Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lucian
Sometimes, You Have to Use the Right Utensils
Olivia’s not just living rent-free in my house.
She’s living in my head.
Taking up full-time residency in every corner I vowed was off-limits.
And that? That’s a fucking problem.
Because this isn’t just feelings anymore.
Not the casual kind you can dismiss as lust or boredom.
It’s need. It’s want.
It’s desire curling into something warmer, deeper.
It’s love, maybe. Lust, certainly.
Admiration. Longing.
Madness. The kind that drives you to do reckless shit like memorizing the sound she makes when laughing at her own jokes or craving the way she touches my arm when she’s half-asleep and forgets we're supposed to keep this casual.
I want her near me—because of how she perceives the world, due to the ridiculous things she says when she’s tired, and because of the quiet moments when neither of us talks, and it still conveys everything.
Because she’s the only person who’s ever made silence feel like it’s got a heartbeat.
And perhaps it’s an illusion. Perhaps I’ve inflated this idea in my mind so much that it will shatter the moment I speak it aloud.
Because if it is real . . . I wouldn’t know how to handle it.
Of course, by the time I pull into my driveway, I have a half-chub and a full plan. Which, yeah, seems on-brand for a man in denial.
I don’t knock.
Don’t text.
Don’t pause.
I walk in like I own the place—because technically, I do. Just not the mortgage on my emotional stability.
The moment the door clicks shut behind me, it hits. The scent—something citrusy and pan-seared, browned just enough to make my stomach growl—and her.
Always her.
She’s at the stove in leggings and a tank top, flipping salmon like she didn’t just spend the last two hours sexting me into a brain-dead stupor. Like she’s not the living, breathing fantasy that’s been camped out in my head since the second we kissed.
“Smells great,” I say, stepping into the kitchen. My voice lowers, deep and unabashed. “But I’m craving something more.”
She doesn’t turn around. “Oh, you’re here. Don’t burn yourself. Or the food.”
“You offering to blow on it?” I ask, grinning as I move in behind her.
She snorts. “Did you walk in here feeling horny and bursting with metaphors?”
“Nope,” I murmur, sliding my hands over her hips. “Just hungry and a little dangerous.”
She stiffens—barely. Just a heartbeat of hesitation before she melts back into me, her hips pressing against mine in the softest, most damning way.
She’s been waiting.
She’s pretending she hasn’t, but I can feel it in the way her breath catches. In the way her body curves into mine as if it never learned to do anything else.
This?
This isn’t casual.
This is inevitability dressed in yoga pants and sarcasm.
And fuck I might be all in. That’s not good, is it?
I trail my fingers under her shirt, up the smooth plane of her stomach, while my mouth finds the crook of her neck. She shivers.
“You missed me,” I whisper.
“No comment,” she replies, which I’m beginning to think is Olivia-speak for ‘please ruin me.’
My hand slides up to cup her breast while I nudge her hair aside with my nose. I drag my teeth along her shoulder and kiss the spot I know makes her knees tremble. She lets out this breathy noise—half defiant, half desperate.
“You gonna let the salmon burn?” I ask, grinning against her skin.
She opens her mouth to respond, but I’m already reaching over and flipping off the burner.
“Dinner’s canceled,” I murmur. “Kitchen’s closed. Chef’s busy with… dessert prep.”
I spin her gently, grip her hips, and lift her onto the counter. Her back meets the cool marble, and her legs part just enough to let me step in close. She’s already flushed—eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising with anticipation.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous like this. Breathless and hungry. And all mine.
“You’ve got five seconds to tell me to stop,” I say, brushing my knuckles over her ribs as I lean in.
She grabs a fistful of my shirt, yanking me closer. “You’ve got five seconds to prove that mouth isn’t just for talking.”
I crash into her mouth—hot and filthy—kissing her like I’m making up for every second we wasted pretending this was casual. She moans into it, legs wrapping tight around my waist like she needs me pressed to her as much as I need to be there.
But I’m not done with her on the counter.
I scoop her up, make her gasp, and carry her the few steps to the kitchen island. Set her down like she belongs there. Like I’m about to make her forget her name.
