bun, exposing the nape of my neck, the line of my shoulders, the curve of my spine.
Water still clung to my skin.
The black two-piece had started to dry but not enough—the thin fabric darkened, clinging to every contour of my body. My breasts pressed against the fabric, heavy, full, high. Drops of water slid down the curve of my stomach, down my thigh. My nipples were hard, visible through the tight top. And I didn't cover them.
I didn't need to.
"Something on your mind?" I asked softly, turning my head just enough to glance at him from over my shoulder.
Lucien's eyes were molten.
"Don't do that," he said hoarsely.
"Do what?"
"Pretend you don't know."
I gave a small shrug. "I'm just drying off."
His jaw tightened.
I turned all the way now—slow, calculated steps as I walked back toward the pool. Let the wet stone cool my bare feet. Let my hips sway just a little extra. The glass reflected our silhouettes, mine fluid and bare, his still and coiled.
I sat on the edge of the pool, legs dipping back into the water, hands braced behind me. My breasts pushed forward slightly, taut under the curve of the top, and I watched him from beneath my lashes.
Lucien didn't move.
But I saw it.
The flicker in his eyes.
The way his gaze dipped and caught on my chest.
He looked like a man who'd been denied for too long.
Like he'd been trying so hard to behave—and I'd just snapped the last thread.
I leaned back, tilted my face toward the ceiling.
The wet swimsuit clung tighter with every second. And when I glanced at him again, the hunger in his eyes wasn't quiet anymore.
"Lucien," I said sweetly, "you're staring again."
He took one slow step forward.
And another.
Then—without warning—his voice dropped.
"You remember that night?"
I blinked. "What night?"
"In Manila." His eyes burned into me. "When I picked you up in the rain."
I stilled.
"I remember that white dress," he continued, walking now. "How it turned see-through. How you looked soaked and wild and sexy as fuck—trying to act like you didn't notice the whole street staring at you."
I swallowed. My heart thudded.
"You were wearing heels," he murmured. "The little dress. Your hair dripping. Your lips parted like you were cold, but I knew you were turned on. This reminds me of that."
"Lucien—"
My thighs clenched.
I heard the shift in his breathing before I felt his hands on me.
Lucien didn't speak when he reached me.
He didn't have to.
I was already soaked—inside and out. From the pool, from the teasing, from the way his eyes had been eating me alive since the moment he walked in. The glass walls around us fogged slightly with the heat, but it was nothing compared to the warmth between my thighs. Between my ribs.
He didn't lunge or press or shove. He just stepped in close.
One breath. One heartbeat.
Then his palm slid along my waist.
"I should've locked that office door," he muttered, voice already wrecked. "Should've ended the meeting early. I couldn't focus on anything they said."
I smiled, all fake sweetness. "That's not very CEO of you."
He grabbed my chin. Tilted it up. Kissed me.
But not like usual.
It was slow. Bruising. His mouth devoured mine like a secret. Like he was tasting all the minutes I'd made him wait. Like he was about to punish me with every inch of control he hadn't used in weeks.
"You knew what you were doing," he growled against my lips.
"I didn't—"
"You fucking did." He bit my bottom lip gently. "Drying your hair like that. Arching your back."
His hands dragged up to my breasts—still caged in my black two-piece swimsuit. He didn't pull the top off. Just cupped me through it, squeezing roughly.
"You looked at me like you didn't know I'd lose it."
He palmed me harder. I gasped.
"Lucien—"
"These..." His thumbs brushed over my nipples—tight and aching under the wet fabric. "You're fucking spilling out of this suit, baby."
He bent his head and sucked over the top.
God.
The wet heat of his mouth on fabric. The gentle pressure. The scrape of his teeth right over my nipple had me arching off the tile.
My hands clawed at his shoulders. My head fell back.
He switched sides.
Nipped. Licked.
Then flattened his tongue and dragged it in a slow circle, pressing against the center of my breast like he was imprinting himself there.
"I want to ruin you," he murmured, still licking. "Just like this. Wearing this. You look too good to take it off."
