Chapter 26
twenty-six
. . .
Lucas
The door to my childhood bedroom barely closes before my hands are on her, unable to maintain the restraint I’ve been clinging to all evening.
Watching Jess command the room in that emerald dress for hours, feeling her occasional knowing glances across crowded conversations, has been exquisite torture.
“Finally,” I murmur against her neck, inhaling the intoxicating blend of her perfume. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?”
She laughs, and the sound vibrates against my lips as her hands work at my bow tie. “I have some idea. Your poker face isn’t quite as good as you think.”
“Only with you,” I admit, finding the zipper of her dress with practiced ease. As I slide it down, revealing the expanse of her back, I recall how my fingers traced this same path on the dance floor, how she shivered then just as she does now.
“Cold?” I ask, echoing our earlier exchange.
Her smile is knowing as she turns in my arms, letting the dress fall to the floor in a pool of emerald fabric. “Not even close.”
The sight of her nearly undoes me—no bra, just the tantalizing curve of her breasts and a thin scrap of lace between her thighs.
She’s all smooth skin and quiet confidence, standing there like she was made to destroy my self-control.
My body responds instantly, straining against my pants as I take in every perfect inch of her.
Unlike last night’s hesitation, tonight, there’s certainty between us, a decision already made, anticipation replacing uncertainty.
“You’re staring again,” she observes, her fingers resuming their work on my shirt buttons as I reach up to cup one of her bare breasts in my hand and run my thumb over her hardening nipple.
“Can you blame me?” Her hands push the shirt from my shoulders, and I savor the feeling of her hands exploring my chest.
Her smile turns wicked. “It was a strategic decision.” Her fingers trace along my ribs. “Every detail.”
I walk her backward toward the bed, my hands never leaving her skin. When her legs hit the mattress, I lower her gently, following her down until we’re a tangle of limbs and shared breath. The playfulness between us shifts, deepening into something more intense as I look into her eyes.
“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” I confess, my voice rougher than intended. “About you.”
“Me, too,” she admits, a rare moment of complete honesty without deflection or wit. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling me down for a kiss that’s both tender and demanding.
I take my time exploring her body, relearning the landscape I discovered last night, but with a new purpose. When my mouth travels lower, she arches with anticipation, already knowing where I’m headed.
I press a kiss to her inner thigh and then pause to admire the view. “I believe we have unfinished business from last night.”
“If you’re expecting another glowing performance review, you’ll have to earn it,” she challenges, though her voice trembles slightly.
“I never settle for adequate,” I remind her, holding her gaze as my mouth finds her center.
Her response is immediate and gratifying: a gasp, her head falls back, and fingers tighten in my hair.
I work with deliberate patience, using the knowledge gained last night to drive her higher.
This isn’t about proving a point anymore; it’s about watching her come undone, about the trust implicit in her surrender.
When she’s close, trembling on the edge, I slide one finger inside her, then another, curving them just so. The effect is electric, and her back arches sharply as a stream of breathless profanity mingles with my name.
“Lucas,” she gasps, her voice breaking. “Please—”
I intensify my efforts, determined to give her what she’s asking for without making her beg. When she shatters, it’s with an intensity that sends a wave of satisfaction through me that has nothing to do with ego and everything to do with connection.
Before she’s fully recovered, I move up her body, capturing her mouth in a kiss that tastes of her. She responds hungrily, her hands roaming down my back to push impatiently at my remaining clothes.
“Off,” she commands, and I comply, shedding the last barriers between us.
When I return to her, she surprises me by flipping our positions, straddling my hips with newfound purpose. In the moonlight filtering through the curtains, she looks otherworldly, all sleek lines and with a determined expression, her hair falling in waves around her shoulders.
“My turn,” she declares as her hands splay across my chest.
“By all means.” I settle my hands on her hips, content to let her take control. “I’m at your mercy.”
“Dangerous admission, Carmichael.” Her smile is wicked as she leans down to press a trail of kisses across my chest, moving steadily lower. “I’m not known for my mercy.”
