Chapter 37
Chapter thirty-seven
Lucian reached into the shower and twisted the handle. A wide stream of water poured from the rain head above, steam rising almost instantly.
He began unbuttoning his shirt.
The stiffness was subtle, but enough for me to notice.
When he shrugged the fabric off his shoulders, I sucked in a breath.
“Oh my God,” I whispered. “What did they do to you?”
I slid off the counter and stepped closer to him, my hands hovering, too afraid to touch. Dark bruises marred his ribs. His side was mottled purple and blue, a particularly deep bruise blooming across his hip. Another shadowed his lower back.
My fingers barely touched him as I circled around, tracing the damage without pressing.
“They beat the hell out of you.”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
I stopped in front of him. “Lucian, this is not nothing.”
He rolled his shoulders once, winced, and masked it quickly.
“Like I told you, I’ve taken worse from Lach,” he replied.
I shot him a look. “That’s disturbing.”
He reached for my face, catching my chin between his fingers. “I’m not bleeding. I’m standing. So stop looking at me like I’m on my deathbed.”
“Lucian, what if you’ve got cracked ribs?”
“Then I’ll heal.”
That only made me angrier.
“That’s not how medicine works.”
He leaned closer. “Scar.”
The warning was there.
I exhaled sharply, crossed my arms, and rolled my eyes. “Do you always have to be the tough guy?”
“If you roll those bright green eyes at me again,” he said, a slow grin spreading, “I might have to leave a handprint on that creamy white ass of yours.”
My stomach flipped despite myself.
I dragged Lacey’s borrowed T-shirt over my head and tossed it aside.
“Promises, promises,” I shot back.
His gaze dropped over me. Slowly.
“Careful,” he murmured. “Don’t go begging for trouble. You might get more than you bargained for.”
I shimmied out of the sweatpants and stepped into the shower first.
He stripped the rest of his clothes and joined me under the spray.
Up close, the damage was worse. A bruise stretched across his hipbone, and there was a dark mark along his knee.
I stepped back.
But he caught me, pulling me into his chest.
“I said don’t worry over me,” he muttered against my hair.
I pressed my palms flat against his torso and pushed him back slightly.
“Fine,” I said. “If you’re going to pretend those bruises are no big deal, then the least you can do is let me take care of you.”
His brow lifted.
“If you want me to stay in this shower,” I continued, “you don’t touch me. You let me do the work.”
His mouth twitched. “Is that so?”
“Yes.”
He released me and raised his hands in surrender.
“Suit yourself.”
“Turn around,” I said, gently taking his hips and guiding him toward the tile wall. “Hands above your head. On the wall. Feet apart.”
He chuckled but complied.
Steam curled around us as the water rained down, and for the first time since we arrived back in the city, I allowed myself to set aside my worries and focus solely on Lucian.
I pumped a generous pool of liquid soap into my palm and rubbed my hands together until they foamed.
He stood as instructed, hands braced against the tile. Even covered in bruises, he was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. After everything that had happened in my life, I still couldn’t believe I was standing here with him, comfortably naked.
I started at his feet.
My hands slid from his toes to his ankles, then up his calves and around to his shins, working the lather into every inch of skin. I continued from his knees to his thighs, making no effort to hurry.
He exhaled through his nose.
I reached for more soap and returned to him, smoothing my palms over the tight curve of his ass. Keeping it more or less clinical, as if this were nothing more than routine.
He shifted slightly.
I ran my fingertips along the sides of his back, down his spine, then lower, between his cheeks, until my hand brushed against his balls.
He jerked.
I couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped from me.
By the time I stepped back, his cock jutted out rock hard.
Good.
I gathered more soap and moved up his back, working across his shoulders, careful around the bruises. My palms traveled over the broad span of him, wishing they were my lips instead, but I kept my restraint in check.
Then I stepped in close and wrapped my arms around his waist, my breasts grazing his back as I worked the soap across his chest from behind.
“Okay,” I said softly. “You can turn.”
He dropped his hands and faced me.
I reached for more soap and started at his left shoulder, gliding down his arm, over his bicep, along his forearm, and into his hand.
His knuckles were still swollen and split.
A flash of memory cut through me—him leaving the hotel room in Madrid while I slept.
I swallowed and forced the thought away.
Turning his palm upward, I traced the lines there with my fingertip.
“Yes,” I murmured. “Definitely stubborn.”
He huffed a quiet sound that might have been amusement.
I moved to his right arm and repeated the motion, but when I turned that palm up, I froze.
A thick scar cut across it.
“What happened?” I asked, brushing my thumb over the ridge.
“That,” he said evenly, “is the mark of a made man.”
I looked up at him.
“A ritual,” he continued. “Forged in blood and burned in flesh. A cut sealed by burning the image of a saint in the palm.”
My chest tightened. “That’s violent. Did you choose that? Or did someone force you?”
He gave a short laugh. “I chose it. Every man who stands with me did the same.”
My thumb traced the scar again.
“It must have hurt.”
“It did,” he said. “That’s the point. Some things require pain.”
I shook my head slightly. “I don’t like seeing you hurt. That’s not acceptable.”
His expression shifted.
He lifted that scarred hand and cupped my cheek.
“That,” he said quietly, “is exactly how I feel about you.”
The sincerity in his voice wasn’t soft. It was resolute.
Then his gaze dropped between us, and a slow smirk curved his mouth.
“I think you missed a spot.”
I followed his line of sight.
He was still very much hard.
I smiled.
“I saved the best part for last.”
I reached for the soap again and worked it between my hands, taking my time.
I traced my hands down his sides as I kneeled before him. He rested his palms on my shoulders.