Her tank top rides up as I bend, mouthing along her stomach, dragging the soft cotton higher with my teeth until her breasts spill free. No bra. Of course not, because she knows I like her bare.
She arches when my tongue brushes her nipple.
“Fuck,” I mutter against her skin. “You taste better than anything I’ve ever had in this kitchen.”
Her laugh is breathless. “You say that like you’ve ever cooked in here.”
“I’m cooking now, baby.”
I drop to my knees.
Her leggings? Gone in seconds. Peeled down her thighs like a present I’ve been waiting all week to unwrap.
No underwear.
Fuck me.
She’s glistening—wet and flushed and so ready for it I nearly groan just looking at her. I press a kiss to her thigh. Then the other. Slow. Teasing. My hands grip her hips, thumbs brushing over the curve where her skin turns slick.
When I nudge her knees apart and get my first look?
My brain short-circuits.
“Goddamn,” I breathe, hot against her skin. “Look at this perfect little cunt. All soaked for me. You wanted this while we were pretending to make dinner, didn’t you? My filthy girl sitting on the counter like a treat.”
She starts to say something—probably a smartass comment—but I lick a long, slow stripe through her folds, and she gasps, both hands flying to the edge of the island like she needs something to keep her grounded.
“Still bored?” I murmur, tongue circling her clit, then flicking it just enough to make her jerk.
Her head tips back, a raw sound escaping her throat. “Oh my God?—”
“Nope.” I grin. “Just me.”
I pull back for, eyes on hers, and grab the spatula from behind me beside the stove. Thick handle. Just the right shape.
She stares at me, breath hitching.
“You ever been teased with one of these before?” I ask, dragging the smooth, rounded handle up her thigh.
She shakes her head, biting her lip.
“Didn’t think so,” I whisper. “You’re my good girl, aren’t you? Letting me play with you however I want. Fuck, you like it dirty, don’t you?”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Her thighs spread wider when I run the spatula handle through her folds. Not deep. Just enough to feel her slickness coat it, gliding through the heat of her.
“Look how wet you are,” I murmur, eyes locked on her cunt. “Soaked and twitching just from a little kitchen toy. Bet you never thought your favorite utensil would be the spatula.”
She lets out a strangled sound, halfway between a moan and a laugh, then grabs the edge of the island again as I circle her clit with the handle. Slowly. Over and over. I’m not inside her, but I’m damn close, teasing her with the tip until her hips start rocking to meet it.
“That’s it,” I whisper. “Ride it, baby. Let me see how needy you get when you think I’m gonna stop.”
“I swear to God,” she gasps, voice cracking.
“Oh, you’re swearing already?” I murmur, dragging the spatula handle down again, circling the tip just outside her entrance. “And I haven’t even started licking you properly.”
She shudders, her hips twitching as if her body answering before her mouth can form a thought.
“Let’s see how much you really like it.”
I press the handle in.
Just the tip at first. Her breath catches like I’ve knocked something loose inside her. And then it slides in deeper, slow and easy, coated in how fucking ready she is for me.
Her legs fall wider apart on instinct.
“Goddamn,” I breathe, staring down at where she’s swallowing it. “You’re taking it so well.”
Her head tips back, lips parted, chest rising unevenly. Her hands grip the counter with white-knuckles, trying to hold on to something—anything—as I thrust the spatula in again, a little deeper this time.
“You like that, baby?” I rasp, voice low, rough. “Like me fucking you with a kitchen tool while you drip all over my counter?”
She whimpers, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet mine before they fall shut again.
“That’s my girl,” I growl, dragging it back out slowly, teasing her edge before pushing it back in with deliberate, shallow strokes. “You don’t need fingers. You don’t need cock. You just need me to ruin you however I want.”
I press a kiss to her inner thigh, then another, drop my mouth to her clit while still working the spatula in and out of her—lazy, rhythmic thrusts that drive her body wild with want.
When my tongue flicks her clit, she gasps like I lit a fuse under her skin.
