Voila! This is not for new readers. Sorry. This is for my ladies, and possibly my guys, who read "Lucy and the Future King".

You guys know the drill.

Most of the character's physical descriptions are based off of the movies, except for Lucy. My Lucy, as always, is very much based off of Polina Semionova. I just think she's so pretty. I know she's dark-eyed and dark-haired, whereas movie Lucy has blue eyes, and book Lucy is blonde. Oh well!

By the way, this story is all about shameless fan service. I'm talking gooey, chocolaty sex – hot, decadent, and oh so dark. Meow.

Don't worry; this is still a love story. It's just the kind you read in the bathtub with lots of champagne.

His eyes met hers across the crowded café. She was lovely, but cold – a statuesque ice sculpture, chilling those who touched her. As always, she was polished and urbane, artfully clothed in the latest fashion; not one lock of her slick, black hair was out of place. Every man in the room was drawn to her. They fearfully stole quick glances at the ebony pillar that was Susan.

Caspian just wanted to get it over with. Susan had a tendency to suck the oxygen out of every room she stepped in. Unfortunately for him, he liked to breathe. Still, she sure was something to look at. And he wanted to know why she had sought him out, even though he had dumped her three months before their wedding.

As he sat down at her table, he couldn't help but notice how uncomfortable she looked. It wasn't that her feelings that had her shifting anxiously, it was shame. She was embarrassed to be seen with him. He couldn't blame her. Unwashed and unshaven, wearing the clothes he had worn the day before, he was just a scuff on her patent-leather self.

"Well, well, well. I never thought this day would come. So, how've you been, Susan dear?" he drawled as he leaned back in his seat. Flagging down a sneering waiter, he ordered gin on the rocks. He didn't even like gin, but in a champagne establishment like this, he was sure to raise a few disapproving eyebrows.

Susan glared at him under perfectly curled lashes. Even now, she was a disdainful bitch. Seeing her lips twist condescendingly reminded why he had run out on her.

"I need a favor. Christ knows you owe me a few."

So this wasn't about what she could do for him.

"I'm all ears."

Peering suspiciously around the restaurant, she leaned forward, her blue eyes guarded, never betraying her true emotions. "I need you to bring my sister back to London."

His jaw dropped in disbelief. She called him because she needed a chauffeur? "Get a damn taxi, Susan. I'm not a babysitter. And since when did you have a sister?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes as if he were a dolt. "Yes, I have a sister. Does the name Lucy ring a bell?"

He had to search his memory as he looked into her eyes. He'd met fair-haired, noble Peter, mouthy and rebellious Edmund, and, of course, blue-eyed Susan. The name, Lucy, did sound familiar though.

"Now I remember. Didn't she run off to join the Russian ballet? A little unpatriotic if you ask me."

Susan's eyes barely narrowed. "She was invited to train with the Bolshoi company when she was fifteen. A year later, I get a letter saying she's run off with some Mongolian traders."

Caspian shook his head. "Susan, she should be eighteen by now. You waited two years to do anything about it?"

"I am not my sister's keeper." Her hand tightened infinitesimally around her wine glass. That impeccably painted mask of hers was beginning to crack. Ooh, this was going to be fun.

"But you are her sister, and she is a child. Why go after her now?"

Susan's eyes fell to her lap in a show of remorse, and even fear. For once, he couldn't tell if it was an act.

"I'm frightened that if I don't retrieve her now, war will find her before I do."

Hitler.

The bastard.

Caspian hated the Nazis. It was enough of a reason.

"Do you know where I can find her?

Susan watched Caspian go with some remorse. She started longingly, regretfully at the sturdy line of his shoulders, the dark, nearly black hair curling over the nape of his neck, his narrow hips, his firm… Well, he was veryhandsome, almost painfully so. But he was wild and reckless, and had no hope of being tamed. She needed someone she could take to chic soirees, not a cowboy.

He loved his rocks more than he loved her. She wasn't important or exciting enough to come first, and she would never, ever, play second fiddle.

Besides, he liked digging worthless trinkets out of the dirt for next to nothing.

The last thing she wanted was dirt under her fingernails.

