Chapter 24 Lucian
Lucian
“Turn around,” I say, and even though the words are soft, they feel weighted in my chest. She’s already close enough that the heat of her body reaches me through the steam, and when she turns beneath the spray with that small, trusting movement, something inside me tightens with a slow, deliberate ache.
From where I’m sitting on the bench, the angle is different, almost like I am kneeling for her and worshiping her.
The position is vulnerable in an intimate way.
She stands above me, water sliding down her back in long, unbroken lines, and I have to take a breath before I touch her because the sight of her open and unguarded hits harder than I’m prepared for.
My hands don’t feel as steady as they should. I’ve held my own body together through worse than this, but nothing compares to the quiet gravity of her standing in front of me, trusting me with a moment I never thought I’d get back.
I start to wash her back slowly, letting the motion guide me rather than rushing the moment, and the intimacy of it settles over me like a tide I didn’t see coming.
She tilts her head slightly, offering me more of herself, and the gesture is so small, so instinctive, that it nearly unravels me.
I don’t think she realizes how much it means, or maybe she does, and that’s what makes my chest feel too tight.
She’s more beautiful than I remembered, not because she’s changed but because I’m seeing her without the haze of anger or regret or the sharp edge of the ending we never should have had.
There’s something softer in her now, or maybe it’s in me, a kind of quiet gratitude that she’s letting me be close again, letting me relearn the shape of her with my hands instead of memory.
All that exists right now is the warmth of her skin beneath my palms and the steady rhythm of her breathing.
I try to be respectful, to keep my touch measured, and to remind myself that this moment is a gift I don’t deserve to take advantage of.
But the truth is I’m starving for her in a way that’s been building in me since the day I walked away.
The truth settles heavier with every pass of my hands over her skin.
I’m starving.
In the slow way, of a hollow ache of a man who’s been denying himself something essential for too long.
I let my thumbs trace the line of her spine, feeling the way she breathes a little deeper when I linger, and the way her shoulders soften as she gives herself over to the simple act of being touched.
I don’t rush. I can’t, I know if I do, I’ll lose the thread of control I’m barely holding onto.
Water streams down her, over my hands, carrying soap and heat and the scent of her into my lungs. I inhale, thinking it might steady me, but it doesn’t. It just reminds me of everything I walked away from, and everything she’s somehow letting me have back.
My hands slide lower, reverent, mapping familiar terrain like I’m afraid it might disappear if I don’t commit it to memory again.
I press my palms more firmly into her, grounding myself in the reality of her standing here, trusting me with her back turned, her body relaxed and open in a way that makes something in my chest pull tight.
She shifts slightly, not away from me, but toward me like an invitation.
The movement is small, but it nearly breaks me.
I rest my forehead briefly against her back, my eyes closing as the water beats down around us. I shouldn’t want this the way I do. Shouldn’t need it, but need isn’t something I’ve ever been good at denying, not when it’s this close, this real.
My hands tighten enough to betray me, before I force them to ease again.
“Celeste,” I murmur, her name leaving me like a confession.
She hums softly, acknowledging me without turning around, like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me and trusts me not to cross a line she hasn’t invited me over.
That trust is everything.
I trail my hands back up her sides, slower now, deliberate, letting the pads of my fingers drag just enough to make my intent known. I want her to feel how badly I’m holding myself in check. I want her to understand that every careful touch is a choice.
Because if I stop choosing, I won’t stop at all.
“I missed this,” I admit quietly, my voice rough.
The words don’t feel big enough for the emotions pressing against my ribs. What I feel is closer to a slow and constant hunger, like something essential I’ve been denying myself because I didn’t deserve it.
I swallow, steady myself. If I let myself want her the way my body does, I’ll forget how to be careful.
“Sit,” I say gently. “Let me wash your hair.”
I meant for her to sit beside me so I could have a better angle, and I could continue to give to her without asking for anything back. I need to prove to her, and to myself, that I can still be trusted with softness.
