Chapter 27
Lucien
“So, what do you think of Jensen’s big news?” Branson asks.
We’re home in bed, after being out for most of the day.
We went for lunch at Branson’s parents’ place and saw Jensen there.
It was nice. A nice, normal day, where everyone was getting along and having a good time.
Things were going well—that is, things were going well until Jensen tapped a fork to his wine glass, got to his feet, and formally announced that he’s moving to England.
He wasn’t joking either. He was dead serious. He’s got himself a lovely job restoring antique books. In fucking England.
Apparently, he got his visa approved yesterday, and he’s bought a plane ticket and new luggage to boot. I was so shocked that I didn’t take in the rest of the details, but now that I’m home and the dust has settled, I can’t help thinking it all sounds dodgy as hell.
“I think it’s insane,” I reply. “Don’t you?”
Branson shrugs and nuzzles his face into my neck. A flicker of consternation buzzes through the bond from his side. “I’m not sure. It’s a big move, and I hate to see him go, but I don’t know… Maybe it’ll be good for him.”
“Good for him? Jetting off to the other side of the world to work for some old pervert in England? How can that possibly be good for him?”
Branson snorts and shakes his head. “We don’t know that Jensen’s new boss is old or a pervert, Lucy.”
“Well, we know he owns a big, sprawling manor house in the English countryside, and that he has a massive library that he’s let go to wrack and ruin. That tells me everything I need to know about him.”
“It does not.”
“It does too!”
Branson laughs, and I’m momentarily grateful that I’m already lying on my back. The deep sound rattling out of him is so sweet and so sexy that it leaches every ounce of strength from my limbs.
“Seriously, do you think he’ll be all right?” I ask when I recover. “Really?”
Things with Jensen have been okay. They aren’t perfect, but neither Branson nor I expected them to be perfect for a while.
We knew it would take time. These things usually do.
Jensen asked for space, and we’ve been trying our best to give it to him.
Recently, we’ve started talking on the phone again, and we’ve seen each other a couple of times.
The relationship between the three of us is healing, but it definitely still has a ways to go.
Branson sighs quietly. “Honestly, I think it might be really good for him. A fresh start. A big adventure. A chance to travel and see the world. It might be exactly what he needs.”
“But what if he hates it?”
“Then he can come home.”
“And what if his new boss really is a pervert?”
“Then we’ll grab Wilder, and we’ll fly out there, and the three of us will kick his perv boss’s old ass.”
Overall, I like the plan, but I do have some questions. “In that scenario, would I be doing a lot of the ass-kicking myself, or would I be there in more of an advisory capacity?”
Branson’s lips open a crack, showing me a line of enamel. “Oh, you’d be there in an advisory capacity, baby. You’re way too pretty to get your hands dirty.”
A soft, silly sound spills out of me. I clamp my hand over my mouth, but it doesn’t help. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I think you’re the prettiest omega I’ve ever seen.” As always, his sincerity when he says things like this makes me giggle and blush like a fucking idiot.
He props himself up on one elbow, smiling as he leans over me and kisses me sweetly on the lips. My legs fall open despite the chasteness of his kiss.
His free hand trails down my body, turning his innocent kiss into something altogether different.
He’s already had me once since we got home this evening, and my hole is still slippery and loose from his ministrations. It’s sensitive too. Swollen and tingling from where he was.
He slips two fingers into me and keeps talking as though he hasn’t just caused a major short circuit in my brain. “How are you feeling about tomorrow, my little omega?”
“I, uh…” Damn, how do words work again? “I, um, good. I feel good.” The bond, the traitor, throws up an icy white arc between us.
“I mean, I just, I just don’t know how eight weeks went so fast.” My voice lilts up in mournful whine.
“I thought it would go so much slower. I thought we’d have more time to ourselves, you know? ”
Branson nods earnestly and rests his forehead against mine. The bond likes his proximity to me, flaring and firing thick ribbons of hot pink that float above us before drifting into the ether. “I know, baby. It went way too fast, didn’t it?”
We’ve been cosseted at home for two months now. The worst of our Bonding Syndrome has lifted. Our connection has strengthened and stabilized to a point where it’s theoretically entirely possible for us to return to work and rejoin the real world. It’s expected. It’s normal. It’s what everyone does.
It’s a fucking nightmare.
I nod silently, swallowing the lump in my throat and wrapping my arms tightly around Branson’s neck. He moves his fingers slowly inside me, so slowly that it lulls me into a trance-like state.
“Nggg,” I moan into his mouth.
“D’you like that, my Lucy?”
His voice is thick, dripping with burned honey and heat. It takes me back to the time we spent at the cabin. To the mountains and the forest and the snow. To my nest and all the hot things that happened while we were there.
It makes me homesick for that time.
“How long do you think it’ll be until my next heat?” I whisper.
“Thirty-four weeks,” he answers, punctuating his sentence with a deep, blistering kiss. Fuck me, I love that he tracks my cycle this closely. “Are you missing it?”
“Missing what?” I tease. I know exactly what he’s talking about. I just want to hear him say it.
His lips curl at the corners and his eyes darken. He looks like something that belongs outdoors.
He thrusts his fingers upward, electrifying my gland and rendering the bottom half of my body completely immobile. “Being knotted, baby.”
My hips jerk in response and my ass clamps down hard on his fingers. “Mm.”
It’s hard to know exactly how to reply because it’s not like I’m not satisfied with the sex we have now.
I am. I’m satisfied and then some. Branson is unreal in bed.
He rocks my world on a daily basis. What we do together is so hot that I’ve spent at least half of the time since we got home splattered on my bedsheets like I’ve been dropped from a great height.
I don’t want Branson to feel like what we have out of heat isn’t enough.
“What we do now is amazing. It’s perfect, it’s just that I do… think of your knot fondly.”
“Fondly, huh?” A big shithead grin creeps up his face. He kisses me and fucks my gland until I gurgle and start writhing.
“Uh-huh,” I pant. “F-fondly.”
“’Cause, you know”—he licks into my mouth and fingers me deeply at the same time—“if you miss my knot, there are things I can do to help you with that.”
I push myself onto my elbows to get a better vantage of him. His eyes glint, pupils dilating ever so slightly before looking down at where we’re joined. My gaze follows his.
“T-things?” I splutter. “W-what kind of things?”
His fingers move inside me, pressing in deep and then slowly, slowly, withdrawing. He leaves his fingertips at my opening, stroking sensitive skin for a moment. A tantalizing, teasing moment.
The man knows how to hold my attention, that’s for fucking sure. I don’t move or breathe. I look down between my legs, eyes trained on his forearm, his wrist, his palm, and then they come into view, his slick fingers.
I watch, gnawing my bottom lip and not blinking.
My jaw drops.
My attention doesn’t waver.
He brings his hand up, so I have a perfect, uninterrupted view of it. It’s a big hand. Tanned and beautiful. A thick, meaty palm with long, sexy fingers.
I don’t take my eyes off his hand, but I’m dimly aware that he’s smiling darkly at me. I swallow hard, nerves and excitement gathering as I wait for him to speak. He turns his hand slowly, showing me his palm, the back of his hand, and his palm again.
My attention is highly focused. Hyperfocused, I guess you could say. I take in his deep nail beds and the veins that meander under his skin.
I watch, rapt, as he curls his fingers into a fist. A tight, menacing fist. A tight, sexy-as-fuck fist that carries a promise almost too hot for me to handle.
I drop back onto the bed, gasping, as my hips begin to buck of their own volition.
“Is this something you think might help, Lucy?” murmurs my mate.