Lucien lay spread out on the large bed, his skin still damp from the bath that had not succeeded in quelling the fire that raged in his loins. The fresh white towel had fallen open at his waist, providing a striking contrast to his tanned dark skin. Fisting his hand around his large manhood, he thought again of the sensations that had overcome him as he had briefly held her in his arms a while ago.

Proserpina, the Woman he had wed and brought home, to this gilded prison, as Schwartz called it, contemptuously.

The soft body that used to melt against him; the willing woman who used to surrender...