Chapter 24 Genevieve
Genevieve
He’s closer than he should be.
I don’t know where we are. Somewhere dark and warm, the edges blurred like my mind can’t hold the room together. Everything smells like him, like leather and campfire and comfort.
His chest is pressed flush against my back, heat bleeding through my clothes like a brand. His breath ghosts across the shell of my ear, and tingles shoot down my body.
“Genevieve.”
He says my name like it hurts. Like a confession dragged out of him against his will.
The sound goes straight between my legs.
My body betrays me completely, pressing back into him.
His arm slides around me, his hand coming to rest at the front of my throat.
His fingers splay there like a collar, thumb brushing my pulse, and then he squeezes just enough to make my breath hitch.
A soft command. A reminder that he could take more if he wanted.
His other hand finds my hip, thumb digging in, then drags upward under the hem of my shirt, fingertips skating over bare skin. Goose bumps erupt in his wake as he traces my rib cage, lingering just beneath my breast.
Just beneath where I need him.
I should push him away. I should remind him I’m not his. That this ends with shattered hearts and regret I won’t survive. I arch into him instead. His grip on my throat tightens, and his mouth finds my neck, his teeth grazing, tongue following.
He tips my head back, baring me to him, and he’s so hard against me. There’s no mistaking it.
The sound that spills out of me is humiliating. High and needy and nothing like the woman I pretend to be.
“We can’t,” I moan.
His mouth keeps moving. His teeth scrape. His tongue soothes. His breath burns me alive.
“Then tell me to stop,” he says.
His hand slips higher, until he’s palming my breast, and his other fingers flex at my throat again, tighter this time. Not enough to choke, but enough to remind me exactly how much control he has.
He grinds into me once, and I feel everything.
“Say it. Tell me who you really belong to.”
My lips part on his name, but before I can get it out—
I wake up gasping.
The room is pitch black. My sheets are twisted around my legs, my skin is damp with sweat, and my heart’s slamming against my ribs so hard it’s in my throat.
Between my thighs.
Everywhere.
Oh no.
No, no, no, no, no.
I press my hands to my face, but the dream is still clinging to me. His voice. The feel of him against my back. His hand sliding up my side. His other hand wrapping around my neck.
It wasn’t real. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t real.
Outside my door, Cavall shifts and lets out a soft whine. I stumble out of bed, half-trip over him, and rush to the bathroom, flipping on the light and gripping the edge of the sink. The woman in the mirror is flushed, wild-haired, pupils blown wide like she’s coming down from something.
Cold water on my face does nothing. My hands tremble as I brace against the counter, trying to ignore the persistent ache between my legs, the way my whole body is still pulsing in time with a rhythm that shouldn’t exist.
I swear I don’t mean to slide my hand down. I don’t. But it’s already happening, and if I don’t do something, I’ll never survive living under the same roof as him.
A hiss leaves my mouth as my fingers slip beneath the waistband of my underwear, and I’m soaked, like my body hasn’t figured out I’m awake and he was just a figment of my imagination.
I press my other hand against my lips, biting down on my knuckles as I rub circles over my clit.
I’m too sensitive, too worked up, and it takes seconds before I’m right on the edge.
I imagine Lance outside the door. Ear pressed to the wood, listening, jaw clenched like he’s fighting something.
His hand palming himself through his clothes, aching to come in and take what I’m giving myself instead.
My fingers slip lower, slick and frantic, and a broken sound tears out of me.
He’d hear that. His breath would go shallow. He’d think about what I look like right now: flushed and trembling, coming undone because of him. Because of the way he says my name. The way I know he’d touch me if I let him.
He’d lose control. Grip my throat like he did in the dream. Tip my head back, while telling me to come for him. Telling me I’m his, just for tonight.
The pressure crests too fast. My whole body locks as it crashes over me, and I come with a silent sob, biting down hard on my knuckles.
Afterward, I sag against the counter, my breathing choppy and my nerves humming like I’ve just committed a crime.
Logic filters back in slowly.
And then the shame.
I wash my hands until the water runs cold. When I open the bathroom door, Cavall is sitting right there, head tilted, tail giving a tentative wag.
“Just a weird dream,” I whisper, scratching behind his ears. “Maybe a little privacy next time, dude.”
Deep breath. Downstairs. Coffee. Maybe if I only think in fragments, my mind won’t run away from me again. I almost believe it until I get to the kitchen. Lance is there. And Lance is shirtless.
His back is to me, broad and tattooed, every inch flexing as he reaches for something in the cabinet.
My thighs clench.
“Coffee’s on the counter,” he says without turning around.
I move toward the island, praying I look more composed than I feel. “Thanks.”
He turns, and his gaze drops down my body in one slow sweep before dragging back up. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m in a thin tank top and sleep shorts.
