Chapter 11
LEXI
His mouth was on mine before I even realized I’d moved.
Or maybe I hadn’t. Maybe he’d been the one to close the distance, to decide for both of us. Either way, the second our lips met, the rest of the world disappeared—sound, reason, restraint—gone.
Lucas kissed like a man who knew exactly what he wanted and didn’t waste time pretending otherwise.
There was no hesitation, no question. Just heat. Controlled, devastating heat.
His hands framed my face at first—gentle, almost reverent—and then slid down, slow and sure, tracing my jaw, my throat, my collarbone.
His palms were rough, callused in a way that made me wonder what kind of work left marks like that.
It didn’t feel like Hollywood softness. It felt earned. Lived. Dangerous.
I clutched at his T-shirt, wanting it gone.
He’d changed since the set, but not into anything safer—black tee stretched tight across his chest, jeans that clung to the kind of body that made women weep.
I’d thought he was handsome before. But up close, he was devastating.
A machine of muscle and focus, smelling faintly of salt and smoke and something sharp, like cedar or war.
And he wasn’t tentative about it—about me.
He kissed like he meant to own the moment, and maybe he did.
I gasped when his mouth left mine only to find the edge of my jaw, my neck, the dip below my ear. Every touch left me burning, every exhale a warning.
He murmured against my skin, “You sure you want this?”
I almost laughed. “You’re asking now?”
He pulled back enough for me to see the hint of a smile, the kind that said he knew exactly how bad an idea this was—and that he didn’t care either.
“I don’t do maybes, Lexi.”
“Good,” I breathed. “Neither do I.”
And then we were kissing again, harder this time—no hesitation, no polite space left between us. He guided me backward until my hip brushed the edge of the vanity, the mirror trembling slightly from the impact. The faint scent of steam and soap wrapped around us, turning the air thick and heavy.
His body pressed into mine, solid and immovable, the kind of strength that didn’t belong to my world.
Hollywood men faked power for a living. They hit marks and flexed under studio lights, all performance and polish.
Lucas was something else entirely. Unstaged.
Unscripted. Built from grit and muscle and a life that didn’t require applause.
I could feel every inch of him—hard lines beneath his clothes, heat bleeding through fabric, his breath rough against my cheek. My hands found his chest, tracing the shape of his shoulders, the sinew, the heartbeat pounding steady beneath my palms.
He wasn’t careful. He was deliberate.
Each movement was precise, the way a soldier would move—efficient, commanding, but somehow still reverent.
The counter pressed into the small of my back. The marble was cool against my skin. He was all heat and motion, and I wanted to drown in the contrast.
When his mouth trailed down to my throat, I let my head fall back, the mirror behind us catching the blur of motion—the mess of blonde hair, the shine of sweat, the flash of desire that looked nothing like the controlled, camera-ready version of me.
This wasn’t performance.
This was hunger.
And for once, I didn’t have to pretend.
I’d dated actors. Models. A director once, stupidly. They all knew how to perform intimacy. Lucas didn’t. He was just there, heat and instinct and restraint barely holding.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, and I wrapped my long legs around his waist, my hands digging into his hair. The growl that came from deep in his chest sent a thrill straight through me.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his mouth tracing the edge of my throat. “You taste—”
He didn’t finish. Maybe he didn’t need to. I felt what he meant in the way he pressed closer, the way his hips aligned with mine, the delicious friction of denim against skin.
My head fell back, breathless. “You keep doing that, and I’m never letting you leave.”
“Not part of the job description,” he said roughly, nipping at my shoulder.
“Then quit,” I whispered.
That earned a low laugh, one that vibrated against my chest. “You’d be trouble either way.”
I slid my hands under his shirt, my fingertips brushing the ridges of his abdomen. “And you’d like it.”
He caught my wrist, his grip firm but not cruel. “Don’t test me, Lexi.”
I smiled up at him. “You started it.”
He kissed me again, hard enough to steal the air from my lungs, and for a moment I forgot everything else—who I was, where we were, what this could cost. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was real, alive, and looking at me like I was the only thing in the damn universe.
He carried me toward the hallway, every step purposeful, controlled. When my back hit the bedroom door, I reached for the handle, fumbled, and laughed breathlessly. “Open it, soldier.”
He raised a brow, amused. “You think I’m military?”
I bit his lip lightly. “Am I wrong?”
His answering smile was wicked. “Not exactly.”
That cryptic little answer sent a pulse of curiosity straight through me, but then he pushed the door open and I stopped thinking altogether.
The bedroom was half-shadow, half-moonlight—curtains swaying, sheets turned down, air thick with humidity and something new. Anticipation, maybe.
He set me down, and I was already reaching for his belt. “Tell me if this is a bad idea.”
“It’s definitely a bad idea,” he said, voice low. “Doesn’t mean I’m stopping.”
“Good,” I whispered, and pulled him back down to me.
The kiss deepened, messy and real, all breath and need and skin. His shirt came off, and I actually gasped—every inch of him sculpted, sharp, cut by light and shadow. Sweat gleamed faintly across his shoulders, down the lines of his abdomen, catching the faint blue glow from outside.
