Lucia #2
The wallet hangs between us for a fraction of a second, forgotten, because the real exchange is happening in the tiny pause where neither of us moves.
His thumb shifts, barely, against the side of my finger.
My stomach flips, slow and hot, and I hate the softness that rushes through me at something that small.
His gaze lifts back to mine. The muscles in his jaw flex once, like he’s biting down on something he shouldn’t want.
“I should go,” he says.
But he doesn’t step back. He says it like he’s offering me an exit. Like he’s waiting for me to take it if I need to. Like he’s giving me power with those words even though he could take it simply by staying.
My tongue is too thick. My heartbeat is too loud. I can’t find the right lie fast enough to protect myself from the truth.
So I don’t answer with words.
I step closer. I feel the heat of him before I’m close enough to touch. The faint scent of cologne and something darker beneath it. Clean soap, leather, the sharp edge of adrenaline that hasn’t fully left either of us.
His eyes track my movement like he’s measuring the distance the way I’ve measured every distance in my life. How far to the door, how far to escape, how far to safety.
Only now, I’m measuring how far to him.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t reach.
He lets me come.
And the restraint is its own kind of seduction, a silent pressure against my skin.
I stop within arm’s length, close enough that I can see the faint shadow of stubble at his jaw, close enough to notice the way his throat works when he swallows. Close enough that the air between us feels like a held breath.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Just once. Then back to my eyes. A flicker of something crosses his face. Control tightening, desire slipping its teeth in, the smallest fracture in his composure.
I lift my hand, slow, giving him time to stop me. My fingers hover near his shirt, near the open collar, near that strip of skin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He just inhales, controlled and deep, like he’s steadying himself for impact.
My fingertips touch the fabric at his chest. His gaze darkens, and for a second, I see the animal under the discipline. The predator under the suit. The part of him that could take and take and take, and yet he stands still, waiting for my choice like it’s sacred.
My breath shudders. He lifts a hand and cups my face like it’s something precious, something he’s handling carefully on purpose. His thumb brushes my cheekbone, light enough that it makes my breath hitch.
“Is this okay?”
No one has ever asked me that. Not like this.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He leans in, pauses again, forehead resting against mine, breath warm and steady. When he kisses me, it’s unhurried. Exploratory. Like he’s listening as much as touching.
I kiss him back. Not out of need. Out of want.
What am I doing?
I know this is a mistake. I know this is an error, I’m on the run, and I definitely shouldn’t be making these sorts of connections with handsome strangers.
But at the same time, when was the last time I threw caution to the wind?
Fuck. Plus, this feels amazing.
Should I run? Should I get out of here?
But then he kisses me again, and the world just drops away.
He doesn’t ease into it this time. He takes my mouth like he’s been holding back for weeks and finally snapped.
His hands slide up my arms, down my waist, back up again, like he’s trying to touch all of me at once and can’t decide where to start.
I gasp into the kiss, and he makes a low sound in response, a deep, hungry rumble that shoots fire down my spine.
He palms my waist, fingers spreading, pulling me flush against him.
“On my God,” he breathes against my lips, like I’m oxygen and he’s been drowning.
My head spins. His hands move again. Up my ribs, slow enough to make me shiver, firm enough to tell me exactly how badly he wants me. His thumbs brush the curve beneath my bra, barely holding back, making my breath stutter.
He feels the tremor. Smiles against my mouth. Wicked. Knowing. Dangerous.
“You like my hands on you,” he murmurs.
I absolutely do.
And I absolutely cannot say that.
Which he seems to interpret perfectly.
He steps forward, guiding me backward until my legs hit the edge of the bed. “Up,” he says again, darker this time.
I obey without thinking. The second I’m on the bed, his hands are all over me, trailing up my thighs, squeezing, guiding my knees apart so he can step between them.
He leans in, his palms sliding up the outside of my legs, slow and hungry, like he’s relearning my body inch by inch.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, eyes on my lips, hands stroking higher, higher. “I haven’t even done anything yet.”
I grip his shoulders hard. “I…”
He cuts me off with a kiss. His hands roam my hips, my sides, up my back, pulling me closer until I can feel the firm lines of his body pressed against every inch of mine.
“Tell me you feel this, too,” he murmurs against my jaw, his hands sliding down again, gripping my thighs, dragging me closer to the edge of the bed. “Tell me I’m not imagining this.”
I can’t speak. I’m too busy trying not to combust.
He takes my silence as the truth it is.
“Yeah,” he breathes, lips brushing my neck. “That’s what I thought.”
His hands run up my torso again, slower this time, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the edge of my bra. Not touching where he can’t, but close enough that I swear he can feel my heartbeat under his palms.
“You’re driving me crazy,” he growls softly. “Do you know that?”
His mouth trails down my neck, lips tracing the line of my pulse. I arch involuntarily. His hands slide to my lower back, pulling me into him, making a quiet, needy sound escape my throat.
He groans, deep and guttural. He kisses my collarbone, then along my shoulder, one hand sliding beneath the loose neckline of my dress, his palm warm against my bare skin.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper, shaky, undone.
“Mmm,” he answers, mouth at my throat. “More.”
He presses me down on the bed, bracing himself with one hand while the other brushes over my skin. Up my thigh, gripping, squeezing, guiding. Up my hip, over my waist, slipping beneath the hem of my dress again like he can’t stay away from my skin.
He touches me everywhere but there, and it’s maddening. Intoxicating. Kinkier than if he actually did.
Every place his hand moves makes me feel like I’m about to break. His mouth finds mine again, hotter than before, his hands roaming my body like he can’t choose a single place to stay.
“Do you want me?” he rasps, kissing me like the words are physically painful to say.
I nod and tug him closer. His eyes darken, dangerous, grateful, undone.
“Good,” he whispers.
His hands slide up the backs of my thighs, lifting me slightly, positioning me exactly where he wants me on the bed. His body presses between my legs, his breath hot and ragged, his hands gripping my hips with intent that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
He kisses me again—deep, wild, claiming—and just as his fingers hook under the hem of my dress, just as my hands slide under his shirt to pull him closer, just as everything tips from heated to inevitable, the rest dissolves into shadows, breath, tangled limbs, and the soft, desperate sound of desire on his lips.
I splay my palms wide, gripping onto the sheets as my dress slips off my shoulders and I shimmy out of it. Before I can even catch my breath, his fingers dive into my underwear and fuck me deep. A guttural scream rises within me and explodes as he massages and explores all of me.
“Oh my… God!” I yell as his thumb grazes over my clit, setting my whole body on fire. “That feels... it’s too much...”
He doesn’t stop, though. He knows I need this.
He traces the most wonderful-feeling patterns all over my clit, and at some point I wonder if he’s writing words, communicating a message. But I’m spinning too rapidly, sinking deeper into the pleasure, I don’t stand a chance of understanding anything right now.
“Oh, fuck, what are you doing to me?!” I cry out as his hand whips away.
I was slowly climbing toward the peak of the mountain; I could feel the pleasure beginning to build within me. The last thing I wanted to do was lose it, but he’s stolen it away.
“You’re driving me crazy,” I whimper.
“That’s the idea,” he chuckles as he bends down to strip the air from my lungs once more with an intense kiss.
To be fair to him, his lips also drag away any will I have to fight. I was just about to attack him with frustration, but not anymore.
“I kinda love it that you’re all wound up and needy for me. You’re hot as hell when you’re frustrated.”
But I can do the same thing to him, so with trembling fingers, I just about manage to get his trousers parted and thrust my hand inside.