And then I suck—gently at first, then with more pressure—and her whole body arches off the island like she’s about to fly apart.
“Oh my God, Lucian?—”
“Just me, baby,” I mutter against her, nibbling gently around her clit, then licking a slow circle before dragging my tongue flat across the top. “You feel this? You feel how fucking drenched you are? That’s all for me.”
I thrust the handle in again, slow and deep this time, and her breath stutters into a moan that sounds as if she’s unraveling right in front of me.
“You’re shaking,” I murmur, lips still on her. “Fucking trembling around a spatula, sweetheart. That pretty little pussy’s clenching like it can’t decide if it wants more or if it’s already too much.”
She nods, desperate, panting. “Lucian—please?—”
“Please, what?” I pause the thrusts, hold her open with one hand, and give her clit a slow, teasing lick. “Please make you come while you’re stuffed full with a kitchen tool like the good, dirty girl you are?”
“Yes,” she cries, voice wrecked.
I grin, filthy and proud. “Then hold still for me.”
And she tries.
God, she tries. Her thighs tremble around my head, hips twitching under my hands. My tongue circles her clit, again and again, flicking and sucking while I work the spatula in slow, deep strokes. Her breathing turns uneven, erratic—each inhale broken, each exhale laced with something between a gasp and a whimper.
“Lucian,” she moans, back arching, hands reaching blindly for the edge of the counter. Her knuckles go pale. Her legs tighten around me like she’s falling, and I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.
“Yeah, baby,” I rasp, pressing a kiss just above her clit. “Say my name like that. Let me hear how good it is.”
She does. Over and over.
“Lucian, Lucian, oh my God, Lucian?—”
It’s fucking music.
I thrust the handle again, watching her body react to it—how she clenches, how her muscles contract like they’re begging for more, how her hips lift into it like she can’t help herself.
“You’re doing so fucking good for me,” I whisper against her. “Look at you. Taking it so well. Letting me fuck you like this while you fall apart on my tongue.”
She gasps again, this time sharper, tighter. Her thighs shake harder, and her whole body tenses as if she’s on the edge of something massive.
And then she shatters.
It crashes over her in waves. Her breath punches out of her chest, her body jerking, hips stuttering forward as a choked sob escapes her throat.
“Lucian—fuck?—”
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, still licking, still thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every last tremble, every pulse of pleasure until she’s gone limp against the counter, boneless and wrecked.
Only when she whimpers do I finally slow, easing the handle out of her, watching as she twitches under the loss of it.
Her eyes flutter open—dazed, glossy.
And then?
She reaches for the spatula.
I blink. “You?—”
She brings it to her mouth and sucks. Slow. Deliberate. Lips wrapping around the handle like she’s tasting what’s hers. Her tongue traces the slick surface, and her eyes lock on mine, daring me to do something about it.
Fuck.
My restraint snaps in two.
I grab her face with both hands and kiss her hard. It’s not careful. It’s not controlled. It’s everything I’ve been holding back shoved into her mouth—biting, bruising, claiming. She moans into it, still tasting herself, and I grip her tighter, kissing her until we’re both breathing like we’ve run miles.
I pull back just enough to press my forehead against hers, my breath ragged. “You took that really fucking well.”
She bites her bottom lip, dazed. “Yeah?”
I swipe my thumb across her mouth. “Maybe next time I’ll find something thicker for my girl. Think she can handle it?”
Her lips part. “I want your cock.”
My stomach clenches. Fuck, yes.
But I don’t move yet.
“You on the pill?” I ask, voice still rough.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m on Depo—got my shot three weeks ago.” She sighs, breath catching. “I haven’t had sex in over a year. No STIs. You?”
“No STIs,” I say, locking eyes with her. “And you’re the first in . . . longer than I care to admit.”
Her fingers dig into my arms. “Then fuck me. Please.”
Goddamn.
I reach down, curl a hand around her thigh, and lift her off the counter as if she weighs nothing. She wraps around me instantly, lips crashing into mine again, mess and heat and everything in between.
This woman is going to destroy me.
And I’m going to let her.