THE MATRIARCH'S SIN: An Age-Gap Forbidden Romance

“They are going to love you,” Camille said.

She rose onto her tiptoes, robe slipping open just enough to reveal the flushed line of her collarbone. Her lips met his, soft and faintly minty from the toothpaste she’d used moments earlier. Lucien smiled against her mouth, tattooed arms sliding around her waist to pull her close. The lingering heat of her shower mixed with rose oil, the scent that always made him want to bury his face in her neck.

“Honestly,” he murmured, stealing another slow kiss, “I don’t care if they do.”

Camille laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as she pulled back. Damp strands of her hair brushed his jaw. “You should.”

“I don’t.”

“You’re meeting my entire family for two whole weeks.”

“I’m aware.” He brushed a stray drop of water from her temple. “Doesn’t change anything.”

“My grandparents,” she pressed, eyes sparkling with mischief. “The ones who still think social media is a passing fad.”

Lucien grinned. “Then I’ll make a good first impression the old-fashioned way.”

“My father.”

Lucien’s smile softened. “I want him to like me… but even if he doesn’t, it won’t change how I feel about you.”

“You really mean that?”

“Every word.”

A smile slowly spread across her face. The teasing settled into warm, comfortable silence. Late afternoon light slanted through the windows, catching on the silver hoop in his left ear and the ink curling down his forearms. Camille’s gaze lingered there fondly before she absently smoothed the belt of her robe.

“And my mother?” she asked.

For the first time, Lucien paused. He knew Richard Ashford, the billionaire face of Ashford International, the man who commanded rooms without raising his voice. Grandparents, loud cousins, even the family dogs—Camille had painted vivid pictures of them all. But Vivienne Ashford…

“I actually know almost nothing about her,” he admitted, thumb tracing idle circles on her lower back.

Camille blinked. “I’ve never talked about her?”

“You’ve complained about your father plenty. Praised your grandmother until I could practically hear her voice. Told me your cousin Ethan cheats at tennis like it’s an Olympic sport.” He tilted his head. “But your mother… nothing.”

She looked away, fingers fidgeting with her robe belt. The easy lightness in the room shifted.

“It isn’t that simple,” she sighed. “We clash. She thinks with her head, always calculating, always composed. I think with my heart.”

“You had to get that heart from somewhere.”

Camille smiled faintly. “You haven’t met my mother.”

“She doesn’t like me already, does she?”

Camille groaned, pressing her forehead to his chest. “She doesn’t even know you. But you’re exactly the kind of man she’d assume is trouble—tall, tattooed, pierced, charming in that dangerous way. She’ll take one look and decide you’re after the family money.”

Lucien glanced down at himself, black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, silver rings glinting, visible edges of ink. “You mean devastatingly handsome?”

“I mean the kind of man she’d warn me about.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to prove her wrong.”

“You make that sound easy.”

“I’m stubborn.”

“You are.” He pulled her tighter. “Even if she says no… I’m still marrying you.”

Camille searched his face for a long moment. “You’re really that sure?”

“About you? Always.”

She laughed, bright and warm, the sound making his chest ache in the best way.

*God, he loved this woman.*

Two years of her laughter, her fire, the way she saw the best in him when the world only noticed the rough edges. Proposing right here in their apartment had been the easiest decision of his life. She’d said yes through happy tears, and nothing else had mattered since.

Fourteen days at Hawthorne Estate no longer felt like a trial. He would endure the awkward dinners, the judgmental glances, the polite interrogations. Because at the end of those two weeks, Camille Ashford would still be the woman he intended to marry.

No one—not her family, not two weeks of polished expectations, and certainly not a mother he’d barely heard of—was going to change that.

“Enough worrying about your mother, or your father, or anyone who thinks they get a say.”

His mouth brushed her temple, then trailed lower, finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear. Camille’s breath hitched. He kissed her there slowly, once, twice, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to melt.

“Lucien…” she murmured, but it no longer sounded like a protest.

He smiled against her skin and kept going, lips moving down the column of her throat. A soft moan slipped from her as her head tipped back, fingers sliding into his hair. The easy affection from a moment ago was still there, but something hungrier was starting to thread through it.

With one smooth tug he loosened the belt of her robe. The white fabric parted and slid down her body, pooling at her feet. Lucien’s hands skimmed over her waist and hips, slower now, drinking her in under the golden light.

Camille’s eyes had gone darker. She didn’t reach for the robe. She just watched him, breathing a little faster.

That was all the invitation he needed.

He lifted her easily. She wrapped her legs around his waist, arms looping around his neck as their mouths met in a deeper, hungrier kiss.

“Let me worship every inch of my wife,” he murmured against her lips, voice already rough.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down. The heat in his eyes promised anything but gentleness.

He followed her down, mouth returning to her neck, sucking lightly at the spot that always made her arch. One large hand palmed her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple until it tightened. Camille gasped, back bowing off the mattress.

“Please, Lucien… fuck me.”

The words came out breathy and desperate. He chuckled against her skin, then flipped her onto her stomach in one fluid motion. Strong hands gripped her hips, yanking them up so she was on her knees, ass raised for him.

His palm cracked against one cheek then the other. Camille cried out, the sting blooming into heat. Before she could catch her breath, his teeth sank into the soft flesh he’d just marked, biting down just hard enough to make her tremble.

He pulled back only long enough to reach into the nightstand drawer, tearing open a condom and rolling it on easily. The fat, pierced head of his cock nudged her entrance, rubbing slowly up and down her slick folds, teasing her clit with the cool metal of his piercing.

Camille whimpered, pushing back against him. “P-please…”

Lucien gripped her hips tighter and slammed to the hilt.

She screamed, the sound raw and overwhelmed as he stretched her, the piercing dragging along sensitive walls in a way that made stars burst behind her eyes.

He didn’t give her time to adjust. One hand fisted in her damp hair, pulling her back against his chest while the other wrapped around her throat, firm, controlling, but never hurting. He held her there, buried deep inside her, and kissed her fiercely over her shoulder, swallowing her moans as he started to move.

Deep, relentless thrusts rocked her body. Camille’s fingers twisted in the sheets, her moans growing louder with every drag of his piercing against that perfect spot inside her. Lucien’s grip on her throat tightened just enough to make her pulse race, his low groans vibrating against her skin as he drove into her harder.

“You feel so fucking good,” he rasped, teeth grazing her earlobe. “Come for me, baby.”

She shattered with a broken cry, clenching tight around him. Lucien followed right after, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, hips jerking as he spilled into the condom.

They collapsed together, breathless and tangled. He pressed a tender kiss to her shoulder, arms wrapping possessively around her as their heartbeats slowly calmed.

But as Camille drifted toward sleep in his arms, a quiet unease settled over Lucien.

Vivienne Ashford. The one person Camille never spoke about and whose silence felt heavier than all the rest.

Whatever waited for them at Hawthorne Estate… it wouldn’t be simple.