Chapter 36 #2
I’m not nervous—I’m not someone who gets nervous—but there’s a weightless feeling in my chest that I can’t quite name. Something fluttering. Restless. Light.
It only happens when it’s about Lucas.
It’s new. Unfamiliar. But I don’t hate it. It’s been like this since I met him.
Every time I come home and he’s here, moving around my space like he belongs, something inside me settles. I feel… content. Like I have something real. Like I have everything.
Waking up next to him. Cooking for him. Watching him eat. The way he lights up when he talks about something that fascinates him. The way his voice softens when he tells me about his favorite songs or TV shows. The way he’s started to speak to me more freely, comfortably.
I have never been one who talks much. It’s not something I can change. But Lucas doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t fill the silence with awkwardness. He doesn’t try to pull words out of me that I don’t have. He just… talks. And let me listen.
And I do. Every time.
Because he trusts me enough to talk and I’ll never stop being grateful that he isn’t silent with me, that he chooses to be loud, in all the ways that matter.
The elevator reaches my floor, and the moment the doors slide open, something flutters in my chest—light and sharp, like the spark of a match.
And there he is.
Standing right in front of the elevator, waiting for me.
His curls are still damp, like he just stepped out of the shower, and he’s wearing one of those loose, off-shoulder shirts that hang lazily down one of his delicate shoulders.
His shorts are the kind I like on him, the ones that bare his thighs, his legs, all that soft, fair smooth skin that drives me fucking insane.
Ever since I saw him wearing them the day I visited his place after our argument at my parents’ place, I haven’t been able to get the sight out of my head. It’s seared into me. The way it had looked on him. The way I wanted him.
And now, he’s here. In my space. Ours.
“Hi,” he says, voice soft, almost unsure.
My eyes drag from his legs back up to his face, his cheeks are faintly pink, a shy smile blooming there like he’s trying not to seem too eager.
Too late.
I step out of the elevator slowly, my gaze never leaving him. His eyes follow me, bright, full of something that feels dangerously close to adoration.
“How long have you been standing here?” I ask, my voice low.
“Since you texted that you were almost home,” he says, with a small, cheerful shrug.
That’s all he says. He doesn’t need to say more.
Not when his face looks like this glowing and open. Like I’m the only thing he’s been waiting for all day.
Something in my chest twists. Not painfully. Just… deeply. It’s beautiful, and terrifying, and I know he doesn’t even realize what he does to me.
He has no idea how much I adore this, how much I adore him.
I close the distance between us without thinking, my heart pounding hard. And then I reach for him, cupping his face gently in both hands, as if he’s something fragile. Something irreplaceable and precious.
Because he is.
To me, he is.
He blinks up at me, wide-eyed and glowing, his skin warm in my touch as he leans into my palms.
I lower my head and kiss him.
Slowly. Deliberately.
His lips part, soft and warm and familiar in the way only his ever have been. The kiss is not urgent, not rushed or with hunger. Just the kind of kiss that says I missed you, I thought about you all day, I need this. I need you.
His arms slip around my waist as I kiss him deeper, melting into me. His fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt, pulling me closer like he doesn’t want to let go.
He sighs softly into the kiss, and I swallow the sound like it’s sacred.
I could stay right here forever with his mouth on mine, his breath shaking against me. I let my hands slide to the back of his hair, holding him there, anchoring both of us in this moment, letting myself feel him.
When I finally pull back, his eyes are fluttering open—lips kiss-bitten, face flushed, his eyes dazed and searching mine like he’s trying to make sure this is real.
“Would you like to try the cake I made for you now?” he asks, voice shaky and breathless.
I can’t help the breathless laugh that leaves me.
“Of course, Baby.”
He lights up, his face turning bright, then he pulls away, grabbing my hand and starts tugging me toward the kitchen, barefoot and buzzing with energy. His fingers are small in mine, warm, grounding. I let him lead.
As we walk, he keeps talking—eyes glowing, words rushing out in that rare way he does when he’s too excited but shy.
“Your mom was really patient with me,” he says, glancing up as we cross the hallway. “She showed me step-by-step. Said it’s a family recipe, like generations old.”
