Lessons in Balance (Lessons #2)

Chapter Armand Returns to the Commonwealth

Armand Returns to the Commonwealth

Lucas was fast asleep, nestled against my shoulder.

His elegant form was splayed across the business class seat, which was a chair only in the sense that a crown is a hat.

Out the window, sunrise cloud tops reflected against the stretch of Lucas’s cheekbones and glinted in his eyelashes: the gold of his hair, the pink of his lips.

The rounded muscles of his chest rose and fell beneath a white cotton shirt, and to my delight, he was snoring ever so delicately.

Oh, I was fucked.

This was, without a doubt, the stupidest decision I’d ever made in the long and storied history of Armand Demetrio, Yours Truly, making bloody stupid decisions.

“Sir?”

I jumped, Lucas murmuring a sleepy protest against my shoulder.

Standing over me was a svelte, umber flight attendant, holding a miniscule can of tomato juice. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Top off?” They indicated the empty glass before me, ice cubes sweating the last of the depressingly virginal Bloody Mary a watery pink.

I nodded my thanks and accepted the lifeline.

I worried the clinking ice might wake Lucas, but he merely shifted, the freckles at the dip of his throat disappearing under his shirt in a distractingly kissable set of lines.

The warmth of his cheek on my shoulder through the thin fabric of my T-shirt, the ghosting of his lips against my biceps as his head rolled forward all made me shiver .

. . and reiterated what a bloody idiot I was.

I liked him far too much for this to work.

Technically, we’d only met three days ago. Good lord. After three days I’d invited Lucas back to mine, and mine was a transatlantic flight away.

Through a series of ridiculous coincidences, Lucas and I had spent the last few weeks living together without actually meeting in person.

I made messes, he left notes. We were inundated with the detritus of parallel lives.

The inevitable intimacy that grew between us—well, not us, really; rather the shape of us left for the other to witness—became affection, then limerence, then a series of desperately romantic acts.

Even now, the memory of Lucas’s hands against my hips, his mouth on my neck, the springy golden hair that filled my hands, the smooth muscle, combined with the smell of him—citrusy and warm and close beside me in this tiny metal tube above the Atlantic Ocean—made me sweat.

And tremble. And fidget in my nearly suitably sized seat.

“Please fasten your seat belts.” The captain’s voice crackled warmly over the speakers. “We will begin our descent shortly.”

I gulped down the last of my disgusting concoction of lemon, tomatoes, and pickle juice and surrendered the empty glass.

I took deep breaths. The acids and oxygen spread through me like a wave of cool static, buzzing my nerves into submission.

Riding the burst of courage, I gently pressed my face into Lucas’s hair.

This was definitely a mistake, but I had no plans to stop making it.