Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
ALEXANDER
I watch Lucas turn a deep shade of red after his statement. I’m also a little stunned because I did not expect that from him.
Hell, I don’t even think he expected it. His eyes widen slightly, like he wants to take it back. But it’s out now, filling the space between us, thick with something fragile and unfamiliar. Even though he looks like he regrets the words, he holds my gaze.
For a moment, I don’t know what to say because this reaction, this flicker of vulnerability and hurt in his expression, is new.
I’ve seen Lucas guarded and nervous and bite back with quiet defiance, but I’ve never seen him like this, never with his walls lowered just enough to let the uncertainty slip through.
I inhale deeply, steadying myself. I can’t fuck this up.
“Lucas,” I say, my voice calmer than I feel.
His gaze flickers, but he doesn’t look away. He’s stiff, shoulders tense, his jaw clenched like he’s bracing for something. I take a step closer, slow and deliberate.
“She wasn’t in my bedroom.”
He blinks, brows drawn together, trying to process my words
“She was in the den upstairs. That’s where she left her passport and some important documents last time she was here.” I continue watching him. “I didn’t even know she was coming today. She showed up unannounced to get them.”
He doesn’t respond, but I see the way his lips press together, the way his fingers twitch slightly at his sides, the wheels turning in his head.
I don’t like that he’s even questioning this, I don’t like that there’s doubt in his eyes, and that he’s expecting me to hurt him, so I make the next words very clear.
“The last time she came here was three months ago.” I hold his gaze. “It was mutual flings. Nothing serious, and it ended.”
His fingers flex at his sides.
Then he mumbles, barely above a whisper, looking away, “You…don’t have to explain, it’s not like…”
Then I see it
The slight shift in his expression. The almost relief in his eyes, like he wants to believe me, like a weight is lifting off his chest, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, stepping closer.
His breath hitches.
Because the truth is, I need him to believe me, not just about this, but about everything. I reach out slowly, fingertips brushing against his wrist. He doesn’t pull away, but he stays rigid, like he doesn’t know what to do with the contact.
“I don’t want you doubting me,” I tell him softly.
He finally looks up at me, brown eyes glassy, uncertain.
“I—” He starts, then stops, like the words are stuck in his throat.
I squeeze his wrist gently, grounding him.
“Lucas,” I murmur, voice steady. “I mean it.”
I step forward, closing the space between us. He doesn’t move away, He just looks up at me with his doe brown eyes, glassy, his emotions spilling through the cracks he tries so hard to keep sealed. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He’s so beautiful.
I reach for him, wrapping my hands around his waist and pulling him against me. He’s tense at first, rigid in my hold, but after a beat, I feel the resistance fade. His hands—small and hesitant— settle on my shoulders. Not pushing me away, not pulling me closer. Just there.
I couldn’t take my mind off him all week while in Thailand for my mother’s skincare launch. His lips, eyes, and the little, shy smiles he gives me sometimes.
My fingers trail up, brushing against his neck.
The hickey is still there, faint but visible.
A mark I left on his skin. I wonder if he touched it in the mirror.
If he had traced over it with his fingers, like I would have.
I watch him swallow, throat bobbing, and my gaze moves to his lips. Soft, Pink, and full.
“I want to taste you again,” I murmur, the words spilling out like a confession I can’t hold back.
He shudders. Lips parting, breath hitching. And I don’t waste it.
I kiss him.
For a heartbeat, I expect hesitation—but instead, he exhales sharply, almost a gasp, and melts into me. His hands clutch at my shoulders, desperate, pulling me closer until our bodies press flush. The second I deepen the kiss, he gives in, lets me in, and I drink him down like I’ve been starving.
Because I have.
I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head and claim him deeper.
When my tongue brushes his, his whole body shudders in my arms, a sound slipping from his throat that makes me ache with want.
I’m unraveling, undone by how responsive he is, by the way he clings, by the realization that I want to ruin him slowly and thoroughly until he’s marked as mine in every way possible.
But I don’t rush, not with him.
Something about him makes me greedy, yes, but also careful. Makes me want to savor. To stretch this moment, hold him longer, taste him deeper.
