Lucas
Don’t you dare stop.
I’ve been fighting this all day.
Every time she laughed, every time her scent shifted warm and happy, every time she looked at me with those dark eyes—I thought about closing the distance. About finding out if she still tasted the same.
I told myself I wouldn’t. This was just testing the waters. Seeing if I could exist in the same space as Cara Donovan without falling apart.
But she’s standing here in the cold, looking up at me like I’m worth hoping for, and I can smell her arousal—rich and slick underneath the honey-citrus sweetness, unmistakable—and I’m done fighting.
I lean in.
The first brush of her lips is soft. Testing. She tastes like cherry pie and cold air and her—sweet and familiar, a taste I’ve been craving for ten years without admitting it.
She makes a sound against my mouth—relief, want, finally—and her hands fist in my coat.
I stop being careful.
I cup the back of her head and angle her closer and kiss her the way I’ve wanted to all day.
Deep. Thorough. Claiming. She opens for me immediately, her tongue sliding against mine, and I groan into her mouth because she tastes exactly like I remembered, exactly like I dreamed, and I’m never going to get enough.
Her scent explodes around us. Honey and citrus going thick and slick, the unmistakable perfume of an omega who’s wet and wanting. It floods my senses, makes my cock twitch, makes my hands tighten on her hips hard enough to leave marks.
Good. I want to leave marks. I want everyone to know she’s—
I force myself to slow down. We’re in a parking lot. In public. This is not the place.
But my body doesn’t care about appropriate. My body wants to press her against the car and grind against her until we’re both desperate. Wants to slide my hand under that green sweater and find out if her skin is as soft as I remember. Wants to—
She hooks her leg around my calf and pulls me closer.
“Cara,” I manage against her lips.
“Yeah?”
“We’re in a parking lot.”
“I noticed.”
“Anyone could see.”
“Don’t care.” She rolls her hips forward, and the friction makes us both gasp. “Kiss me again.”
I kiss her again. Harder. She moans and her nails dig into my shoulders through my coat. I can feel the heat of her even through layers of clothing. Can smell how badly she wants this—wants me—and it’s making my head spin.
My hands slide down to her ass. I lift her slightly, pressing her back against the car, and she wraps around me like she was made for this. Like ten years didn’t happen. Like we’re eighteen again, making out in the parking lot behind the movie theater, convinced we had forever.
We don’t have forever. I know that now.
But we have tonight. And right now, that’s enough.
“Lucas.” Her voice is strained, breathless. “We really have to stop.”
I pull back. Breathing hard. My forehead pressed against hers.
She’s flushed, lips swollen, eyes glazed. Her hair is a mess from my hands. Her scent is so thick I can taste it on my tongue. I’m hard enough that it hurts, straining against my zipper, and I know she can feel it pressed against her hip.
“That was...” she starts.
“Yeah.”
“I mean really...”
“Yeah.”
She laughs, breathless. “We’re very articulate for two people who work with words.”
“You work with words. I work with bodies.”
“That sounded dirtier than you meant it.”
“Did it?”
Her cheeks flush darker. “Lucas.”
I force myself to step back. Put space between us before I do something stupid like lift her onto the hood and finish what we started. “We should go.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
I look at her—rumpled green sweater, auburn hair messed up from my hands, kiss-swollen mouth—and every rational thought evaporates.
I close the distance again, cup her face in both hands, and kiss her one more time.
Softer now. A promise instead of a claim.
Her hands come up to rest on my chest, and I can feel her heart pounding under my palm—matching mine beat for beat.
When I finally pull back, neither of us speaks for a moment. We just breathe together, foreheads touching, existing in this small warm space we’ve created.
“Car,” I manage against her lips.
“Car,” she agrees.
I open her door. She climbs in. I stand there for a second, willing my body to calm down. Taking deep breaths of cold air that don’t help at all because I can still smell her everywhere—on my coat, in my lungs, soaked into my skin.
This morning I had a plan. Be polite. Keep distance. Figure out what I felt before I let myself feel it.
The plan did not survive contact with Cara Donovan.
Nothing ever does.
I get in the driver’s side. My hands shake slightly as I start the engine.
“So,” she says. “That happened.”
“It did.”
“Was it... okay?”
I look at her. She’s biting her lip, uncertain, and I realize she’s worried she pushed too hard. That I might pull back, rebuild the walls, pretend the last five minutes didn’t happen.