My hands slid over his hips, following the sharp V of muscle down and around his cock. I knew he wanted my touch there. I simply enjoyed making him wait.
He controlled everything in his world.
Except me.
From the moment we met, I challenged him. Pushed him. Surprised him. He thrived on it.
I cupped his balls gently, rolling them between my fingers. A groan rumbled from deep in his chest.
With my other hand, I wrapped around his shaft, letting the soapy water slide over his length. I paid particular attention to the sensitive ridge beneath the head, stroking back and forth.
He jerked from my touch.
I leaned back slightly, guiding him under the falling water, and rinsed the soap away as my hands continued their slow glide.
His fingers slid into my hair and pulled my head back so the rain shower cascaded over my face and breasts.
“Gorgeous,” he rumbled. “Absolutely gorgeous, Scarlett.”
Water streamed down my lips. I licked it away.
His thumb pressed against my lower lip. I opened, inviting him in.
He pushed forward, and I sucked his thumb into my mouth, letting my tongue swirl around it. His growl deepened.
Then he withdrew his hand and drew my head forward.
I guided the head of his cock to my mouth while my hands stroked him firmly. His grip tightened in my hair. I lifted my gaze through wet lashes and held his eyes.
The pleasure on his face tightened something low in my stomach.
He loved this.
And I wanted to give it to him in the best way I knew how.
I released his cock and rose to my feet, took his hand, and shut off the water.
Water streamed down our skin as I led him out of the shower and into his bedroom, puddles trailing behind us.
He followed without question.
I climbed onto the bed, moved to the center of the mattress, and lay back, letting my head hang over the edge.
His breath caught.
“Fuck,” he said, stroking himself. “I love you laid out like that. So willing to please me.”
I reached out for him. He stepped closer, and I guided his hips into place.
With one hand braced on his thigh, I wrapped the other around his cock and drew the head to my lips. I formed my mouth into a tight circle and nudged him forward.
My tongue flattened as he leaned in. I sucked, hollowing my cheeks to seal around him. He moaned and pressed deeper.
As the tip touched the back of my throat, I drew him in and swallowed.
A shudder ran through him.
He slid back slightly, my fingers maintaining pressure around his shaft as I caught my breath.
Then he began to rock.
Steady at first, in and out, as I matched his pace.
He pressed and I swallowed, retreating just enough to breathe, then took him again.
He stayed in control.
I didn’t.
After several strokes, I widened my knees, spreading my legs. I was exposed, open, and fully aware of his gaze.
One hand slipped between my thighs. My fingers found my clit while the other continued stroking him.
“That’s my girl,” he said in a rough voice. “Come on your fingers while I come down your throat.”
His voice alone could undo me.
That Irish lilt, that command—it sent heat through my veins.
I circled my clit in rhythm with his thrusts. Then I slid two fingers inside myself.
His movements grew faster. Harder.
Breathing became secondary to his pleasure.
I refused to pull away.
Tears slipped from the corners of my eyes as I climbed higher, the pressure building with each stroke.
He drove deeper, and I tightened my fingers inside of me.
The edge approached fast and merciless.
His strokes were erratic.
A raw sound tore from him as he came, hot cum filling my mouth and sliding down my throat.
And I fell over the edge with him.
My climax shattered me. Stars burst behind my eyes, and I barely registered the moment his cock slipped from my mouth.
He dropped to his knees beside me, one hand resting on my stomach.
“That’s it, Scar,” he murmured. “Come on those fingers. Chase every aftershock.”
His mouth brushed my neck as his fingertips traced slow, absent patterns across my skin. “I’ll never get enough of you. You’re an addiction I’ll never be able to break.”
I rode the last waves of pleasure until my breathing steadied.
When I could move again, he helped me upright and pulled me into him. He climbed onto the bed behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist, holding me tight.
We stayed like that until his stomach growled.
I laughed softly. “Someone’s hungry.”
“Yeah,” he said. “They didn’t feed me in the cell. Last thing I had was whatever passed for snacks on that jet. How about another round of those fried eggs and hash?”
“Well,” I said, sliding off the bed, “you’re easy to please.”
Normally I would have reached for a sheet. Instead, I walked toward the kitchen without bothering to cover myself.
“I hope those floor-to-ceiling windows have reflective glass,” I called over my shoulder, “because I’m planning for more than a late-night snack in the nude.”
“Oh, my little bird,” he rumbled, sounding amused, “how you’ve stretched those wings.”
I opened the refrigerator and reached for the eggs and bacon.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten where we were interrupted by Aria,” I added. “Is there some way to block people from just walking in?”
“Yes,” he said, stepping up behind me. “But that might ruin the thrill of getting caught.”
I glanced at him. “You’ve got an exhibitionist streak, don’t you?”
He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his cock already hard against my lower back. “Lass, you have no idea how many kinks I enjoy.”
I pressed my hips back against him. “That sounds like a challenge.”
He smacked my ass lightly. “We might not be leaving this place for a while. How does that sit with you?”
“Divine,” I replied. Then a thought slipped out before I could rein it in. “Does that mean you’ll introduce me to your playroom?”
He stilled and took the eggs and bacon from me and set them on the counter.
He turned me and framed my face in his hands, the crease between his brows deepening.
“Scarlett,” he said evenly, “that room requires complete trust. You’ve done well—better than I expected. But I won’t rush you. When the time is right, we’ll know, and we can play. Until then, let’s focus on loving each other, learning what makes each of us tick.”
His mouth came down on mine and silenced any argument.
He was right.
We weren’t racing against anything anymore. I wasn’t counting days or planning escapes. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t surviving.
I was thriving.
Finally, I had found a place that felt like mine.
My home.
My forever.
My sanctuary.