Chapter 39 #2
He didn’t tell me he was going to his mother’s place.
He didn’t tell me he’d been funneling nearly every cent he earned to pay off her debt. That he’d been suffering in silence, digging himself deeper into hell to protect a woman who I know only ever handed him pain.
And he still wouldn’t tell me why. What she said to him before that bastard Oliver showed up. What broke him enough that he had to even cancel on his best friend, Tyler, and run to her instead.
And I’m a little bit angry, because he still doesn’t trust me enough to let me carry his weight. I’ve given him space. I’ve let him heal at his own pace. But every time I think he might start letting me in, he shuts the door quietly and locks it again.
I’m trying. I’m trying not to take it personally. But I won’t lie—it fucking hurts.
He thinks I’m holding back because I’m upset.
And maybe part of me is. But mostly, it’s because I see the way he’s unraveling behind those tired eyes since yesterday.
The way he’s trying to use sex as a wall, as a distraction.
I know the difference between need and numbness, and I’ll be damned if I let him fuck away the pain just to avoid feeling it.
I won’t let him use his body to hide from the truth. Not with me. Never with me.
So I keep my hands to myself even though my entire body aches for him.
Even though the only thing I want in this moment is to kiss that frustrated look off his face, pull him into my lap again, and make him forget everything else, just for a while.
But I won’t. Not until he’s ready. Not until I see that same look I have been seeing on his face before this Oliver incident, that needy look of his that had pinned me in the bathroom and had made me take him and be inside him for the first time, that needy look that has kept me trapped all these weeks. I need them back in his eyes.
***
The drive to my parents’ estate is quiet.
Too quiet.
I’ve always liked silence—preferred it, really. It’s where I thrive. Noise always felt like chaos, and I’ve had more than enough of that in my life. People, small talk, unnecessary chatter… It’s never been my thing. Silence was peace.
But not this one.
This silence isn’t peaceful. It itches under my skin, prickling like a warning. This silence feels like punishment.
I glance sideways at Lucas. He’s curled against the passenger seat, head tilted toward the window, watching the world blur past with that same unreadable look he’s worn since we left the penthouse.
I know he has music playing through his hearing aid; he always does when he wants to concentrate on something or drown out people.
Right now, that includes me.
He hasn’t said a word since lunch. Not even when I offered to help him get ready, and he showered alone, which sounds small and insignificant, but it isn’t.
Not with him. Not with us. We haven’t showered separately in weeks, not since the first time he had joined me in the shower that night. We always do it together. Always.
But today he locked the door.
And I know it wasn’t an accident.
He’s sulking.
And I don’t blame him.
I stopped us, and maybe to him it felt like rejection. But I had to. Because I refuse to let him bury his hurt under pleasure. I want him raw, honest, whole. Not hiding behind kisses and trembling sighs.
Still… it doesn’t make the silence any easier.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I think about his petty revenge—showering alone, brushing past me like I didn’t exist, the little glare he sends my way when I talk to him. He’s soft, but he knows how to sting when he wants to.
The gates of the estate open, and I press the horn lightly in greeting. The guards outside salute as I drive through.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lucas straighten, just a little; his face is unreadable. I wonder if he’ll speak to me at all tonight.
Then, without thinking, I slow the car and pull over to the side of the long driveway—still a little distance from the main entrance. I kill the engine.
If he notices I parked further away from the house than usual, he doesn’t ask why; instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt without a word.
We can’t walk into that mansion with this tension hanging between us. Not with my father and grandfather waiting at the dinner table.
We needed to talk.
Even if all he gave me was silence… I’d take it. I’d sit in it with him, wait it out, pull the words from his guarded heart if I had to.
But before I can even open my mouth, he beats me to it.
“Are you tired of me?” he asks, voice low, barely above a whisper.
He’s not looking at me. His gaze is fixed on his hands, rubbing slowly at his palms like he’s trying to soothe himself. A nervous habit. One I’ve come to recognize when he’s spiraling.
I straighten, heart sinking.
“I will never get tired of you,” I say immediately, my voice firm, unshakably certain, so he knows I mean it. “Why would you even think that?”