“Cara.” I reach across the console and take her hand. “That was the best thing that’s happened to me in years. Possibly ever.”
Her smile hits me like a punch to the chest.
We drive holding hands, her thumb tracing patterns on my palm.
Her scent has settled into something warm and content, filling the car with honey and sunshine.
I keep sneaking glances at her—the curve of her smile, the flush still on her cheeks, the way she keeps touching her lips like she can’t quite believe what just happened.
“I had fun today,” she says.
“Me too.”
“I didn’t expect that. I thought you’d want to make me grovel more.”
“You don’t grovel well.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re too stubborn. If I tried to make you grovel, you’d probably challenge me to another race.”
“Fair point.” She squeezes my hand. “But seriously. Thank you. For giving me a chance.”
“I came in with walls up,” I admit. “You knocked them down in about three hours.”
“You make it sound like I’m a wrecking ball.”
“More like water. Slow pressure, then suddenly everything’s flooded.”
“That’s either beautiful or insulting.”
“It’s an observation.”
“Very scientific of you.”
“I’m a doctor. We observe things.”
“Is that what you were doing in the parking lot? Observing?”
I glance at her, letting my eyes linger. “I was participating.”
“Participating in what?”
“An experiment.”
“And what were the results?”
“Inconclusive.” I bring her hand to my lips, brush a kiss across her knuckles. “Further testing required.”
She laughs—bright and surprised—and I want to bottle that sound and keep it forever.
We’re quiet for a few minutes, the radio playing softly. Then she asks, “Do you ever think about what things would have been like? If I hadn’t left?”
The question catches me off guard. I keep my eyes on the road. “Sometimes.”
“What do you imagine?”
I consider my answer carefully. “I imagine us finishing high school together. Going to the same college, probably. You studying literature, me doing pre-med. Weekend trips home to see Theo and Nate.” I pause.
“I imagine us figuring things out together. Making mistakes together. Growing up together.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s a fantasy. Real life would have been messier.”
“Probably.” She’s quiet for a moment, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. “I think about it too. What I missed. What we all missed.” She looks at me. “Do you think we can get it back? Any of it?”
I slow for a stop sign, turn to face her. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I don’t think we can get back what we lost. That version of us—the eighteen-year-old kids who thought they had forever—they’re gone. We’re different people now.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No.” I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles, then put the car back in gear. “I like who you’ve become. You’re stronger. More confident. You know yourself in a way you didn’t back then.”
“So do you.” She smiles. “Dr. Lucas Price. Pillar of the community. Rescuer of tanning bed victims.”
“Very distinguished.”
“Very boring sandwich.”
“The sandwich is good.” I squeeze her hand for emphasis.
“The sandwich is a metaphor for your fear of change.”
“The sandwich is a sandwich.”
“See, this is why I write fiction. I understand subtext.”
“There’s no subtext in a turkey sandwich.”
“Everything has subtext.” She gestures with her free hand. “The turkey represents safety. The lack of mayo represents emotional unavailability. The extra pickles—”
“Please stop psychoanalyzing my lunch order.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. This. This is what I missed. Not just the kissing—though that was exceptional—but the banter. The easy back-and-forth. The way she makes me laugh at myself.
“Can I see you again?” I ask.
“Do you want to?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“Then yes.” Her smile widens. “You can see me again.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Eager.”
“Extremely.”
We pull into Eileen’s driveway. Porch light on. Curtain twitching—Eileen, keeping watch like she always has.
I lean across and kiss her again. Soft. Quick. A promise of more.
“Goodnight, Cara.”
“Goodnight, Lucas.”
She gets out. Walks up the path. Turns at the door to wave.
I wave back. Total lovesick idiot. Can’t bring myself to care.
She disappears inside. The curtain twitches again. I imagine Eileen pouncing the moment the door closes, demanding details.
Good luck to Cara. She’ll need it.
I sit there for a moment, engine idling, trying to remember why I ever thought keeping my distance was a good idea. My lips are still tingling. I can still smell her on my coat. I can still feel the phantom press of her body against mine.
This morning I was determined to be careful. Tonight I’m counting the hours until I see her again.
The farmhouse is quiet when I get home. Theo’s truck in the driveway. Lights on in the kitchen.
I park and pull out my phone.
Scarlett Monroe.
The search results come up immediately. Book covers with illustrated men and titles that make me raise my eyebrows.
Bound by Three.
The Alpha’s Claim.
Pack Rules.
I click on the first one. Read the description.