Chapter 3
three
. . .
Kate
I barely cried at my father's funeral. Does that make me a terrible person?
He was never there—always working, always gone, chasing some new woman after Mom died.
The tears I shed were more for show than anything else.
The real tears came years before, when I realized he'd never see me, not really.
Not like Lucas does. Lucas has always looked at me like I matter.
Even when I was sixteen and just a gangly teenager hanging around when he'd visit Dad, his blue-gray eyes would find mine across the room, and for once, I'd feel real.
That's when I fell in love with him. Not that he knows.
But today—my nineteenth birthday—I plan to make it impossible for him to ignore anymore.
Because Lucas is really the only thing I want for my birthday.
I stand in front of my bathroom mirror and smooth my hands over the tiny booty shorts I bought online last week.
They're criminally short, cupping the bottom curve of my ass.
The crop top is just as bad—thin white fabric that clings to my breasts, showing the hard points of my nipples through the material.
No bra. I've seen how Lucas looks at me when he thinks I don't notice—the heat in his eyes when I bend over to pick something up, the way his jaw tightens when I walk around in my pajamas.
He wants me. He just won't admit it.
For two weeks, I've been the perfect houseguest. Quiet. Respectful. Playing the grieving daughter while secretly counting down the days until my birthday. Until today. Because I'm done waiting for Lucas to make the first move. I'm done with him treating me like I'm made of glass.
I apply another coat of lip gloss, fluff my honey-blonde waves, and head downstairs. Lucas is in the kitchen, his broad back to me as he stirs something on the stove. He's wearing a gray henley that stretches across his shoulders, worn jeans that hug his ass in a way that makes my mouth water.
"Smells good," I say, leaning against the doorframe.
He turns, and the wooden spoon in his hand freezes mid-air. His eyes widen, then darken as they travel from my face down my body in one slow sweep. His throat works as he swallows.
"What are you wearing?" His voice comes out rough, almost a growl.
I shrug, feigning innocence as I walk into the kitchen. "Just something comfortable for my birthday dinner. Is that pasta?"
I move closer, deliberately brushing against him as I peer into the pot. I feel him tense beside me, his body going rigid. Up close, the scent of him—sandalwood soap and something distinctly male—makes heat pool between my thighs.
"Kate," he says, my name a warning on his lips. "Maybe you should put on something…more."
"More what?" I look up at him through my lashes. "Don't you like my outfit?"
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "It's not appropriate."
I play innocent. “Why not?" I reach up to grab plates from the cabinet, knowing full well it makes my crop top ride up, exposing the underside of my breasts. "Besides, it's just us. No one else to see."
Lucas turns abruptly back to the stove, his knuckles white around the spoon. "Dinner's ready. Sit down."
Throughout the meal, I make sure to lean forward, giving him glimpses of my cleavage. I lick sauce from my lips slowly, watching his eyes track the movement. When I drop my napkin and bend to retrieve it, I hear his sharp intake of breath.
"So," I say, twirling pasta around my fork, "I was thinking we could watch a movie after dinner? Just us?"
"Whatever you want," he says, his voice tight. "It's your birthday."
"Whatever I want," I repeat, letting the words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
He clears his throat. "I got you something." He pushes a small wrapped box across the table.
Inside is a delicate silver necklace with a tiny angel pendant. Not flashy or expensive, but thoughtful. My heart melts. “Thank you! It’s perfect. Will you put it on me?" I ask, standing and moving around the table to him.
I turn, lifting my hair, exposing the nape of my neck. I feel him hesitate before his warm fingers brush my skin, sending shivers down my spine. The pendant settles in the hollow of my throat, his knuckles grazing my collarbone.
“I’ll never take it off,” I whisper, turning to face him. We're so close I can feel his breath on my face. "I love it."
For a moment—just a heartbeat—his eyes drop to my lips. Then he steps back, creating distance between us.
"Movie time," he says gruffly.
In the living room, I choose the spot closest to him on the couch, curling my legs under me so that my thigh presses against his.
The movie is some action thriller I barely pay attention to.
Instead, I focus on Lucas—the rise and fall of his chest, the tension in his forearm as his hand grips the armrest, the heat radiating from his body.
Twenty minutes in, I stretch languorously, arching my back just enough to make my breasts strain against my top. I hear his breathing hitch.
"Mind if I lie down?" I ask, and without waiting for an answer, I shift to rest my head on his thigh, my face dangerously close to his crotch.
His entire body goes rigid. "Kate..."
"Hmm?" I look up at him innocently. "Am I bothering you?"
"No," he rasps, but I see his hands curl into fists on the armrest.
I wiggle slightly, getting comfortable, and my breast brushes against his knee. He grabs a throw pillow, positioning it over his lap with forced casualness. But not before I notice the thick ridge straining against his zipper.
Bingo.
For the rest of the movie, I torture him with small movements—stretching my legs, letting my hand rest on his knee, making soft little sounds during the tense scenes. Each time I feel him respond—a twitch of muscle, a sharp inhale, the pillow pressing more firmly against his lap.
By the time the credits roll, the air between us is electric with tension. I sit up slowly, letting my body drag against his.
"That was fun," I murmur, looking directly into his stormy eyes. "Best birthday ever."
Something flickers in his gaze—hunger, need, conflict—before he masks it. "It's late," he says, voice rough. "We should call it a night."
Disappointment courses through me, but I don't push. Not yet. I've made my point tonight. He wants me. There's no denying it now.
"Goodnight, Daddy,” I say softly, leaning in to press a kiss to his stubbled cheek. My lips linger a second too long, and I feel him shudder. "Thank you for making my birthday special."
In my bedroom, I strip off my clothes and lie back on the sheets, my body humming with unfulfilled desire. I slide my hand down my stomach, between my thighs, finding myself embarrassingly wet. I imagine it's Lucas's fingers touching me, Lucas's deep voice in my ear.
"Such a good girl," he'd growl, the praise making me whimper.
My fingers circle my clit, pleasure building fast and urgent. I picture Lucas above me, his powerful body covering mine, his cock stretching me open. In my fantasy, he's praising me, telling me how perfect I am, how wet and tight.
"That's it, angel," fantasy-Lucas rasps. "Come for Daddy."
My back arches off the bed as I climax, my free hand pressed against my mouth to muffle my cry as I whisper, "Daddy," into the darkness of my room.
Spent and trembling, I stare at the ceiling, determination hardening in my chest. I've waited two years for Lucas Hale. I've seen the way he looks at me. The way he wants me.
And I'm done waiting.