Chapter 51
LUCIAN
We dance around what happened last night like it’s a live wire between us - dangerous if touched, impossible to ignore.
On the walk back to her place, we stick to small talk.
Weather. Work. The kind of meaningless chatter people use when their bodies remember far more than their mouths are willing to admit.
We know. Both of us know. But neither of us says a damn word.
She glances up at me every now and then, quick, careful, like she’s checking the ground beneath her feet.
Like she’s trying to figure out where we stand without actually asking.
I can feel her uncertainty humming off her, soft and nervous, and if she only knew - if she had any idea - there’s nothing uncertain about me. I damn well know exactly where I stand.
Last night didn’t confuse anything for me. It didn’t blur lines or make me question intentions. If anything, it snapped something back into place. Something that’s been crooked and starving since the moment she walked out of my life.
And now that I’ve had a taste of her again - now that I’ve felt her beneath me, against me, around me - there’s no universe where I let her drift away a second time.
She might be unsure. But I’m not. And I’ll burn every mile between us before I ever let Nadia slip through my fingers again.
Her hand brushes mine when we reach the building, and it’s all I can do not to close my fingers around it. She unlocks the door, steps aside to let me in, and for the first time in a very long time, I follow a woman into her home with no plan except to be.
She sets the grocery bags on the counter and starts unpacking. “You don’t have to help,” she says.
“I know,” I answer, rolling my sleeves up anyway. “But I’m going to.”
Her mouth twitches - half amusement, half resignation. She passes me a pepper, and I wash it under the tap, watching water bead and slide down the smooth side. The domesticity of it is disorienting. I’ve cut throats cleaner than I’ve ever cut vegetables.
The kitchen is small, barely enough space for one, but she moves around me like it’s a dance she’s learning in real time. Every time she turns, she bumps my chest or grazes my arm, and I swear the air crackles with it.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, brushing past me again.
“Don’t be.” My voice comes out lower than intended, rough and primal.
She looks over her shoulder, eyes wide for a second before she smiles faintly and goes back to whipping eggs.
The light through the kitchen window lands on her hair, making it glow like spun gold.
I can’t stop watching her - her hands, her movements, the tiny furrow between her brows as she concentrates.
Every small sound in the room - the knife on the board, the hiss of the pan, the rhythm of her breathing - feels intimate. Familiar.
She hands me tomatoes to chop, and I fall into the rhythm beside her.
It’s quiet except for the sounds of breakfast being born between us.
She talks a little - about work, about the hospital, about the small things that fill her days.
I listen intently. I like the way her voice lifts at the end of her sentences, like she’s not sure she should be telling me any of it but does anyway.
We eat at her tiny kitchen table, shoulders almost touching. The spread is simple, but when she takes a bite of her omelette and closes her eyes, I forget how to swallow. She looks so content, so alive.
“This is nice,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “It is.”
The silence that follows is charged. Thick with everything neither of us is saying.
When she stands to clear the plates, I catch her wrist. She stills. Her pulse flutters against my fingers like a secret.
She turns to me slowly, and the look in her eyes is invitation enough.
The next thing I know, her back’s against the counter, and I’m kissing her like a starving man who’s forgotten what it means to be full. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, like she’s afraid I’ll vanish if she lets go.
The kiss turns rough, greedy. Every line between restraint and desire blurs until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin.
Her breath comes in soft gasps against my mouth as I press her back into the counter and the world narrows to the sound of her moans, the drag of her nails against my skin, the pulse that pounds in my ears.
I drop my pants and take her hard against the counter. Her nails carve red lines down my back, sharp crescents of pain that only make me harder for her. I welcome the pain.
She writhes against me, heat slicking her thighs, her breath hot against my throat.
And then she surprises me.
In the middle of everything, she pulls back, breaking the rhythm, eyes bright with feral lust. The air between us turns sharp.
She drops to her knees, gaze locked on mine, her smile daring me to move first. For a heartbeat, I can’t tell who’s in control - her, or me, or the gravity pulling both of us apart.
My hand finds her shoulder, not sure if I am steadying her or myself. The next breath burns in my chest as she tips her head back, sultry eyes pinning me in place, before she lowers her face and takes me in her mouth.
She takes me - takes it all, deep into her throat, one hand resting on my thigh as the other fists my cock and moves in time with her mouth.
My hand on her shoulder moves, my fingers brushing through her hair, and I push her forward until she gags on my cock.
I hold her there, lifting on my toes until I hit the back of her throat.
With one gargled moan, she finds my eyes and I spray my cum down her throat, holding her there until she’s choking on it.