CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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Lucas
The apartment was quiet except for their breathing and the distant hum of London traffic far below.
Sunlight slipped through the half-closed blinds, painting lazy golden stripes across the tangled sheets and their bare skin.
Lucas woke slowly, awareness returning in layers: the soft weight of Mia draped half across his chest, one of her thighs slung over his hip, his arm heavy and possessive around her waist. Her cheek rested over his heart, her breath warm against his skin, and he could feel the faint, lingering heat between her legs where they pressed together—the evidence of how thoroughly he’d claimed her that morning.
He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, soaking it in.
The steady thump of his own pulse under her ear.
The way her body fit against his like it had always belonged there.
The quiet joy that bloomed in his chest, bright and almost painful after so many months of restraint, of wanting her and not allowing himself to have her.
She stirred first, shifting just enough that he felt how slick she still was, how sensitive every small brush of skin made her. His cock twitched against her stomach in immediate response.
Her eyes opened, sleepy and soft, and found his.
“Hey,” he rasped, voice rough from sleep and from groaning her name for hours.
“It’s almost dinner time,” she whispered, already leaning in to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat.
The simple touch lit him up. His hand slid down her spine—deliberate, unhurried—until he cupped her ass and squeezed once, hard enough to pull a soft gasp from her.
He rolled them in one smooth motion so she was underneath him, forearms braced on either side of her head, caging her in without crowding her.
“Still tender?” he asked, searching her eyes. He needed to know. Needed to be sure.
“A little.” She rocked her hips up once—slow, teasing—and he hardened instantly against her stomach. “Worth it.”
That was all he needed. His mouth curved into a half-smile he couldn’t stop. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near finished.”
No rush this time. They were already naked, already tangled.
He kissed her lazily—deep and languid, tongues sliding together like they had forever.
His hand drifted between her thighs, fingers gliding through her slickness without pushing inside, just stroking her outer lips, circling her clit with the lightest pressure until she squirmed beneath him, breath hitching.
“Lucas…”
“Patience,” he murmured against her lips. “We’ve got all night.”
He kissed his way down her body—slow, reverent—lingering at her breasts to suck each nipple until they were swollen and flushed, then lower, nipping the soft skin of her stomach, the crease of her hip.
When he settled between her thighs he didn’t rush.
He kissed the inside of each one—soft, teasing bites—then blew a cool breath across her centre just to watch her shiver and arch.
Only then did he lick her—long, flat strokes from entrance to clit, savouring every taste, every tremor.
Her hands fisted the sheets; her hips lifted instinctively.
He hummed against her, the vibration pulling a moan from deep in her throat, while his tongue worked her clit in tight, relentless circles.
She came quietly—back arching, a soft, broken whimper escaping as pleasure rolled through her in gentle waves. He didn’t stop—kept licking softly through the aftershocks until she was trembling, oversensitive, tugging weakly at his hair.
“Up,” she gasped. “Want you in my mouth.”
The words sent heat roaring through him. He crawled back up, kissed her deeply so she could taste herself on his tongue, then rolled onto his back.
Mia slid down his body, trailing kisses along his abs, the sharp lines of his hips. When she wrapped her hand around his cock—already thick and heavy—he had to grit his teeth against the rush of pleasure. She stroked him slowly, licked the tip, swirled her tongue around the head, tasting him.
“Fuck—” His hips jerked. “Mia…”
She took him deeper—slow, deliberate—relaxing her throat until her nose brushed his pelvis, then pulling back with a wet pop, hand twisting at the base.
The rhythm she set was torture in the best way: deep pulls, tongue pressing along the underside, her other hand cupping and rolling his balls.
His breathing turned ragged; his fingers tangled in her hair—not guiding, just holding on like she was the only thing keeping him anchored.
“Gonna come,” he warned, voice strained.
She didn’t stop. She sucked harder, faster, eyes locked on his as he shattered—hips snapping up, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he pulsed hot and thick down her throat. She took every drop, working him through it until he collapsed back, panting, wrecked in the best possible way.
