20. Lucy
20
Lucy
T hat evening dinner is served on a wide stone terrace overlooking the darkening ocean. The sound of waves crashing against the shore provides a constant, relaxing backdrop. Candles flicker, and the food, prepared by an unseen chef, is exquisite.
But the formality is suffocating.
We talk business. We talk market trends. We talk about anything except the elephant, or rather, the incredibly passionate office encounter, sitting between us.
I remember Ava’s advice. Call him on his bullshit.
I can do this. I can do this.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I put down my fork. The perfectly cooked sea bass is suddenly tasteless.
“Okay, Christopher,” I say, keeping my voice steady. He meets my gaze across the candlelit table. “Are we going to talk about it?”
He raises an eyebrow, feigning ignorance again. That infuriatingly cool composure. “Talk about what, Lucy? The revised projections for Q4?”
“No!” I say firmly, refusing to let him deflect. “About why you acted like I had the plague yesterday after we… collaborated… in my office.”
Collaborated. Nice euphemism.
My cheeks heat up, but I hold his gaze. “One minute it’s… intense. Connected. The next, you’re shutting down completely. Why? Have I done something wrong? Have I done something to offend you?”
He stiffens. The mask flickers. He looks away, out at the dark ocean, gripping the stem of his wine glass. For a long moment, he says nothing. The only sound is the rhythmic crash of the waves.
“That,” he says finally, his voice low and tight, “was… uncharacteristic.”
“ Uncharacteristic ,” I repeat flatly. “Right. So, office sex with the woman whose company you’re negotiating to control is just a typical Tuesday for you?”
Okay, maybe a little harsh.
He turns back, and the composure is gone. Replaced by something raw. Turbulent.
“No, Lucy,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s not. I don’t do that. I don’t get… involved.” He gestures vaguely, frustration evident in the tense line of his shoulders. “That night… you… it broke through. The control slipped.” He meets my eyes, and the vulnerability is back, stark and startling. “And frankly, it...” He swallows. This is obviously hard for him. “It... terrifies me.”
Honesty. Again. Raw and unfiltered. It cuts through my hurt, my confusion.
Ava was right.
It’s fear. Not indifference.
“Why?” I ask softly. “Why does it terrify you? ”
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style for the first time all weekend. “Because control is how I operate. It’s how I survive. I’m afraid that, getting close to someone, and I mean actually close to someone, will be the end of me and all I’ve built. My father… he equates any emotional connection with weakness. A liability to be exploited. And for years, I believed him. I ran with his rulebook. And I built something important to me. Something, incredible. An empire.” He looks at me, his gaze intense, searching. “But being with you… made me realize... I’ve been selfish all this time. Not caring about who gets hurt in my orbit. Always focusing on the end result.”
He closes his eyes a moment, then looks at me again. “Being with you... it felt…” He struggles for the word. “… real . And the lack of control inherent in that… goes against every instinct I have. I felt like I was coming apart.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, heavy and significant. He’s not just afraid of vulnerability; he’s been conditioned to see it as fatal. Suddenly, his withdrawal makes a painful kind of sense.
“So you push me away?” I ask quietly. “Build the walls back up?”
He nods grimly. “It’s… reflexive.”
The silence stretches between us.
“Well,” I finally say, offering him a small, cautious grin. “Maybe you need some new reflexes.”
A faint smile touches his own lips. The tension between us shifts, the icy formality melting away, replaced by a tentative warmth. An understanding.
He reaches across the table, his large hand covering mine. His touch is warm, solid .
Grounding.
“Maybe I do,” he agrees.
The connection is back. Stronger this time, maybe, because it’s built on honesty, not just proximity and lust.
“I don’t want to be selfish anymore,” he says. “I don’t want to keep out the people I care about.”
He stands up, pulling me gently to my feet.
“Come with me,” he murmurs, his eyes holding mine.
He leads me not back towards the study, but through the house, past minimalist living areas and towards the sound of the ocean. We walk through open glass doors onto a private deck.
The beach stretches out below, silvered by the moonlight. The air is cool, salty.
He leads me along a sandy path, towards the master suite wing of the house.
When we enter, I’m momentarily taken aback. The master suite is huge, but surprisingly serene. More glass walls facing the ocean, a massive bed draped in soft grey linens, a fireplace crackling softly. The sound of the waves is ever present through the open balcony doors.
He turns me to face him, his hands framing my face.
“Lucy,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion now. He kisses me, slowly, deeply. Not the frantic claiming of the other night, but a deliberate, seeking kiss.
A reconnection.
A promise.
When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with desire, but also… open. Present. He doesn’t retreat this time.
He takes his time undressing me, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. His fingers tremble slightly as he undoes the buttons of my simple sundress, pushing it off my shoulders to pool at my feet.
His eyes trace the curve of my exposed body, lingering on my breasts, my hips.
“You’re beautiful, Lucy,” he murmurs, his voice husky. “So exquisite.”
He unhooks my bra.
Black lace this time, thanks Ava .
And he lets it fall, his gaze worshipful. He runs his hands over my bare skin, igniting trails of fire, sending shivers down my spine despite the warmth of the room.
His mouth claims mine with a possessive growl, fingers tightening in my hair as the distant roar of the Atlantic echoes through the glass walls of the suite. His hands clamp my waist, steering me backward toward the bed.
When he steps back to undress, I’m breathless.