“Jesus,” I murmured, tracing a hand over his chest. “Did you grow those in a lab?”
He laughed quietly, the sound low and rich. “Disappointed?”
“Opposite,” I said. “Very opposite.”
He caught my chin, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You talk too much.”
“Then do something about it.”
He did.
The world narrowed to the slide of his mouth against mine, the weight of his body, the sound of fabric hitting the floor. His jeans joined the pile, and then there was nothing but heat and skin and the steady rhythm of our breathing.
When he pushed me back onto the bed, I went willingly, pulling him down with me. The sheet tangled around us, my fingers tracing the hard lines of his back, the flex of muscle beneath my palms. He kissed me like it was both a promise and a threat—slow enough to torture, deep enough to ruin.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against my neck.
“Don’t you dare.”
His hand slid down my thigh, over the curve of my hip, and I arched up into him, desperate for more. The edge of control between us was razor-thin, both of us dancing on it, both of us pretending it wouldn’t cut.
Then—
A sound.
The unmistakable click of the front door.
Lucas froze.
“What the—” I started, but he was already up, moving silent and quick as a shadow, grabbing his clothes.
The door creaked. Footsteps. Familiar.
“Shit.” My heart jumped into my throat. “That’s Hannah.”
His head snapped toward me. “You said she was—”
“I sent her for takeout!” I hissed, scrambling for the robe at the foot of the bed. “She must’ve had it delivered instead!”
“Can she see the SUV?”
“Yes!”
He looked around, clearly calculating escape routes. “Back door?”
“Doesn’t lock from outside.”
He muttered something under his breath—definitely military—and started toward the closet. “I’ll hide there.”
I grabbed his arm. “You are not hiding in my closet like a teenager.”
“I prefer top secret operative,” he said dryly, one hand already on the knob.
“No!” I tugged him back, half laughing, half panicking. “She’ll hear you breathing! Just—stay here. Look casual.”
“Casual?” His brow arched. “You want me to look casual?”
“Yes,” I whispered urgently. “Like—like you’re not someone I was about to—”
He gave me a wicked grin. “Too late for that.”
The sound of keys hit the counter in the kitchen. “Lexi? You home?”
I shoved Lucas toward the edge of the bed. “Sit. No—stand. No, put that shirt on! Fast!”
He caught it midair, tugged it over his head, still half smiling. “Relax. I’m great under pressure.”
“Not helping.”
He stepped close, voice low against my ear. “You’re shaking.”
“Because this is insane,” I whispered. “She’s going to kill me.”
“She won’t,” he said, eyes glinting. “Not before she kills me first.”
I smothered a laugh just as Hannah’s footsteps approached the hall. I yanked my robe tighter, praying I didn’t look freshly kissed—which, of course, I did.
When she appeared in the doorway, takeout bag in hand, her eyes went wide. “Oh, my God.”
“Hi!” I said, voice too high. “You’re early.”
“I live here,” she said flatly, then her gaze shifted to Lucas, and her tone went cool as the marble countertop. “And you are?”
Lucas straightened, calm as ever. “Security detail.”
“Uh-huh,” Hannah said, not buying it for a second. “Is this the kind of security that involves shirtless field inspections?”
I coughed into my hand. “It was—hot.”
“Clearly.” She looked from me to Lucas again. The water was still running in the bathroom. “Should I order another dinner for three?”
Lucas’s mouth twitched, trying not to laugh. The bastard was enjoying this.
“It’s fine, Hannah,” I said quickly. “We were just—talking about logistics.”
“Logistics?” she repeated. “In your bedroom?”
“Soundproof walls,” Lucas said smoothly.
I turned and glared at him. He shrugged, all innocence.
Hannah sighed, setting the takeout down. “You know what? I’m not even surprised. You’ve been in Charleston a few days, and already there’s a scandal waiting to happen.”
“I’m fine,” I said, grabbing napkins to look busy.
She raised an eyebrow. “You look like someone who’s definitely not fine and maybe missing her panties.”
Lucas’s laugh was low and quiet, and I jabbed him in the ribs with my elbow. “Not helping,” I hissed again.
He leaned down, whispering just loud enough for me to hear, “Didn’t think I was.”
I shot him a look that promised revenge later.
Hannah shook her head and grabbed her keys again. “I’m going to go eat on the porch before I say something I regret.”
When the door closed behind her, I exhaled, pressing a hand to my chest. “That was way too close.”
Lucas chuckled softly. “You handled it.”
“Barely.”
“Not bad for a Hollywood girl.”
“Not bad for a spy who almost hid in my closet.”
He grinned. “Operative.”
I threw a napkin at him, laughing despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
He caught it easily, his smile softening. “You’re trouble.”
“Yeah,” I said, meeting his eyes. “But you like it.”
That silence again—the thick, charged kind that pulled at something deep.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and I thought, for one dangerous second, that we might pick up exactly where we left off.
Then he sighed, stepping back. “Another time.”
My pulse jumped. “Promise?”
His eyes darkened. “Count on it.”