Chapter 40
Nico
“So, is this the same jet you and Dane got trapped on?”
I’m rewarded for the observation with the sweet blush that dashes over Lucy’s cheeks, how she looks up at me with parted lips from her seat, water bottle halfway to her mouth.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I murmur, turning and falling into the seat next to her. Something in my back twinges, but I ignore it—that’s pretty much my entire strategy when it comes to aging.
That, and the massages I get twice a week.
I expect Lucy to stammer, to blush harder, but instead, she turns to me with a gleam in her eyes, “And what if it is?”
The smile that stretches over my face is unstoppable. I grab the arm rest between us and lean in close to her, taking her in.
Lucy smells like her normally sweet vanilla, but with the added layer of something floral. Something reminiscent of an island. It makes me wonder if she wore it just for me.
Today, her hair is wrangled into two braids that start at her scalp and continue down to rest on her shoulders. They’re thick and intricate, little flower clips scattered throughout the style, and I reach a hand out to trail a finger over the weaving.
She’s wearing a floral Dior dress I can only imagine Dane got for her on their date. Of course he took her shopping—the man is such a fucking cock about his credit card.
The dress looks damn good on her though, so I can’t give him that much shit about it.
As much as I want to take it off her right now, fuck her on the jet, I don’t. I have better plans for her, later.
We land on the island—not the one we use for the retreat. This one is mine alone, one I fly out to when I need time to think. Space to recoup from my normal hard-and-fast life.
It’s where I was when Lucy first arrived at Ember. When the idea of individual dates came up, I knew this is where I’d want to take her.
Lacing my fingers through hers, I guide her down the dock and into the bungalow.
“It’s beautiful, Nico,” she says, and I keep tugging her along.
It is beautiful—I hired the best architect in the world to design the house, which hangs off the side of a cliff, the waterfall beside it concealing the front porch from view, glass protecting the deck furniture.
But it’s not what we’re here for. The sun is already setting, so I take her right down to the boat, which is already stocked and ready for our date. Lucy relaxes, the warm wind blowing through her hair, as we take off from the dock and head out into the water.
This is a smaller boat—not a yacht, technically—though still plenty big enough for the two of us. I steer us out into the ocean until the island is no longer visible behind us. Lucy chats to me, takes a crack at steering, wanders around the deck until I’m itching to forget the quest and go to her.
But I follow through, steering us far enough from the island that even the small solar lights dotted along the path won’t bother us out here.
Lucy shivers as I fire up the grill and start laying meats, cheeses, and tortillas across it.
“It’s so… spooky,” she says, her eyes wide and dark now that the sun has gone down. While my eyes are a darker blue, hers are usually lighter, a periwinkle. In this light, hers look more like mine.
I laugh at that description of the ocean. Something most people would describe as intimidating, forceful, divine. Ancient, immeasurable. Even eerie.
But not spooky, like how you might describe one of those cheap haunted houses they used to put on in the city, to raise money around Halloween.
“What?” Lucy laughs, nudging me with her foot. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I say, because I don’t want her to mistake my teasing for criticism. I don’t want her to change. “Here, try this.”
I’ve scooped all the grilled meats and cheeses into a stone bowl, then topped them with some cotija, guacamole, and pico de gallo from the cooler. I settle the bowl between us, the tortillas stacked to the side.
“What is it?” she asks, head tilted, curious but not cautious.
“It’s my version of a Molcajete. That’s grilled cactus, along the sides. I had it like this at a Mexican restaurant in Houston, once.” I wait for her reaction.
It’s a good one. She scoops up a dollop of the melting cheese, shreds off some of the beef, plops it onto a tortilla and bites into it. The sound that comes out of her ripples through my body, pure and simple. Wanting.
I love watching her eat the food I make.
“Why didn’t you become a chef?” she mumbles, through another bite, her eyes flying up to mine. I take my time putting together my own bite, not knowing how to answer.
Shrugging one shoulder, I say, “When we stopped getting checks from my biological father, money was all I cared about. Once I had it, it didn’t make sense to pursue that career. I like cooking, but I’m not sure I would like being a restaurateur. Or a chef.”
Lucy nods, like that makes sense to her, and the peace that surrounds us is like sinking into warm, still water.
While she finishes up her food, I find a blanket and lay it out over the couches on the deck, preparing for the part of the night that I’ve been most excited about. Pushing the ottomans in, I turn the couches into something more like a bed, one continuous surface.
“What’s all this?” Lucy asks, migrating over to me. I take her hand and tug her down onto it with me. When we’re on our backs, she gasps.
The stars above us are galactic. Nothing like the pin pricks you pick out everywhere else. I’m sure that even Lancaster doesn’t have stars like this. It’s too close to St. Louis, to Des Moines and Kansas City. Light pollution is a real thing.
But out here, drifting in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, we’re far enough from the nearest urban areas that we can drink in the cosmic soup, let our gazes trail over the twisting, helix light reality of the space above us.
“Nico,” Lucy breathes, and I’ll never get tired of hearing her say my name. “This is… magical.”
“It is,” I say, not adding the much more sentimental, but not just because of the stars.
We lay like that for a long time, Lucy and I, until I can’t stop myself from kissing her. The kissing turns to touching, my hands skating down her phenomenal dress, up over her thighs. I turn her on her stomach and kneel between her legs.
I palm her ass, squeezing, growling deep in my throat. I’ve always been a man who went mouth-first, and when I spread her, I can’t stop myself from touching her there. The place I haven’t been able to stop thinking about since she said she wanted to take all three of us at once.
Then, parting her further, I bring my mouth to her.
Lucy gasps and stills, hands fisting in the blanket, her body tightening, tightening impossibly for me. I’ve done this before, on just a few occasions, but this is different. Feels different, especially with the promise of the three of us enjoying her together, later.
I love the sight and sound of her against my mouth. The reaction she has to my lapping and kissing.
“Ni-co,” she stutters, gasping, nearly crying out. Breathing hard, I pull back from her, laying my cheeks on the perfect globe of her ass and smiling into the dark.
“How was that?” I ask, and she laughs under me, something between a shaky breath and a chuckle.
“I don’t know if you could tell,” she sighs, “but I liked it.”
I hum against her skin, reach down and stroke myself, thinking I’d like to fuck her now. “I could tell.”
“Nico?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think I really want to be a narcissist, after that.”
I still haven’t stopped laughing when I slide inside her, feeling perfectly and contentedly at home.