Instead of sitting beside me, she eases herself down onto my lap.
My breath stutters, sharp and unguarded.
For a split second, panic flares, not from a fear of her, but fear of myself. Of how easily my body responds to her, and the ache that tightens when she settles against me like this is where she belongs.
“Celeste,” I murmur, my hands lifting instinctively, hovering like I’m afraid to touch her wrong. “I meant beside me.”
She leans back against my chest, warm and solid and trusting, her weight grounding me instead of unbalancing me. “You said you wanted to wash my hair,” she says softly. “This just makes it easier.”
God.
Last night I lost control. I know that, I felt how close I came to letting need outweigh care. Sitting here now, with her relaxed in my lap, the desperation hasn’t faded.
My hands settle on her hips, proof that I can hold her without taking. Her body fits against mine with an ease that feels devastatingly familiar.
“You make this so hard,” I murmur, not accusing. Just honest.
She smiles, small and soft, and tips her head back slightly, exposing the curve of her throat. The sight sends a slow ache through me, sharp enough that I have to clench my jaw. “That’s the point.”
I reach for the shampoo instead of responding. I need something to do with my hands that won’t betray me.
I work it gently between my palms before threading my fingers into her hair, slow and careful, massaging lightly. She exhales, melting back into me, the sound wrecks me.
I keep washing her hair, taking my time, memorizing the way she leans into my touch, the way she trusts me with something small and intimate and unbearably meaningful.
Then she moves. It’s subtle at first, a slow shift of her weight, a gentle rock of her hips back against me.
My hands still in her hair for half a second before I force them to keep moving, keep being good. The ache in me flares hot and immediate, a low, feral need snapping tight in my chest.
She does it again, slower this time, deliberate, the curve of her body pressing back into mine with quiet confidence, reminding me exactly how much power she has over me, and how willingly I give it to her.
Fuck.
My jaw tightens as my grip in her hair firms. I tilt her head to the side and watch the soap be washed away before I kiss her neck.
“Careful,” I murmur, voice low, strained.
I want everything from her. I want her pliant and responsive and trusting in my hands. I want to make her feel good until she forgets how to stand on her own. I want to give her pleasure until she melts into it, until every sound she makes belongs to me.
And God help me, I want to take it.
My hands slide from her hair to her hips, anchoring her in place. “Don’t think I don’t want you. I’m holding back for you right now.”
The confession costs me. I can feel it in the way my body reacts, the way control hums tight and fragile under my skin.
She rocks again, and it’s enough to snap something loose in me. A low sound tears from my chest before I can stop it, feral and unguarded.
“Celeste,” I warn again, this time threaded with heat and promise. “If you keep doing that, I’m not going to be able to pretend that I don’t know exactly what you’re trying to do.”
She stills after my warning, and for half a second, I think I’ve finally gotten through to her.
Then she shifts her weight forward and stands. The sudden absence of her against me is disorienting, like losing a point of gravity I didn’t realize I’d been leaning on. My hands hover uselessly for a moment, fingers flexing in the air where she used to be.
Confusion flickers through me.
Before I can ask what she’s doing, she turns and reaches back as she tips her head under the spray, rinsing the conditioner from her hair. Water streams down her breasts, slick and unbroken, tracing familiar paths I know too well.
She hums a sultry tune as she slowly rocks her hips. After a few moments, her hands leave her hair and start following the path the water takes down her body. She starts at her neck, follows the water down to her chest as she uses her fingers to caress her breasts.
My breath stutters so hard it feels like I’ve been punched in the chest.
Oh.
Oh, she knows exactly what she’s doing. The moment she stood, something in her posture shifted from invitation to provocation.
My thoughts scatter, fracture, circle the same truth over and over again.
She’s undoing me on purpose; every line of her body is a temptation I’m failing to ignore. I track the movement of her hand like it’s a lifeline and a threat all at once, my jaw tightening until it aches.
She wants me wrecked, and God help me, I want to be.