His head lifts slowly, and for the first time in hours, his eyes find mine. They’re glassy, guarded, brimming with something I hate seeing on his face—uncertainty. Doubt. Like he’s scared I’ll vanish like he’s expecting me to.
“Then are you still mad at me?” he asks, and there’s a flicker of something fragile in his voice, a sad, hesitant hope that breaks something in my chest. “I’ve apologized, Alex… I have, since yesterday.”
“I know,” I say softly. “I was mad, yes, but I’m not anymore.”
He studies me, really studies me, like he’s trying to read between the lines of my face. And I let him. I let him see it all: the truth, the want, the care. I let him see that I’m not mad anymore… that I was never truly mad at him. Not in the way he thinks.
His brows pinch, his mouth tightens.
“Then why?” he asks, and there’s a tremble in the way he says it, like he’s holding something in and it’s starting to crack.
“Why what?” I ask, even though I know exactly what he means.
I want him to say it. I want him to name it. To let it out.
And he does.
I see his eyes narrow, frustration bleeding through. From the soft glow of the car’s dashboard, I can see the blush rising on his neck—embarrassed, angry, confused.
Then he lets out a low, frustrated sound.
“Why do you keep stopping?” he demands, voice tight with emotion. “Since you brought me back home after that shit with Oliver… you haven’t touched me. It’s been two days.”
His voice cracks on the last part, and I feel it like a punch to the gut.
“Is it too much for you?” His voice breaks, shaking with everything he’s trying not to feel. “Are my problems too much for you now? You can’t stand them anymore, can you?”
I watch him, silent, heart tightening in my chest, waiting for him to let it all out.
“Well,” he continues, voice rising, frantic now, spiraling.
“I told you, Alex. I told you from the start that I carry too much. I told you before you pushed your way into my life. But you didn’t care, you wouldn’t leave me alone.
” His hands are trembling in his lap. “And now… now there’s nothing I can do about it because I’ve let you in.
You’re in, Alex. I hate it, but it’s all so fucked up that I depend on you now.
I need you — emotionally and physically.
And if you leave me, if you decide you can’t handle it—I swear to God, I might just throw myself off a fucking cliff. ”
It all comes out in one breath. One long, breaking wave of panic and honesty and ache.
I blink, stunned for a second.
His eyes go wide in horror at his own words. Then, like instinct, he slaps a hand over his mouth and reaches for the car door handle with the other.
He’s trying to run.
A soft laugh breaks from my chest. Not because it’s funny, but because he’s so Lucas. Wild, honest, ridiculous, beautiful.
Before he can open the door, I grab his arm gently but firmly.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I ask, giving him a look.
He turns back to me, cheeks flushed and eyes throwing sharp daggers. “Anywhere I don’t have to see that annoying face of yours.”
“Oh, it’s annoying now?” I raise an eyebrow, smirking as the tension shifts slightly, becoming something quieter, warmer. “That’s funny. You said it was hot once.”
“Yeah, well, I changed my mind.”
I lean in slowly, hand lifting to trace the edge of his jaw. His breath stutters. My thumb brushes the corner of his lips, and he shivers. He licks his lips, and my gaze dips, helpless. Those lips. Full, soft, and dangerously tempting. A flicker of heat coils in my gut.
Fuck, I want to kiss him. I want to taste him until he forgets why he was mad. I want those lips wrapped around my cock to see just how much he can take.
But then I catch myself, because I know what I’m thinking.
And I know where it’s headed. And I know his boundaries.
He’s told me what he can’t do, made it clear that he wouldn’t be able to do that.
And I swore I would never push him past what he’s ready to give.
I would never make him do something he’s not comfortable with.
So I rein it back in.
“Alex…” His voice is quieter now. Fragile. But it’s thick with something else—need.
My eyes lift to his again, and the way he’s looking at me… like I’m the only thing anchoring him to earth… It makes my throat tighten.
A current rips between us, hot and breathless.
My cock jerks in my pants, like it can sense his need, like it responds instinctively to the way he’s unraveling right in front of me. But I don’t let it take over. Not yet.
“You’re not too much,” I whisper, my voice barely above a breath. “You’ve never been too much for me. If anything… I want everything you keep buried inside you, every fractured thought, every scar, every part of you you’re afraid to give.”