His hand slid down my stomach—slow and confident. Like he owned it. And he did.
I was already shaking.
"Please..." I whispered.
Lucien chuckled. "Please what?"
I reached for his wrist, dragging his hand lower.
"Touch me."
His fingers slipped into the side of my bikini bottom—just his fingertips at first, teasing the edge. The rest of his hand stayed on top, cupping me through the fabric.
"You're already dripping," he said, voice hoarse. "Is that for me?"
I nodded.
He pushed the bottom aside and slid his fingers lower—finally touching my bare skin. I whimpered at the first brush.
Two fingers ran along my slit. Then circled, pressed, drew slow figure-eights over my clit.
He didn't rush.
"Lucien—"
He pressed his free hand to my stomach, keeping me down as I squirmed.
"Stay still," he growled.
His fingers stroked me lazily, sliding between my folds, circling just where I needed him—not fast enough. He kissed the base of my throat while he fingered me, dragging his teeth down my collarbone. My swimsuit stuck to my chest, my nipples now soaked and overstimulated beneath the tight top.
I was panting.
Begging.
"Lucien, please—"
He slipped one finger inside me.
I moaned. Loudly.
Then another.
He curled them slowly. Just enough to make my hips buck.
"You like that?" he whispered.
I nodded helplessly.
He kissed me again—deeper, slower, dirtier.
Then—he pulled his fingers out.
I gasped at the loss.
He stood up fully now, one hand still gripping my hip. His other hand tugged down the waistband of his joggers, just enough to free himself.
And I froze.
Thick. Hard. Veins visible. The flushed tip glistening, already leaking.
Lucien stroked once—just once—before pressing the tip between my legs.
Not inside.
Just between my folds.
Rubbing up and down, dragging against my clit, teasing.
I whimpered.
"Tell me how badly you want it," he said, voice barely more than a breath.
"I need it—"
"Need what?"
"You—inside me."
He pushed forward just enough for the tip to slip in.
My head hit the glass behind me.
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
But I wasn't full yet.
He wasn't done.
Lucien reached up, grabbed both my breasts in his hands—squeezing them together, nipples hard under the swimsuit—and slowly sank into me.
One agonizing inch at a time.
I cried out.
"You're so tight," he whispered, eyes burning.
He didn't slam. He didn't rush.
He stretched me open, taking his time, watching every reaction.
My fingers dug into his back.
"Lucien—please..." I barely recognized my own voice. Desperate. Whimpering. "Move. Just—fuck me—"
His mouth crushed mine before I could say more, swallowing my plea. The kiss was rough, dizzying, all tongue and teeth and heat. Then his hand slid up—slow and sure—until it curled gently around my throat. Not squeezing. Just resting. Just claiming.
His forehead leaned against mine as he stared down at me, his voice low and dark against my lips.
"So impatient," he murmured, a slow smile in his voice. "But this isn't fucking, baby. This is me making love to you... so you better feel every second of it."
And then—
Then he moved.
His thrust was deep, almost too much after so long. My mouth dropped open in a silent moan, the pleasure crashing into me all at once. He dragged out, slow enough to make my eyes flutter, then slammed back in with a sharp groan.
I arched into him, nails scraping his shoulder blades. His rhythm was steady but rough, hips snapping forward like he needed to carve himself into me. Each stroke hit that perfect spot—over and over—until I couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't even pretend to be in control.
And he watched me the whole time.
His eyes were locked on my face—studying every flicker, every gasp, every twitch of my body. Like he needed to see it.
I was unraveling under him—melting and burning all at once. His thrusts were harder now, faster, but still so intentional. Like he needed me to feel every second of it. No part of me untouched. No inch ignored.
And through it all—he kept whispering.
Soft, filthy praises against my skin. His lips brushing my ear, my jaw, my shoulder. Telling me how tight I was. How good I took him. How no one would ever ruin me the way he did.
But it didn't feel degrading.
It felt like worship.
I was pinned, breathless, trembling—and I wanted more.