Three days packing, sixteen hours on a plane, four glasses of brandy, three naps, and one sexy stewardess later, he was in Tibet, shivering on an ice-covered landing strip. Within the hour, he was being led by a withered Sherpa through treacherous mountain passes. The harsh winds blasted them with snow, blinding Caspian while unaffecting the Tibetan mountaineer. He did not know how long they were out in the Himalayan wilderness, but it seemed like ages before they arrived at their destination. But when he saw it, he almost turned back.

It was little more than a yak herding hut with stone walls and a thatched roof. The snow on the ground was littered with hundreds of footsteps of varying sizes, both human and camel. This must've been the local watering hole.

Caspian turned around to thank the Sherpa, but the little old man was gone so fast, it was as if he had never been there. Before he froze to death, he stomped through the crisp, white powder. The door looked like salvaged driftwood. The hinges were rusted and dripping with black oil. This was rough-and-tumble, even for him. He had seen a lot of seedy bars, but none with ox hair caught in the door knob.

This was where Lucy was? If she was anything like Susan, she was probably curled up in a corner, sucking on her fist while she shied away from the dirt and grime.

It took some yanking and shoving, but he finally wedged his way in. He was assaulted by the smell of smoke, sweat and alcohol. The warm air on his cold face was a burning shock, and it already had him sweating beneath his leather bomber jacket. Exhaling heavily, he fell back against the door.

Before he could even take his hat off, something slammed into his face with enough strength to knock his teeth out. He was on his knees, staring down at the muck covered floor as he gasped in pain. Thankfully, his cheek took the hardest hit and not his jaw. But he was either chewing on pennies, or his mouth was full of blood. He'd just been pistol-whipped!

He was about to chew out and possibly killed the bastard who'd gotten in a cheap shot, he found himself staring down the barrel of revolver. He was entranced by the obviously well-cared for gun, its metal oiled and cleaned. This gun was loved. Slowly, his eyes moved up the gun to a blue-sleeved arm, and finally to a pair of pitch black eyes. He'd just been knocked to his ass by an Asian chick.

She was going down.

With a well placed low roundhouse kick, he swept her legs out from under her, flinging her into a table. She fell back against a table with a feminine cry, knocking a few glasses to the ground. He only had a moment to enjoy her pain before she kicked him solidly in the chest, sending him flying backwards.

Winded and bruised, he stared up at the ceiling. He'd had his ass handed him to him by a skinny little Asian girl.

Great, he was going to die flat on his back. When he got to heaven, he would have to explain that he lost to a girl – if he got to heaven.

She stepped over him, one foot on either side of his waist. And, as if he wasn't in enough pain, she decided to sit herself down on his pelvis rather forcefully. She just had to wiggle around, adding insult to injury as he felt heat pool in his belly. His dignity was already shredded beyond repair, so being aroused at the wrong time was just icing on the cake.

The Asian broad pressed the muzzle of her gun into his cheek. The cold metal slipped against his sweaty skin, reminding him that he was about to die.

"The bar is closed."

That was no Asian accent.

He had to look at her again. She was milk-pale with cheeks rosy from too much alcohol. But her dark eyes were clear and sharp.

This was Susan's sister? But… but she was scruffy and coarse. Her hair fell in dark chocolate hanks around her shoulders, limp and stringy with sweat. She even had a streak of dirt along her forehead.

"You're Lucy?" The gun trembled against his cheek as her hand tightened.

"Who wants to know?" He could detect a hint of trepidation in her tone, a slight catch in her throat.

"Your sister."

All of a sudden she was off of him and stomping towards the bar. He got up slowly, still wary of the girl with the gun. She had a sway to her hips as welcoming as a warm drink on a cold night.

"You want a drink before you leave?" she asked as she puttered around behind the bar, pouring herself what he hoped was vodka. He still didn't trust her, but he was thirsty and in need of something numbing. It hurt like hell, but he peeled himself off of the ground, before dragging his ragged ass to the counter. But as he sat down on a scrubbed wooden stool, he realized that she was dousing some rags with rubbing alcohol.

"So I take it you don't always your door with the butt of your gun." She had the grace to look slightly abashed as she handed him a shot of something that smelled much stronger than vodka. Caspian didn't want any strange infections, so he sighed and took the glass. He watched her carefully as she came back around. As she moved towards him, he could almost see the ballerina beneath the dirt and grime; she had an awkward sort of grace, like she didn't know what do with her long limbs and lean frame.

