Say It

Musing #24 - 'You’re soaked,' he muttered, his voice gone low and reverent. 'You came here wet for me, didn’t you, mon poupée?'

Welcome to Part IV of the series Velvet Lure unknowingly started.

This part is posted with permission and need - as all the other parts have. The links to those parts of the adventure are below.

Enjoy them as they are intended to be enjoyed - with pleasure - that Velvet and I give you.

Megs xx

Part I - My Gallery Night: Watched and Owned by Velvet Lure

Part II -Poupée d'occasion by M.P. Fitz🍒

Part III - Confession Silencieuse by

M.P. Fitz🍒

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She hadn’t meant to send it.

Not really.

But she was a few glasses of wine in, at a party she didn’t even want to be at. But her boyfriend had dragged her along. So, she sat as he socialised. And scrolled through an Instagram profile she shouldn’t keep looking at. Chest tight with something she wouldn’t name.

The page once filled with images of his beautiful paintings had now become snaps of food. Delicious looking plates of French cuisine. And behind each artfully curated plate; a woman. Sometimes, her breasts spilled over a low cut dress. Dark brown hair falling between them seductively. Other nights, she was blonde. Buttoned up but no less sexy as she leant over the plate with blood red nails.

Never the same woman twice.

So, that night - wine emboldening her - she snapped the picture without thinking.

Aimee was laughing at something her newest boyfriend said, his hand heavy and possessive on her hip, his thumb hooked a little too low, exposing the skin of her stomach. The flash of his ring catching her eye.

She cropped it. Enough that you couldn’t tell it wasn’t her, but still keep the sense of ownership in the touch.

Sent it with one line of text:

‘You’re not the only one who paints with other people, Lucien.’

It was delivered. It was seen. It was ignored.

For forty-eight hours.

Forty-eight hours of silence.

Worse than anything he could have said.

She told herself she didn't care. That it had been a petty little move and she was done. But when she woke up two days later, there was a single email waiting. No subject line. No body or explanation.

Just an attachment: a boarding pass.

Sydney to Paris. Business Class. That night.

She should have said no. But she didn’t.

The flight felt like limbo. Like she was suspended between two realities. Real life - and whatever the fuck still lingered between her and Lucien.

Her hands itched the whole time.

When she got off the plane and into the vibrant bustle of Paris, her heart felt different. Not lighter, but less shadowed. Free.

Still, she almost turned around three separate times between Charles de Gaulle and the address he’d given her. Her bag rolled over the cobblestones, her heels clicked. She’d changed at the airport, taking advantage of the business lounge’s amenities. Slid herself into a fine silken pair of underwear - no bra - and a little black dress that always had her feeling more confident than she deserved.

She hadn’t booked accommodation. Didn’t know where the evening was going to take her.

Amelia stopped when she reached the tiny, glowing restaurant, brick and light warmed wood. Through the glass, she could see him moving in the kitchen.

White jacket - with the sleeves rolled up.

A dish towel slung over one shoulder.

Focused. Sharp. Commanding.

She nearly left. Until Lucien looked up and saw her.

Pinned her with his stare.

His whole body stilled, just for a moment. But the moment bled into her anyway.

His mouth moved around silent words. The other chef nodded his head without looking up from his knife. He tossed the towel onto the bench and walked out. Straight past her without a word and into the alley beyond.

The door slammed shut behind her as she watched him go. She almost left again.

But when she poked her head around the wall - there he was. The faint glow of a cigarette already dangling from his fingers, and his eyes catching the light. Waiting. Like he knew she’d come.

Her heart plummeted at the sight of him. Like it always did.

‘You have some fucking nerve,’ she said, walking towards him slowly. He was dangerous. Not to her. But to her heart.

A faint smirk touched his mouth, but his eyes stayed guarded. ‘And yet… here you are.’

She folded her arms, her nails digging into her skin. The pain - an anchor. ‘You don’t just get to send me a ticket like I’m…’

But she faltered.

‘Like you’re what?’ he asked. Tone soft, but pressing. He was invested in her answer. ‘Like you’re mine?’

Her jaw clenched.

‘I’m with someone,’ she snapped. Heat flushed her cheeks and her hands trembled. ‘Did you think about that before sending me that ticket? Did you even care?’

His smirk dropped at that. In its place, something darker. More predatory.

‘I care,’ he said. Then he stepped closer. ‘And that’s the problem.’

‘And it’s not like you’ve been lonely,’ she accused. She needed to keep the anger. Use it as a shield between her and his warmth. Couldn’t let him close enough she could smell his cologne - otherwise she was done for.

‘You’ve been keeping an eye on me, mon chaton.’

She bristled. ‘I am not your kitten.’

‘Not my kitten. Not my plaything… what about my doll? Hmm?’ he asked, his voice dripping with honey-covered condescension.

‘Shut up,’ she hissed. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’

But her hands stayed at her sides. Her feet planted. Even as he stepped closer again. Even as he lifted one hand, slowly - giving her time to pull away.

