Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Olivia
The Roommate Agreement (With Some Benefits Pending)
What do you do after a soul-searing kiss?
You fix it with an agreement.
Obviously, there can’t be any other logical step.
Not running away to the nearest hotel or changing identity.
Nope.
You create a roommate agreement.
Here’s the thing no one tells you about living with your ridiculously attractive, mildly insufferable neighbor-turned-roommate.
Eventually, your brain stops registering him as a “hot nuisance.” It starts cataloging him as the “person I would absolutely let ruin my life with a single well-placed touch.”
Which is a problem.
A huge, penis-shaped, smirking problem.
Especially when the man is currently shirtless, leaning against the kitchen island like he owns every inch of this house—including the space in my brain that he’s been squatting in rent-free—and wielding a pen like it’s a mic and he’s about to deliver the closing arguments in the world’s most unnecessary case: Why Olivia Should Sign the Roommate Benefits Agreement.
It all started with that kiss, his regular teasing and takeout dinner.
We went from agreeing to set boundaries to now discussing .
. . this.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this nonsense. You’re not even drunk,” I accuse, eyeing the bottle of wine he opened as if he’s hosting a very exclusive TED Talk on Poor Decisions and Red Flags.
Lucian grins—slow and smug, like his charm ages in oak barrels.
“Not true. I’m wine-tipsy. There’s a difference.”
“Wine-tipsy,” I repeat, shoving a dumpling into my mouth.
“You made that up.”
“I did not. Wine-tipsy is when you’re just sober enough to sound brilliant and just buzzed enough to get away with bullshit.” He lifts his glass and clinks it against mine.
“To loopholes.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That feels like a threat. I want this agreement to be...”
“A promise,” he interrupts smoothly, nudging a single sheet of paper toward me.
I glance at it. Then at him.
Then, back at it.
It says—because of course it does—Roommates with Benefits: Terms and Conditions.
I blink. “You wrote a sex contract.”
“Not a sex contract,” he corrects, clearly offended.
“A lifestyle alignment document. With benefits.”
I snort.
“Lucian.”
“Liv.”
“I’m not signing a ‘lifestyle’ anything. Especially not one where the ink smells like cologne and poor choices.”
He sips wine and tilts his head like he’s posing for a cologne ad.
“You kissed me.”
My stomach flutters like a traitor.
“You kissed me back,” he adds, voice lowering just enough to get under my skin.
“You also moaned. A little.”
“I choked on my own saliva.”
“And grinded against me,” he adds.
“That was a reflex,” I snap, pointing a chopstick at him.
“Like when you flinch at a balloon popping.”
“Oh, so now I’m a balloon?” His grin turns lethal.
“Was I full of air or confetti?”
“Gas. Mostly gas.”
Lucian throws his head back and laughs, full, bright, and way too attractive.
Then he leans in like he’s about to confess a secret he already knows I want to hear.
“Look, all I’m saying is we’re living together. We clearly have . . . tension.”
“Which I’m managing,” I argue.
“You infuriate me and yet look at me. I’m cool as a cucumber. No yelling, no attempts to bury you under Sarah’s bed . . . no need for this agreement.”
He ignores me entirely.
“And we’re adults. Hot, intelligent, highly responsible adults with very real, very physical needs.”
“That’s not a medical diagnosis.”
“It’s a vibe,” he says, tapping the paper like it’s gospel.
“This contract is just a responsible, no-pressure agreement between two adults who want to make bad decisions . . . efficiently.”
I stare at him.
And just to prove him wrong—because I know I’ll find loopholes—I read it.
Okay, maybe the reasons are different.
Maybe it’s because I’m buzzed and curious and one loose hairpin away from seeing how far this can go.
Lucian’s handwriting is precisely what I expect: bold, messy, and loopy, even when it’s not cursive.
Roommates with Benefits: Terms and Conditions
Clause 1: This arrangement is physical only.
Clause 2: No dating.
Clause 3: No falling in love.
Clause 4: All activities must be consensual, enthusiastic, and scheduled around Sarah’s walk and sleep schedule.
Clause 5: Either party may terminate the agreement with one (1) week’s notice or in case of emotional compromise.
Clause 6: There will be snacks post-activities.
No exceptions.
Clause 7: This agreement is sexual and consensual, and all parties will remain monogamous—meaning we don’t sleep with other people.
Clause 8: We shall exchange a recent Comprehensive STI blood work and discuss contraception (preferably no condoms).
I lift a brow. “Clause six?”
Lucian nods solemnly.
“Sex burns calories. Refueling is self-care.”
“Lucian, this is?—”
“Efficient?” he offers.
“Logical? Wildly sexy?”
“Madness.”
“Sure. But our kind of madness.” He slides the pen toward me, the movement slow and deliberate.
“Just imagine it, Liv. No pressure. No games. Just . . . you and me. Tension relief. Mutual satisfaction. Unstrategic nudity.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Unstrategic nudity isn’t a thing.”
He grins.
“Yet.”
I reread the clauses, my eyes skimming the list with amusement and disbelief.
Until I hit Clause Eight —again.
We shall exchange recent comprehensive STI blood work and discuss contraception (preferably no condoms).