My breath catches as her mouth follows the path her hands have blazed, exploring with the same thoroughness that she brings to her reporting.
Her tongue traces patterns across my skin, pausing to lavish attention on particularly sensitive spots she discovers, cataloging each sharp intake of breath, every involuntary muscle flex under her touch.
When her lips move lower still, past my navel, my hands fist in her hair.
She takes me in her hand first, stroking slowly while her eyes never leave mine, watching my reaction with the same intense focus she uses during interviews.
Then her mouth follows, warm, wet, and impossibly skilled, and all coherent thought dissolves.
I’ve been with women before, but never like this, never with someone who seems to understand my body’s responses as intuitively as her own.
The way she alternates pressure, the small sounds of satisfaction she makes that vibrate against me, the methodical way she pushes me toward the edge, only to ease back before I can fall over it—it’s maddening and perfect, and I’m rapidly losing the ability to form words.
My breathing becomes ragged, my body taut as a wire, and just when I’m certain I can’t take anymore, I catch her wrist and pull her up to me with a growl of pure need.
“Jess,” I rasp, my hands tangling in her hair as I bring her face to mine. “I have plans for that mouth of yours. So many plans. But right now, I need to be inside you.”
Her eyes darken at my words, and she shifts upward, settling over my hips with deliberate slowness. “Before we go further—protection?”
The question cuts through the haze of desire, grounding us both in reality. Even in this moment of passion, Jess remains practical, thoughtful.
“Nightstand drawer,” I reply. “Unless…”
“I’m on the pill,” she says, “and I was tested about two months ago. All clear.”
“Same here. Six weeks ago, all negative.” I reach to brush a strand of hair from her face. “But I have condoms if you’d prefer. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
She considers this for a moment, her eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.
“I’ve never done this before,” she admits softly. “Without protection, I mean.”
The admission catches me off guard. “Neither have I,” I confess, realizing as I say it how true it is. “Not once.”
Something shifts between us. It’s an acknowledgment that this is uncharted territory for both of us, not just physically but emotionally. The vulnerability in her eyes mirrors what I’m feeling, and there’s a connection beyond the physical that terrifies and exhilarates me in equal measure.
“I trust you,” she says finally, and the simple statement carries more weight, perhaps, than she intends. “But only if you’re comfortable, too.”
“I am,” I assure her, touched by her consideration. “Very.”
A smile tugs at her lips as she positions herself above me. “Together,” she says softly, and the single word carries more meaning than any elaborate declaration.
I nod, unable to speak as she sinks down and takes me inside her with agonizing slowness.
She’s impossibly tight, wrapping me in a warm heat, and the way she fits around me feels like coming home and losing my mind all at once.
The sensation is overwhelming, and every one of my nerve endings is alive and singing as she takes me deeper, inch by torturous inch.
When she’s fully seated, I can feel her trembling slightly, her body adjusting to accommodate me.
For a moment, we remain still, our foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air, both of us stunned by the intensity of the connection.
She feels like silk and fire wrapped around me, like everything I never knew I needed until this very moment.
She sits up and begins to move, finding a rhythm that starts deliberate and measured, I’m captivated by every detail.
The way her muscles tense and relax beneath her skin.
How her breath catches when I hit a particularly sensitive spot inside her.
The soft sounds she makes, half-sigh, half-moan, when my hands slide up to cup her breasts, my thumbs circling her nipples until they harden further under my touch.
She is breathtaking above me, illuminated by the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
The light plays across her skin, highlighting her curves, the elegant line of her neck, the flush that spreads across her cheekbones and down to her chest. Her blonde hair falls in tousled waves around her shoulders, and I reach up to thread my fingers through it, anchoring her to me.
“You’re beautiful,” I breathe, but the words are inadequate for what I’m feeling.
Her eyes meet mine, startlingly clear despite the haze of desire between us.
The connection is almost too intense to bear while I’m buried deep inside her.
Without breaking eye contact, she reaches down and takes my hand from her hip.