She didn’t.

His finger brushed up her neck, then slid back into her hair, gripping. Not hard. But enough to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.

‘Say you don’t want me, mon poupée,’ he murmured. His mouth just centimetres from hers.

‘Say it.’

She should. Should tell him, and leave. Get on a plane and leave Paris, and Lucien, for good. But when she opened her mouth - nothing came out.

He smiled. Nothing like the smirk from before. Simple. Genuine. Hungry.

‘Exactly,’ he breathed. And he kissed her.

The kiss was brutal. All teeth and heat and months of wanting. His hands gripped her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pushing bruises into her hip.

She could lie. She could say that she tried to push him away. That the hands that curled under the starchy white chef’s coat were meant to push, instead of pull. That when she said his name, it was a warning and not a gasp. Not a moan. But her body betrayed her. She arched into him. Her fingers tugged him closer until there wasn’t a millimetre of space between them.

‘You hate me,’ he growled against her throat, his teeth grazing her skin. It wasn’t a question.

‘Yes,’ she gasped, nails digging into his skin in return. The hiss he gave was enough to drag his mouth back up to hers.

‘Liar,’ he groaned against her mouth before his tongue plunged back in. He bit at her mouth. Hunger stinging. Kissing her harder. ‘You’re so fucking hot when you hate me,’ he growled, grinding his leg between hers. ‘Bet your little cunt’s dripping for me already.’

She slapped him - palm cracking across his cheek in the empty alleyway - and he just laughed. Catching her wrists and pinning them above her head.

She hated him. Hated how hot he made her. How wet.

With his other hand he rubbed at the spot she slapped him - slowly and full of irate desire - and then he did something that he’d never done to her before. He spat. At the base of her throat. And watched it slide down her collarbone.

She gasped. ‘What the fuck?’

But he didn’t answer. He simply let go of her hands and pushed her back against the brick. She felt them bite into her skin as she watched him drop to his knees, yanking her skirt up and shoving her underpants to the side.

‘You think that’s bad?’ he teased. ‘You have no fucking idea what I want to do with you. Do to you.’

He spat again - between her thighs - warm and slick. His fingers dragged it across her folds before he dove in, licking her like he wanted it to hurt. Like he was punishing her. His nails bit into her hips, blood forming in crescents around them.

‘You want dirty?’ he rasped, pulling away. ‘You came here for this, even if you tell yourself you didn’t. You came here for me to put my mouth on you and make you forget your boyfriend’s fucking name.’

Then he bit the soft flesh of her inner thigh - hard - and she yelped in pained surprise.

He held her up with sheer will as her legs crumpled.

‘I want you to feel me tomorrow,’ he said against her skin.

‘Every time you sit.’

Teeth on her clit.

‘Every time he touches you.’

Tongue speared into her.

She gasped as two of his fingers entered her.

‘If I have my way, you’ll be thinking of me. Of this,’ he whispered. ‘Of how I made you scream with my tongue and come apart on my fingers. How I marked you.’

She was so close. So painfully, desperately close. Her hips bucked against his face. But before she crashed over the edge - he stood. Pulling away until he was out of reach. Her skirt was above her hips. The latest image painted by Lucien - her, wrecked and pinned by his stare.

‘I want to fucking ruin you,’ he panted, clearly effected. ‘Like you have ruined me.’

He crashed into her again. His kiss was wet. Fierce. Devouring. His spit was on her tongue as it dried against her breasts and between her legs. She grabbed at him - rough and desperate and she felt him grin against her mouth.

Her shaking hands fumbled with the buttons of his coat, desperate to decrease the layers between them.

But her mind and her body still fought. A battle raged beneath the surface.

‘This is wrong,’ she said, panting into his mouth.

He scoffed. ‘Everything about you is wrong.’

Both their coats were open now, and his hands found the neck of her dress, yanking it down and out of his way. His mouth found her collarbone, her neck, her breasts - biting and sucking until she gasped his name.

The growl that left him was otherworldly.

‘Say it again.’

‘Lucien -’

‘Again.’

‘Lucien, I -’

‘Again.’

Her hands reached for his belt. Still shaking. Still fumbling. The nerves never really disappearing with Lucien. When she freed him, he hissed through his teeth - his hips already moving to grind against her.

‘You shouldn’t want me,’ he whispered. ‘You shouldn’t let me touch you like this. You’re his.’

‘I hate you,’ she said. ‘And I belong to no one but myself.’ This time, her voice broke on the words as he ripped her underwear from her body with one sharp tug, and sank two fingers into her. She was slick and hot and ready - and he knew it.

He laughed. Low and dangerous. ‘You hate me,’ he echoed. His breath was harsh against my ear. ‘You hate me. But you came all this way to let me fuck you.’

Her head fell back against the bricks as he worked her again with his fingers. His other hand made its way around her throat. Tight enough to make her gasp.

And still her body and mind raged. She wanted to stop. She didn’t.