And that?
That sentence yanks me to a complete halt.
Grabs me by the throat—and not in that sexy, panty-melting way Lucian probably intended.
I blink. Once. Twice.
The rational part of my brain—the part that alphabetizes my spice rack and flosses nightly—starts screaming.
Loudly. Like, grab the contract, rip it in half, yeet it across the room, and toss the remains in his smug, shirtless face levels of screaming.
But I don’t move.
Because my thoughts are now spiraling.
Not slowly. Oh, no—it’s a full Olympic-level descent into debauchery.
His mouth. His hands.
That kiss last night—desperate and raw, as if I were oxygen and he had gone years without breathing.
Those texts.
Those texts.
The things that this man has sent me during staff meetings and grocery runs are filthy, brazen, and perfectly targeted smut that makes me question every moral fiber I thought I possessed.
And now?
Now, I’m wondering what it would feel like.
No barriers. No latex.
No buffer.
Just him.
Skin on skin. Nothing between us.
And that . . . isn’t just sex.
That’s trust. That’s intimate.
It’s real in a way I haven’t allowed myself to think about in a long time.
My fingers twitch.
“Problem?” Lucian asks, lounging like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Like he didn’t just casually nuke my brain from across the kitchen.
“I don’t know if I have time to go to the doctor just to get a comprehensive STI panel,” I say, voice higher than usual.
More like a squeak. Fantastic.
“We can have the team physician swing by,” he offers, far too casually.
“Discrete. Fast. Reliable.”
“I swear to God, if you tell the team we’re getting tested for sex?—”
“I won’t tell the whole team,” he interrupts, laughing.
“But if it makes you feel better, I’ll hire someone. Private. Zero connections to football.”
“You’re not helping,” I hiss, clutching the paper like it personally betrayed me.
“I’m just saying we can use condoms. Like regular people.”
His brows lift slightly.
“When were you last tested?”
I narrow my eyes.
“Around my birthday. June.”
“Perfect,” he says as if this whole thing is a business transaction and not a complete emotional breakdown on my end.
“You could share the results. I’ll share mine from last week, and we’re good.”
“No,” I snap.
“We are not good. This isn’t some . . . history report. That’s too intimate. Not using condoms is a whole thing.”
“Is that what you always do?” he asks, curious but not pushy.
I stare at him. “Why? Is that what you always do? Not use condoms with rando FWB?”
He leans back slightly, his face shifting—something quieter there, something that makes me shut up and listen.
“I don’t have sex as often as people like to believe, Olivia.”
I snort.
“Sure.”
He doesn’t smile.
“I mean it. Since my divorce? It’s been . . . hard. Hard to meet someone I trust enough to even think about going there.”
I soften.
Just slightly.
He looks at me, no trace of his usual smirk.
“When you find out your marriage was built around how much she could get from you, not how much she loved you . . . it kills the whole casual thing. Makes you question what’s real.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Because I didn’t expect that.
And now I’m standing here, completely disarmed by a clause in a joke sex agreement and the raw, tired truth on his face.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
“Condoms until I feel like it’s okay.”
His eyes meet mine.
No challenge. No teasing.
Just a nod. “Condoms, unless you agree not to use them. I’ll follow your lead.”
And for a second, it’s not funny.
It’s not flirty. It’s just honest.
Vulnerable.
And then . . . “Also,” he says, reaching for his wine again, “I’m adding Clause Nine.”
“Oh God. What now?”
“No comparing me to balloons or gas-powered objects during foreplay.”
I glare.
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I have self-esteem, Olivia. Let me live.” He glares at me.
“And you’ll stay on your side of the bed—assuming we’re even using a bed, which is not a guarantee.”
“Not a guarantee,” he echoes, already grinning like he’s won.
“Okay,” I say, reaching for the pen.
“But if you even whisper the word ‘cuddle,’ I will drown you in your protein powder.”
He grabs the takeout box like it’s the most romantic prop in the world.
“Deal sealed. Sign, please.”
I scribble my name.
He follows, signing “General Lucian Crawford, Esq.”
I blink.
“What is that signature?”
“It’s my contract persona,” he says with a grin that oozes swagger and zero shame.
“It’s my alter ego. General Lucian gets things done.”
I arch a brow.
“General Lucian sounds exhausting.”
He says with a grin that oozes swagger and zero shame, “And you, Dr. Olivia Halston, are now officially in this with me. Welcome to our mutually beneficial, emotionally-void partnership.”
I don’t get a chance to fire back with something clever.
Because the second those words leave his mouth, Lucian closes the distance between us as if he has been restraining himself this whole time—and he’s finally done pretending.
His hands are in my hair, gripping like he’s trying to memorize the feel of me.
My fingers clutch the front of his T-shirt like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
There’s nothing cautious about this.
Nothing planned or strategic.
This isn’t General Lucian making a move.
This is Lucian—unfiltered, unscripted—kissing me as if he has waited too long and finally snapped.
I melt into it.
I kiss him back.
I don’t think.
Don’t analyze.
Don’t remind myself that we just signed a contract designed to keep feelings out of this.
Because in this moment, the only thing I feel is him.
And, fuck, it feels good to fall.