"This is going to hurt," she said almost soothingly. It was too bad that she sounded like she was going to get pleasure from his pain. He downed the shot, blanching as it burned its way to his belly. She frowned as she came to stand between his knees.

Her sudden closeness was very distracting. His thighs brushed against her narrow, feminine hips. And beneath her button down shirt, she wasn't wearing a bra. He would've gotten a closer look, had she not burned his forehead with the rubbing alcohol.

"Jesus, that stings," he hissed as he pitched forward.

"You can go now." He looked up at her, incredulous and unimpressed.

"You expect me to traipse back down that mountain in the middle of a storm? My mouth tastes like copper thanks to you. You have a house guest tonight."

She'd meant to ask him how he knew Susan. She'd meant to apologize for possibly breaking his jaw. But then he followed her upstairs to her already small bedroom. And then, to make matters worse, he started poking around when he shouldn't have. He picked through her various treasures acquired over the years, paying special attention to her older finds.

"That's enough," she said as she smacked his hands away when he tried to rifle through some jewelry.

"The last time I checked, grave robbing was illegal." He was obviously talking about her collection of Mesopotamian earrings. She placed herself between him and her goods, staring up at him with more than a little defiance.

"The last time I checked, this was my place, and you were intruding. If you want to make it out alive, I suggest you shut up and go to bed. You'll need your rest for when I kick your ass all the way down the mountain tomorrow morning." His cocky grin sparked her anger, and something sharper as he stepped forward. In his proximity, one of his legs found its way between hers.

"If anything, I'm dragging your ass back to London tomorrow, even if it means spanking you all the way to the airplane." He stalked closer, placing his hands on the wall, one on either side of her head. "You're just a little girl playing brigand in a seedy bar."

"Just how is my sister paying you? I know that paper money isn't worth much right now." A muscle jumped in his jaw as he glared down at her. She was an insolent little bitch playing with fire. But the irritation and antagonism between them was quickly turning into a different kind of fervor. She was the only woman for miles, and beneath the booze and sweat, she smelled like honey and rosehip tea.

He was insufferable and a punk. And, good Lord, he was warm and solid. Maybe she could chase him away… in a few hours.

"She's not my style," he murmured as he leaned forward, pressing his chest against hers. Even through his shirt, he could feel the softness of her curves.

This was bizarre and meaningless. But her hands were steady as she worked him out of his belt. "Are you sure you're not the antichrist?" He meant to sound teasing and light, but his voice was hoarse, and his tone clipped.

Her dark eyes were wicked and evil as they flashed in the dim light. He thought the night was over she slid away from the wall and out of his arms. But she only sat down on her sleeping mat to take off her boots. This was no striptease. Lucy was all business as she mechanically rid herself of her pants. She knew what she wanted – he could tell by the determined set of her jaw. Damned if that wasn't sexy.

He drew a hard breath. "Stop." He caught her wrists, pinning her hands to the mattress; and she kept them there as he slowly unbuttoned her shirt for her.

Caspian didn't like foreplay. It was a waste of time and a distraction. But he was in a frozen hell with nothing to do but enjoy the British barmaid.

Lucy fell back against the pillows, letting him unwrap her with unhurried hands. She shuddered as his hand skimmed under her shirt, smoothing over the skin under her collarbone. His mouth quickly followed as he undid the last button. He didn't yank off the blue fabric. Instead, he just pushed it to the side, revealing the gentle swell of her chest. His hands began to explore her pale and perfect body, moving swiftly and surely over each dip and hollow. She was young and firm, untouched by age or a hard life.

Lazily, Caspian ran his tongue down her collarbone and over her breast, teasing the pink tip to hardness with long, slow strokes.

"Once I start, I don't think I'll be able to stop." He pulled away to look down at her, though the effort cost him.

"Who said I wanted to stop?" Her hands were cool against his burning skin as she tugged his shirt from the waistband of his pants.

"Then we go on."

There we go, folks! The first chapter, and there isn't much snooker going on. Just a teasing, fade to black scene.

What, I couldn't give it all up on the first day, could I?

Here's the first chapter of this story. LATFK's next chapter is on the way as well.

As always, review.