So I slow the kiss. I pull back just enough for our lips to hover, breaths mingling in the space between us. My thumb drags over his swollen mouth, and I smirk when he trembles at the touch. His eyes flutter open—dazed, dark, unfocused—and something unspoken in them begs me not to stop.
So I don’t.
I claim his mouth again, harder this time, devouring him until his fingers dig into my shoulders.
I walk him backward, never breaking the kiss, until the back of my knees hit the couch.
I drop down, pulling him with me until he’s straddling my lap, his weight settles over my crotch, and a raw groan tears from me.
“Fuck—”
He jerks, startled, pulling back with a pant. His chest rises and falls in sharp bursts, his lips parting like he’s on the edge of words but too shaken to speak them.
“Relax,” I breathe, softer now, coaxing.
My hands slide under his shirt, palms meeting the heat of bare skin.
He tenses, just for a second, then shivers as my fingers graze up his spine.
God, he’s beautiful like this. Trembling, undone, caught between hesitation and hunger.
He bites his lip shyly, but his eyes never leave mine.
Color blooms over his freckled cheeks, and I can feel it—the shift.
The surrender.
“Tell me what you want, Lucas.” My voice is low, slow, curling around him like smoke. My hands grip his waist firmly, anchoring him in place.
He shakes his head, lips trembling.
“I…I don’t know.”
Don’t know?
But his body does, because he moves.
A hesitant grind of his hips against mine, a test, but enough to make both of us gasp. His clothed cock presses against me, dragging heat through the layers between us. The sound that escapes him is ragged, helpless, and his hands clutch at my shoulders like he’s afraid he might drown.
He doesn’t have the words, but I feel it in the way his breath stutters, in the way he leans into me, seeking. Wanting. Asking. And fuck, it’s all I can do not to tear every barrier away and give him exactly what he’s begging for without even saying it.
He grinds into me again, and a curse rips from my throat, low and rough. My fingers dig into his waist, steadying him, steadying myself, because if he keeps moving like that—
He freezes. Realization flickers across his face, panic sparking in his wide eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he stammers, breathless. “I didn’t mean—”
I don’t let him finish.
I claim his mouth instead, swallowing his apology with a kiss that’s deep, demanding, merciless. He moans against me, the sound muffled, his body softening instantly as his hands tangle in my hair, tugging me closer, holding me like he doesn’t want to let go.
And fuck, I’m gone for him.
I tear my lips from his only to drag them lower, along the sharp line of his jaw, slow and teasing.
He trembles when my teeth graze his skin, when my mouth lingers just beneath his ear.
His pulse hammers against my lips, frantic, his breath spilling out in broken little whimpers that only feed my hunger.
He shudders when I lick over the beat of his pulse, then he rolls his hips again, bolder this time, pressing hard against me.
Perfect.
I take my time down his neck, kissing, sucking, nipping—marking him with every press of my mouth. His moans grow needier, sharper, his nails biting into my shoulders. He’s so responsive it makes my restraint unravel, every sound he makes a thread snapping loose.
“Does that feel good, krasivy?” I murmur against his throat, the Russian slipping out like a secret meant only for him. Beautiful. I drag my teeth over his skin again, just enough to make him gasp, just enough to hear that desperate edge in his voice.
He answers me without words, hips grinding, breath shuddering, another moan spilling free. And my control fractures, I strip his shirt away in one motion, and he lets me. My gaze devours him—lean frame, pale skin dusted with freckles across his collarbones and shoulders.
His body is poetry I want to rewrite with my hands, with my mouth.
I trace down his torso, the curve of his narrow waist making my palms itch to claim, to hold him there, to remind him he’s mine.
He’s got the smallest waist I’ve ever seen on a man.
It’s delicate and devastatingly seductive, something I want to wrap my hands around and never let go.
I kiss the ridge of his collarbone, then lower still, over the rise of his chest. His skin flushes beneath my mouth, heat spreading where my lips and teeth mark him. His stomach quivers when my fingers skim down, teasing, testing, promising more.
“Beautiful,” I rasp against his skin, voice raw. “So fucking perfect.”
He shivers, body tightening, his fingers clawing at my shoulders like he can’t decide if he wants to hold me back or pull me deeper into him.