His eyes glint in the dim light, searching me, like he’s still looking for proof, still unsure why I’ve been holding back, why I keep stopping us from going any further.
“You tried to use sex to forget,” I say quietly, not accusatory, but honest. Because I need him to understand why I stopped, why I had to stop.
His brows pull together, confusion flickering, then slowly, realization seeps in. I see it settle over his face: first denial, then a flicker of guilt.
“No, it’s not like that…” he says quickly, shaking his head as his eyes dart away from mine.
I gently but firmly cup his face, not letting him turn away.
“Is it not?” I ask, voice low and serious. “Lucas… I would never sleep with you if you’re just trying to disappear. If you’re using it to block out whatever’s going on in your head.”
His breath catches, chest rising and falling a little faster now.
“I’ll only fuck you when I see that look—the one that says you want me. That you want my cock because your body craves it, your soul aches for it. Not because your mind is trying to run.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come—instead, his gaze drops, lashes trembling.
“Look at me, krasivy,” I murmur, softening my voice.
He exhales shakily, then lifts his eyes to mine again. And what I see there—God—it wrecks me. Guilt. Apology. And something so raw, so open, it makes my chest ache.
So I offer him a small smile. Not out of pity. But reassurance. I’m not angry. I’m not leaving. I’m right here.
A soft tap hits the windshield. Then another. And then the sky opens, rain pouring down like the world is exhaling all at once. I glance toward it briefly, surprised. I didn’t even know rain was expected today.
When I turn back to him, he’s still watching me. But something’s shifted in his eyes now, like a dam’s cracked inside him. Then, without warning, he grabs the front of my shirt in both fists, yanks me closer, and crashes his mouth into mine.
It’s not soft.
It’s not careful.
It’s raw and hungry, and fuck, it undoes me. Every part of me.
I groan low in my throat as my hand fists in the back of his hair, pulling him closer. His lips are hot, insistent, desperate against mine. Rain drums on the roof like a warning, like a soundtrack to the storm inside us.
He breaks the kiss too fast for my liking, breath ragged, lips red and parted, pupils blown wide.
His eyes, fuck, his eyes are that perfect storm of need: raw, desperate, electric.
But this isn’t the kind of desperation I’ve been protecting him from.
This is him. My Lucas. The look he gives me when his body craves mine.
Not to forget. Not to cope. Just to feel.
“I want you, Alex,” he whispers, voice shaking, breath catching like he’s holding back a sob. “Please… please—I miss you so much, I think I might go crazy if your cock isn’t inside me any time soon.”
My control snaps.
“Fuck,” I groan, the word dragging out of my chest like it hurts. Because shit, the way he says things like that, so filthy and honest and pleading, like every part of him is breaking open just to be filled by me.
He means it. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his body trembles slightly, like his skin is screaming for me. This isn’t his trauma talking. It’s not a mask. It’s Lucas wanting, aching, and mine.
But before I can act on it, movement outside the car catches my eye. I see the estate’s butler making his way toward us, holding a large umbrella over his head as rain pours steadily around him.
My jaw clenches. Not now.
I flick my eyes back to Lucas, who’s still watching me with those wide, flushed cheeks, his innocent face giving away nothing of the filth he just whispered.
“For someone with a face that sweet,” I murmur, voice rough with need, “you sure know how to make my cock hurt.”
He blinks, lips parted in silent surprise, but the red flush on his cheeks deepens. His eyes grow hazier, more pleading, and I swear I almost lose it right then.
The butler finally reaches us and knocks gently on the window. I lower it a few inches, fixing him with a glare that has him immediately straightening.
“Sorry for the disturbance, Mr. Alexander,” he says politely, rain speckling his coat. “Your arrival was just announced. Dinner has already started.”
I don’t even hesitate.
“Tell them to go on without me,” I say, voice sharp with command. “We’ll join them shortly.”
He nods quickly, eyes flicking between me and Lucas, clearly sensing the heat in the car. I don’t give him a second more. I roll up the window without waiting for a reply and turn back to Lucas, my expression darkening with the full weight of everything I’ve been holding back.
My voice is low. Firm. Unmistakable.
“Take off your pants.”