The restraint I’ve been clinging to thins to something threadbare, my pulse roaring in my ears as need coils tighter, sharper, more insistent. I’ve never been good at denying her. Not when she’s this confident and unafraid, testing exactly how much control I have left.
“Celeste,” I say quietly.
She looks at me, eyes dark, attentive, already reading the shift in me.
“Come here,” I tell her, my words low. I don’t move, I stay exactly where I am, hands planted at my sides, giving her the space to decide. Giving her the power to stop this before it starts.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
And then she steps toward me.
The relief is visceral. The hunger sharpens instantly, flooding hot and fast through my veins, but I keep myself still. I keep myself grounded in the fact that she’s doing this because she wants to, not because I asked louder.
“Turn around,” I say next, voice rough but careful. “Sit down.”
She does, backing toward me until she’s settled again, her thighs sliding to the outside of mine. The position is intimate in a way that makes my pulse spike.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
“Hands,” I murmur, eyes never leaving her. “Put them behind you, against my stomach.”
She places her palms there without hesitation, shoulders rolling back slightly as she settles into the posture. Completely aware of what I’m asking for and what she’s giving to me.
I lean in close, my mouth near her ear. “You could’ve said no,” I murmur. “If at any time this is too much or you want me to stop, just say the word, and I’ll stop. No questions asked.”
Her breath stutters. I feel it through her back, through the way her body responds to my nearness.
My pleasure has always lived in the way she reacts. In the way her body softens when I touch her just right, and in the quiet sounds she makes when she forgets to guard herself. I breathe her in, grounding myself in that truth.
My hand slides into her hair as I angle her just right, listening for the hitch in her breath. I lean in close, my teeth grazing that sensitive place beneath her ear until she gasps.
Her hips rock without her meaning to, a soft sound leaving her that tells me I’m exactly where I should be.
“Please,” she moans.
My fingers start a slow, deliberate climb along her thighs, guiding her open with patient certainty as the water streams down, slicking the skin I’ve been holding myself back from.
I grit my teeth as she rocks her hips against mine, every roll of her hips a test of my control. I slide two fingers through her slickness, circling her where she needs me the most, but not yet giving her what she wants.
Celeste lets out a frustrated, needy moan that sends a bolt of satisfaction through me. “You’re the one who was teasing me, you get to earn this one,” I growl as I nip the curve of her neck.
I press two fingers inside her in one firm stroke, feeling her clench around them immediately, and it takes everything in me not to groan at how ready she is.
I set a slow rhythm going as deep as my fingers let me, curling my fingers just right on every withdrawal to drag across the spot that drives her crazy. Her back arches off my chest, as her hands scramble for purchase against my stomach, her nails digging in enough for me to flinch.
“Stay still,” I command, my thumb circling her clit with enough pressure to make her cry out.
I feel the tension coiling in her body, and recognize how her breathing turns shallow and urgent. Just as her thighs begin to shake and her pussy starts to tighten, I pull my thumb away from her clit, keeping my fingers buried deep and still inside her.
She lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a curse, trying to rock her hips to create the friction she desperately needs. I use my other hand to clamp down on her hip, holding her immobile.
I wait for her to float down from the precipice before doing it all over again.
When I feel her desperation peak a third time, and her pleas have turned incoherent and broken, I know she’s waited enough. My thumb returns to her clit with ruthless precision while I thrust my fingers roughly enough that I know I am giving her the roughness she craves.
Her entire body goes rigid in my arms, a scream tearing out of her throat as she finally shatters. I pump my fingers relentlessly, wringing every last tremor from her until she goes limp against my chest, gasping.
“That’s one,” I breathe against her skin, satisfaction humming deep and dangerous as I feel her come back to herself in my hands. “I’m still feeling greedy. I think you can give me another… or three before we need to leave.”
I don’t move away. I don’t soften yet. I stay pressed close, letting the moment stretch so she can feel the promise in my stillness.
And I’m going to enjoy every second of it.