And when he finally slid into her, her soul groaned in satisfaction as her mind quieted.

‘Oh fuck,’ she cried out.

‘That’s it,’ he growled. ‘Take it, bitch. Take every inch.’

He fucked her like he was possessed - hand in her hair, the other dragging up her legs until his nails bit into skin. She was going to be covered in bruises. Lines that told the story of what happened here. And fuck she wanted it.

Wanted the reminder. The evidence. She shoved herself onto him as best she could from where he had her pinned. Greedy for more. And he rewarded her with a hand that tightened around her throat once more.

His forehead pressed to hers, his hands bruising her hip and thigh as he hoisted one of her legs over his hip, changing the angle so she saw the heavens open for her.

She cried out. Her nails clawing at his shoulders. Wishing there was no barrier between them so she could leave her mark on his skin.

‘You’re mine,’ he panted, thrusting harshly, the bricks digging into her.

‘No,’ she gasped. Even as her legs wrapped around him - keeping him inside her.

‘Yes,’ he growled. ‘Say it.’

Her answer was a sob as he stilled inside her, grinding his hips and soothing an ache she didn’t know had been growing.

‘Yes,’ she whispered finally. Voice breaking with unshed tears. ‘I’m yours.’

His mouth crushed hers once again, swallowing her confession. His rhythm was relentless. Each thrust hitting something deep. Sharp. Shameful. And she wanted all of it.

‘Fuck,’ he yelled, followed by a string of French curses - too low for her to hear or understand. ‘I missed this cunt,’ he panted. ‘Missed how tight you get. How you suck me in like you’re starving.’

He reached around, pinching her clit. Hard.

‘Are you going to come for me?’ he taunted. ‘Come on my cock while your little boyfriend waits for you at home?’

She came with his name ripped from her lips. Body trembling in his arms as he buried his face in her neck.

He groaned and his hips stuttered, losing rhythm as she clenched around him.

‘I’m going to fucking fill you,’ he promised. ‘Mark you from the inside.’

Then, muffled from his spot there, she heard him say it - so softly she could almost believe she’d imagined it.

‘I love you.’

Her heart paused painfully.

He didn’t stop moving. He continued to drive his hips into her. Like he could brand the words into her bones.

‘I love you,’ he said again. Rougher now. Teeth scraping her ear. ‘I fucking love you. I don’t care if it ruins me.’

And he came with a low, guttural groan of her name. His hands like vices on her thighs. Bruising her in a way that she’d treasure later.

When it was over, they stayed like that. Breathless. Shaking. Pressed against each other in the quiet alley, her legs hooked around his waist.

She hated herself for how much she wished it could be enough. The air around them opened as he let her go. Raw. Like a wound.

Lucien lowered her to the ground. Gently. And stepped back just enough to let her dress fall back into place. His hands lingered, fingers smoothing the fabric over her hips and thighs like he couldn’t quite stop himself from touching her.

Her legs shook. Her lips tingled from the bruising weight of his kisses.

And her chest…

Her chest ached.

‘I love you,’ he said once more. He didn’t move far from her, and he traced her jaw. Slow and reverent. Soft in a way he’d never been with her before.

The honesty was unnerving. Because it didn’t sound like a line. Or even a confession.

It sounded like defeat.

Her throat tightened. She pressed her palms to his chest and pushed - not hard. Just enough to put space between them. Space enough to breathe.

He didn’t resist. But the way he stumbled slightly shattered something inside her.

Her hands fell back to her sides. She tried to straighten up. But no amount of fluffing her hair and wiping lipstick from her face could make her feel like her nerves weren’t frayed open and dangling from her sternum.

She was his now. In ways she didn’t know how to undo.

‘I can’t do this,’ she whispered, shattering the stretching silence. ‘I can’t keep doing this,’ she corrected, trying to wipe the taste of him from her lips.

‘I have to go,’ she continued when he didn’t say anything.

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t move closer. Didn’t do anything. And she didn’t know how to feel about it.

She tugged her coat closed and turned, taking one more lingering look at him.

Tension seeped from him. His fists clenched, jaw tight. But still, he said nothing.

Her heels clicked against the stones once more and she walked back towards the street. Every step she took without turning back felt like she was tearing parts of herself away and leaving them on the streets of Paris. When she reached the corner, she almost glanced back.

Almost.

But she didn’t trust herself to meet his eyes if she did. So, she paused, took a deep breath, and just kept walking.

And behind her, in the alley, Lucien stayed still - watching.

She didn’t see it though.

Didn’t see the way he pressed his clenched fist to his mouth to keep from calling after her.

Didn’t hear him mutter her name into the dark like an unanswered prayer.

Didn’t see him pick up the discarded butt of his cigarette and relight it. Watching the tendrils of smoke curl and drift into nothing.

She didn’t look back.

But she felt him.

She’d always feel him.

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This might be the final installment of Lucien and Amelia’s story…

MIGHT BE.

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M.P. Fitz, 2025

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