“She did?”
“Uh-huh,” he replies, laughing, “I made so many mistakes and was clumsy, but she was still so sweet with me.”
He lets go of my hand when we reach the kitchen and goes straight to the fridge. I sit on one of the counter stools, watching him as he brings out a half-sized cake.
He uncovers it gently, sets it on the island, then grabs a clean plate, a fork, and a small cake knife. His movements are focused, a little nervous, but precise.
He cuts a single perfect slice and places it in front of me, then looks up with a smile on his face.
“Your mom says it’s your favorite,” he says, voice softer now. “And I really wanted to make it for you.”
I offer him a small smile, the real kind, the kind only he ever sees.
“It smells amazing,” I say, and I mean it.
His whole face brightens.
I pick up the fork and take a bite.
The taste is familiar—layers of honey, cream, the light crumble of sponge, but it’s different too. For some reason, this one tastes better than any other medovik I have eaten. Because he made it for me, and for the first time in years, that matters more than ever.
I take another bite as I look up at him. He watches me with wide eyes, waiting.
I set the fork down, giving him a pleased smile. “It’s delicious.”
His eyes light up instantly, that radiant joy spreading across his whole face.
“I love it,” I say, voice low, honest. “Thank you, krasivy.”
He blushes a little and bites his lips, trying to stop himself from laughing widely. Before he can respond, I reach for his hand again, this time tugging him toward me.
He comes without hesitation, slipping into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arms loop around my shoulders.
“It’s my first time trying Medovik,” he says, eyes bright as he looks up at me. “Now I get why it’s your favorite, it tastes amazing.”
I keep my arms wrapped around his waist, grounding myself in the weight and warmth of him. The way he feels in my lap, the way he talks to me so easily now, it settles something in me I never knew needed settling.
“Better than chocolate cake?” I ask, raising a brow, already knowing the answer.
He pauses, brows furrowing as if the question deserves serious contemplation. Then he shakes his head and drags a hand lazily down my chest, fingers light and absent-minded.
“Nothing is better than chocolate cake.”
I smile. If Lucas says nothing tops chocolate cake, then that’s final. No argument. He’s always been sweetly stubborn about the things he loves.
“Maksim came with your mom earlier,” he says, the smile returning to his lips. “He said he was helping, which basically meant licking the spoon and eating half the filling before your mom could stop him.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “That sounds like Maksim.”
He giggles, his face soft with fondness. “Your mom kept scolding him in Thai. He pretended not to hear her and just kept recording everything with his phone.”
I roll my eyes, amused but not surprised. “Was he at least nice to you?”
He nods quickly, a bit of color blooming in his cheeks again.
“He’s… actually really sweet. Just chaotic. Like a golden retriever that doesn’t know how big he is, he kept teasing me tho.”
My smile fades slightly, not because of Lucas, but because I know Maksim, teasing is second nature to him. I thread a hand up into his curls, watching his expression carefully.
“What was he teasing you about?” I ask, my voice calm. But laced with quiet protectiveness.
Because the last thing I want is for anyone—even my own brother—to make Lucas feel small or uncomfortable. Not after how far he’s come. Not when he finally feels safe here.
“Nothing really,” Lucas replies, but there’s a shy smile tugging at his lips now. “He just kept asking if we’re… together now. If I’m your boyfriend.”
He says it like it’s fragile. Like he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t want to fall from. And I see the uncertainty, the nervous hope in his eyes.
I tighten my arms around his waist, pulling him in more possessively.
“You know you’re mine now, right?” My voice is low, rough with sincerity. “You know this—us—this isn’t a fucking game.”
His eyes lock on mine, wide and searching. Then his hands curl a little tighter against my shoulders, grounding himself in me.
“I do,” he says, voice soft but sure. “I’m yours, Alexander. I told him yes. That we’re together.”
My heart stutters.
fuck, he’s going to ruin me.
A smile uncontrolled and stupidly wide breaks across my face. And whatever he sees in it makes him blink at me in awe, like it’s a version of me he’s never seen before. His own smile spreads, bright and blinding in response.
“So much for keeping things slow,” he teases, rolling his eyes playfully.