For a moment, I think she’s going to guide me between her legs, but instead, she presses my palm firmly against her chest, right over her heart.
I can feel the wild flutter of her pulse beneath my palm, matching the frantic rhythm of my own. She doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t need to. The gesture speaks volumes, catching me off guard with how raw and unguarded it feels.
The sensation of her heartbeat against my hand, her warmth surrounding me, and the sight of her lost in pleasure is almost overwhelming. Something shifts inside me, a fundamental change I can’t quite name but can feel transforming me with each shared breath.
She leans down, and her breasts brush against my chest as she captures my mouth in a surprisingly tender kiss, given the intensity of our bodies’ connection.
The change in angle makes us both gasp. I wrap my arms around her, with one hand splayed across her back and the other tangled in her hair, holding her close as she rolls her hips in a maddening rhythm.
“God, Jess,” I groan against her mouth, unable to form more coherent thoughts as she clenches around me. The friction is exquisite, almost unbearable. I’m fighting for control, desperate to make this last, even as every muscle in my body tenses toward release.
“You feel…” I start, but words fail me.
The intensity builds between us, a feedback loop of pleasure and connection. When I feel her tighten around me, I slip a hand between us, circling precisely where I know she needs it most. Her reaction is immediate as she releases a sharp gasp, and her movements become erratic.
“Lucas,” she breathes, her voice breaking on my name. “I can’t—”
“Let go,” I urge, feeling my own control slipping. “I’ve got you.”
She shatters with a cry that I capture with my mouth, following her over the edge a heartbeat later. The pleasure is blinding, overwhelming in its intensity—not just physical release but something deeper, more significant.
As we collapse together, breathing hard and our hearts racing in tandem, I hold her close, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek, anywhere I can reach. The tenderness I feel should frighten me, but in this moment, with her warm weight against me, it seems natural, inevitable.
When our breathing steadies, she shifts to lie beside me, her head pillowed on my shoulder, her leg draped over mine. The comfortable silence stretches between us, but I can sense her mind working, processing, analyzing what just happened.
“I can hear you thinking,” I murmur, tracing patterns on her bare shoulder.
She laughs softly. “Occupational hazard.”
“Want to share with the class?”
Propping herself up on one elbow, she studies my face in the dim light. “What are we doing, Lucas?”
It’s the question that’s been hovering between us since last night, since Vegas, maybe since that first meeting eight years ago in a baseball dugout.
“Right now? Enjoying each other,” I say carefully, feeling my way through unfamiliar emotional territory. “Beyond that, I don’t know.”
She nods slowly. “This weekend feels like a bubble. Away from reality, from cameras and contracts and complications.”
“Maybe it can be,” I suggest, the words forming before I’ve fully considered them. “A bubble. A pause from everything else.”
“What do you mean?”
I choose my words carefully, aware of the dangerous ground we’re treading. “Maybe what happens here stays here. No expectations, no complications when we go back to L.A.”
Part of me hopes she’ll argue, that she’ll insist that this is more than a weekend fling, but the rational part knows this is safer for both of us. Our arrangement has clear parameters, a definite end date. Allowing feelings to complicate things can only lead to pain when those six months are up.
“A weekend pass,” she says thoughtfully, testing the idea.
“Exactly.” I try to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest at her easy acceptance. “We get this out of our systems, then go back to reality, or at least the reality we’ve created.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I wonder if she sees through the lie I’m telling us both. But then she nods, her fingers tracing abstract patterns on my chest.
“Ok,” she agrees. “A weekend bubble.”
I pull her closer, sealing our agreement with a kiss that feels too meaningful for what we’ve just decided. As she nestles against me, warm and trusting, I realize with stark clarity that I’m fooling myself. This isn’t getting her out of my system. It’s letting her sink deeper into my veins.
But for now, the fiction of the bubble protects us both. Tomorrow will come soon enough, with its reality and complications. Tonight, I’ll hold her and pretend that this is all we need, all we want, knowing already that when our time is up, I won’t be ready to let her go.