First, the soft gray Henley, shrugged off with a single fluid motion. The fabric clings for a heartbeat, outlining the formidable breadth of his shoulders before he tosses it aside. Moonlight spills over the carved planes of his chest, shadows pooling in the grooves of his abs, and I bite my lip at the raw power coiled in his frame.
He unbuttons his tailored linen trousers next, the crisp fabric whispering against his thighs as they slide to the floor. Beneath them, white shorts strain against the thick outline of his arousal, and my breath hitches.
A smirk curves his lips as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband, peeling them down with deliberate slowness. Freed, his cock springs up. Thick, flushed, veins throbbing under smooth skin.
I swallow hard, heat pooling low in my belly.
I want him so bad.
He holds out the condom, and my fingers tremble as I tear the foil. This... the trust, the privilege of sheathing him, tightens my throat.
I kneel, savoring the way his breath hitches as I grip his cock, thick and achingly hard, veins snaking beneath his silken skin. Pre-cum glistens at the tip, and I can’t resist leaning in, flicking my tongue to taste him. Salt and musk and something darkly sweet.
He growls, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling slightly.
“Tease,” he rasps, though his hips jerk forward, betraying his need.
I smile, slow, as I roll the condom down, my thumbs tracing the furious veins beneath.
“You like it,” I murmur.
His voice is hoarse, dangerous. “You’ll pay for that.”
When I’m done, he drags me to my feet, but he doesn’t lay me down onto the bed immediately. Instead, he turns me gently, positioning me on my knees on the edge of the bed, facing away from him, towards the mirrored closet doors across the room. My reflection stares back. Flushed, expectant, vulnerable.
“Watch,” he commands softly, his hands settling firmly on my hips. I see his reflection behind mine, his eyes dark and intense, fixed on our image.
His magnificent cock presses against the back of my thigh. He reaches around, his fingers finding my wet folds, slicking me further, preparing me.
“You like being teased?” he taunts.
“Yes,” I murmur.
“Beg me to fuck you,” he says .
“Please fuck me,” I tell him immediately.
“I can’t hear you,” he presses.
“Fuck me Christopher!” I scream.
His reflection smirks, then, slowly, deliberately, he enters me from behind.
I gasp, arching my back as he fills me completely. The angle is different. Deeper. More intense.
His hands grip my hips, controlling the rhythm. He starts slowly, each thrust a deep, measured glide, pushing himself fully inside me, then withdrawing almost completely before thrusting again.
It’s good. Like, agonizingly good. It’s all I can do to curl my fingers into the comforter and hold on for dear life.
“Look at yourself, Lucy,” he commands again, his voice a low growl against my ear. “Look at us.”
I force my gaze to the mirror. The image is raw. Primal. Me on my knees, utterly possessed by him. His powerful body behind mine, his cock hidden from view, but I feel it plunging deep inside my pussy with each thrust. His hands locked onto my hips, anchoring me, controlling me. The sight is incredibly erotic, intensifying the sensations rocking through me.
He increases the tempo slightly, his breaths becoming ragged against my neck.
“Tell me what you feel,” he whispers, his fingers digging into my hips.
“I feel...” I moan, squirming beneath him. “I feel... so fucking... so good. I want you so bad. All of you. Fuck me fuck me fuck me.”
“Arch that pretty back,” he grits, fingers digging into my hips as he slams deeper, deeper, the slap of skin echoing off the glass walls. “Christ. Look at you. So fucking wet, taking every inch like you were made for it.”
I whimper, the stretch bordering on pain, but his voice wraps around me, dark and demanding. “Hands on the headboard. Now.” I scramble to obey, gripping the carved teak as he fists a hand in my hair, yanking me upright.
“Watch yourself,” he rasps against my ear, forcing my gaze to the mirror again. “Watch how you milk my cock when you cum.”
The sight undoes me. His bronzed muscles bracketing my trembling body, my breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust.
“Deeper,” I beg, shameless, and he chuckles, low and wicked.
“Greedy girl.” He pins my hips harder, angling up until I scream, the sudden friction sparking white behind my eyelids. “There it is. That beautiful cunt’s gripping me like a vise. Fuck, gonna make you cum ’til you forget your own name…”
He doesn’t lie. The first orgasm rips through me like a live wire, my unintelligible cries bouncing off the vaulted ceilings.
“Again,” he snarls, slowing torturously, his palm smacking my ass. “You don’t stop ’til I let you.”
“I can’t—!”
“You can.” He slams back in, hitting a spot that steals my breath. “Squeeze me just like that… yes. Take it, Lucy. Take what’s yours.”
He slows the pace, letting the aftershocks subside, then builds the rhythm again, harder, faster, driving me towards another peak.
“Gonna make you feel me for days…” he grunts.
By the third orgasm, I’m sobbing, nails splintering the wood. He fucks me through it, relentless, until his rhythm fractures.
“ Lucy . ”
His roar drowns out the ocean as his hips stutter. When he collapses over me, sweat-slick and heaving, and the aftershocks ebb, only then do I realize how thoroughly he’s ruined me.
He pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. We stay like that for a long time, tangled together, listening to the ocean waves, his chin resting on the top of my head.
He’s still physically dominant, holding me firmly, but the emotional wall is gone. He’s here. Present. Vulnerable, yet still undeniably in control.
It’s a heady, intoxicating combination.
Maybe this complicated connection is worth the risk after all.
Even if the path forward, both personally and professionally, still feels like navigating a minefield in the dark.