“I’m going at your pace, baby,” I murmur, my grin twisting into something more devilish as I slide my hand to the back of his neck and pull him closer.
His lashes flutter. We’re so close now that our lips are almost brushing.
The look in his eyes is all longing and pure naked want. Like I’m the only thing he’s ever needed. Then his lips touch mine, soft at first, tentative, almost testing. I catch his bottom lip between mine and kiss him gently, letting him set the rhythm.
He deepens it slowly, his tongue brushing mine, and a low, impatient groan escapes me.
I slide my hand into his hair, tilt his head, and crush our mouths together, letting the kiss devour us both. No more restraint. No more holding back.
He moans against me, the sound breathy and helpless. I swallow it greedily like it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
His mouth is soft against mine, still so fucking addictive and one I can never get tired of. I let my hands slip under his shirt, palms finding skin. His waist is narrow, his back warm under my touch. Every time I touch him, it feels like something inside me settles and ignites at the same time.
He gasps when my thumbs skim just above his waistband.
I take that sound—that fucking sound—and I drink it in like oxygen.
He kisses me harder, more open, more desperate, his breath shaky, and I can feel him trembling on my lap, hips twitching forward against me.
I can feel how hard he is. How hard I am.
It’s been three days.
Three days since I had him beneath me shaking, breathless, whispering my name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world. Three days since I buried myself inside him for the first time and watched him come undone just from the way I filled him.
But I haven’t touched him like that again. Not since that night.
He was sore the morning after. Could barely sit without wincing, even though he tried to hide it behind that soft smile of his. He told me I wasn’t too rough. Said he liked it—loved it— I believe him, I know he liked it, but I don’t like seeing him hurt.
So I waited.
We still touch and kiss. But I don’t let it go further.
Not until I was sure he was okay. Even though every night I lay beside him, hard and aching, breathing in the warm scent of his skin.
Even though every morning I wake up with his legs tangled in mine, his soft breaths brushing over my throat, and the ghost of that night carved into my memory, the way his body trembled when I filled him, the heat, the stretch, the perfect way he clenched when he came for me.
And now?
Now he’s in my lap, grinding against me, panting into my mouth like he’s starving for me.
I groan and kiss him harder, deeper, hungrily.
My hands slide down to his ass, fingers gripping tight as I pull him against my body.
The friction sends a jolt through us both and he moans into my mouth, soft and desperate.
Then he pulls back from the kiss, panting. Lips red, pupils wide.
“Alex,” he breathes small and raw.
My name sounds like something sacred coming from his mouth. I kiss down his jaw, then back to his mouth, biting his bottom lip gently before letting it go.
“Do you still feel sore?” I ask, voice rough with restraint
He stares at me, flushed and trembling, lips parted. Then he shakes his head.
“No… not anymore.”
There’s heat in his voice now. Hunger and need.
I run my hands under his shirt again, dragging my fingers up his sides, then back down to grip his waist hard, then I roll my hips up again, grinding us together. He moans—soft, broken, like the sound was pulled from his throat without warning.
fuck.
“Are you sure?” I murmur. “Because if I take you right now, I’m not stopping, I will bury this cock in your tight ass, and you won’t have any choice but to take every thrust I give you.”
He lets out a whimper, clutching my shoulders as he looks at me with lust-filled eyes.
“I want that,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Please, Alex.”
fuck, he’s so damn Tempting.
My lips crash against his, deeper this time. Filthy. I slide my tongue into his mouth like I own it. He opens for me, moaning against me, his fingers digging into my shoulders like he’s trying to anchor himself.
I roll my hips up, grinding against him again, harder this time. And I feel his thigh trembling.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” I growl against his lips. “Every fucking night. Thinking about how tight you were. How you clenched around me when you came so beautifully for me, how perfect fucking you feel, how you take every inch of me like the princess you are.”
His head falls back. Eyes flutter shut.
I kiss his throat. His collarbone. Bite softly at the curve of it as he pans and writhes in my lap, his cock straining against the front of his shorts, grinding into mine like he’s losing himself.
Fuck, he’s gonna be the death of me.