“You okay?” he asks. “You look tense.”
Oh my God.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Bad dreams?”
My face flames. “Something like that.”
His mouth twitches. “Anything you want to talk about?”
“Absolutely not.”
I have the horrible paranoid thought that he knows exactly what kind of dream I had. That he heard me through the walls. He pushes off the counter, reaching past me for the coffee pot, and his arm brushes mine. I step back so fast I bump into the island.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Just pours his coffee and takes a long sip, watching me over the rim.
The silence stretches, thick with something neither of us is willing to name. Or maybe something I won’t name, and he has no idea exists.
Hopefully. God, kill me.
Then there’s the sound of a key in the lock and the front door opening.
Panic floods through me and Lance notices immediately.
“Lance! I know you’re here. Your truck’s in the driveway and you never go any—”
Juliette Calloway stops dead in the kitchen doorway. Her eyes land on me. Slide to Lance. Down to his shirtless torso and the fading bruise on his rib cage. Back to me, in my pajamas, holding a coffee mug with sleep-mussed hair.
Her mouth falls open.
“Oh my God.” She slaps a hand over her face, peeking through her fingers. “Lance, what the hell?”
He lifts his mug in a lazy salute. “Morning, Jules. Nice of you to knock.”
She storms forward with a rolled-up newspaper and starts smacking him on the arm.
He jolts back, coffee sloshing. “Jesus.”
“What. The. Hell. Is. Wrong. With. You?” Each word punctuated with another hit.
He’s laughing now, dodging her swings, and I’m frozen, watching this entirely different version of Lance emerge. Lighter. Almost playful.
“Don’t tell me to calm down, asshole.” She gets one more solid hit in before he catches her wrist.
“You done?” He’s grinning, gently prying the newspaper from her grip.
“No. God, Felicity is never gonna let me live this down. She bet me fifteen bucks you two had slept together. Care to explain?”
“Explain what?”
“Why Art’s girlfriend is standing in your kitchen looking like she just rolled out of your bed.”
“She’s got her own room. Upstairs. With a door. That locks,” I say.
She pivots to me so fast her hair fans out. “It looks like you’re standing in my brother’s kitchen half-naked, drinking coffee, while he,” she points at Lance, “is also half-naked and staring at you with puppy-dog eyes.”
Lance scoffs and I make a face.
“I was not staring at her,” he says at the same time I let out, “Absolutely not.”
“Put a damn shirt on,” she shrieks, swatting at him again.
He dodges, eyes crinkling.
“Is the Rag true?” Juliette narrows her eyes. “Are you having a secret affair?”
“There’s no secret,” he says.
“You can’t lie to me, dickhead. I grew up with you.” She taps a manicured nail on the counter. “Then explain why Art’s girlfriend is playing sleepover with Lance ‘I hate everyone’ Calloway.”
“I don’t hate everyone,” he mutters.
“Name someone you like besides me and Art.”
He opens his mouth.
She smiles sweetly.
“It’s not what you think,” I say. “Someone’s been following me. Art asked Lance to keep an eye on me until they figure out who it is.”
Juliette’s expression shifts from accusatory to concerned. “Following you?”
“Some guy’s been showing up at the tavern, watching her,” Lance says. “Followed her through the woods. Art wanted her somewhere safe.”
“Oh my God. Are you okay?” Juliette asks.
“I’m fine. Lance has been actually really helpful.”
She looks between us, slower this time, recalculating.
“Art knows about this?”
“It was his idea,” Lance says.
She chews her lip. Then she steps closer to him, voice dropping. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it’s none of your business. And I knew you’d react like this.”
“God forbid I worry about my brother. The one who disappears for days, keeps secrets from everyone, and shows up with random bruises and cuts on his knuckles.”
My stomach drops.
Lance’s eyes flick to mine. Don’t.
“Jules.” His voice is low.
“You’re my brother.” Her voice cracks. “Something’s going on with you, and it scares me.”
The silence is heavy. I watch Lance fight between wanting to reassure her and needing to keep his secrets. My chest aches for both of them.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I promise.”
Liar.
She stares at him for a long moment, then sighs, the fight leaving her.
“Pax and Tiffany’s anniversary party.” She says it like a command. “Him and Roman are using it to announce the Calloway and Montgomery merger, and I need all hands on deck.”
“That’s why you came here?” Lance’s nose scrunches.
“I came to tell you that if you skip another family event, I will personally drag you there by your ear. Be there. Wear something nice.” She pauses at the threshold. “And maybe put on a shirt before you give everyone the wrong idea.”
The door slams.
The silence she leaves feels enormous.
Lance exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Well. That was fun.”
“Does she always barge in like that?”
He laughs. “Juliette’s never met a door she’s liked.”
“She cares about you.”
“Yeah.” He stares after her. “That’s the problem.”