They lay there for long minutes—sweaty, breathless—his hand stroking lazy circles on her back. The quiet between them felt full, complete. No walls left. Just them.
Eventually he stirred. “Shower?”
She smiled against his chest, nodding.
They stumbled into the bathroom. He tested the water temperature with his palm, then stepped under the spray and tugged her in after him.
Warm water hit her shoulders like a sigh; steam rose in lazy spirals.
He moved behind her, chest to her back, arms encircling her waist, letting the stream pour over them both until their skin flushed pink.
“Still okay?” he asked, lips grazing the shell of her ear.
“More than okay,” she whispered, tilting her head so he could kiss the side of her neck.
His hands began a slow exploration under the water—just skin on skin.
Palms glided flat over her stomach, tracing the dip of her waist, then rose to cup her breasts with gentle pressure.
His thumbs brushed lazy arcs over her nipples, coaxing them to peaks as the spray cascaded down.
Her breath hitched; her head tipped back against his shoulder.
He pressed a kiss to the wet curve of her neck.
“You feel so good like this,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
One hand drifted lower, fingers splaying over her hip, then sliding between her thighs—not urgent, just exploratory, parting her gently so the water could run directly over her most sensitive skin.
She arched slightly into his touch, a soft sound escaping as his fingers circled slowly, teasing without pushing deeper.
He hugged her tighter—arms banding around her ribs, pulling her flush against him so she could feel every hard inch of him pressed to her back. His chin rested on her shoulder, breath warm on her ear. “Just let me hold you for a minute,” he whispered. “No rush.”
They stayed like that, bodies aligned under the relentless stream, his embrace steady and grounding, her hands covering his where they rested low on her belly. The water kept falling, turning everything slick and heated.
After a long, quiet moment, he eased back just enough to look at her over her shoulder, water streaming down his face.
He reached for the body wash—unscented, simple—and squeezed a generous amount into his palms. He rubbed them together until foam bloomed, then started at her neck: thumbs pressing gently into the base of her skull, working in small, firm circles that made her eyelids flutter.
Down her shoulders—palms gliding over collarbones, along the tops of her arms, fingers interlacing with hers under the water so he could wash between them, one digit at a time.
“You carry so much here,” he murmured, kneading the tight muscles along her upper back. “Let it go for me.”
She exhaled shakily, leaning into his touch.
His hands travelled lower—slow sweeps across her shoulder blades, tracing the gentle dip of her spine, thumbs following the twin lines of muscle that flanked it.
When he reached her lower back he pressed harder, easing the deep ache she hadn’t acknowledged, then slid around to her sides, fingers splaying over her ribs like he was memorizing every curve.
He knelt behind her—water streaming over his shoulders—and soaped her hips, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above her tailbone.
Down the outside of her thighs, then the insides—slow, reverent glides that made her breath catch every time his knuckles brushed higher.
He lifted one of her feet, washed the sole, the arch, between each toe, then the other—his touch careful, almost worshipful.
When he stood again, he turned her gently to face him.
More foam in his palms, he started at her throat—fingers sliding along her pulse points—then down to her chest. He cupped her breasts fully, lifting them slightly, thumbs sweeping over the undersides before circling her nipples in teasing loops until they drew tight and aching.
He didn’t pinch, didn’t tug—just teased with feather-light passes that left her trembling.
Lower still: flat palms over her stomach, tracing the faint lines where muscle met softness.
Then between her thighs—careful, thorough.
He parted her gently with two fingers, washing every fold, every crease, the pad of his thumb brushing her clit just once—enough to make her gasp and grip his biceps.
“Lucas…” Her voice was needy.
He kissed her temple. “Almost done.”
He rinsed her slowly—hands following the water, making sure every trace of soap disappeared—then stepped back so she could return the favour.
Mia took the bottle, poured soap into her palms, and began the same careful worship on him. When she knelt and wrapped both soapy hands around his cock, stroking from base to tip in long, slippery pulls, he groaned, head tipping back against the tile, hips rocking once into her grip.
She rinsed him clean then stood.