Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Lucian
Never Forget Clause Nine: No Catching Feelings
Her lips are slick against mine—hot, clumsy, perfect.
She kisses like she’s still in the middle of it like we didn’t just break each other open, and then try to pretend we’re fine.
Her breath catches, and I feel it against my mouth.
I’m trying to breathe, trying not to fall.
Too late.
I hold her there, one hand tangled in her hair and the other curled around her hip.
I don’t want her to move.
Not yet. Not until I’ve memorized her shape like this—flushed cheeks, damp strands sticking to her temples, lips kiss-bruised and swollen as if she’s been whispering sins into my mouth.
When she finally pulls back, her nose brushes against mine.
Her eyes open slowly, revealing a tiny crease between her brows like she’s already overthinking it.
Already searching for something to say that won’t mean anything because she’s scared that if it does, it might start to mean everything.
I know the look. I wear it every time I look at her.
She exhales through her nose and clears her throat.
“So, uh . . . that was a very thorough onboarding process. There’s certainly much we need to discuss, but it’s a solid start.”
God, her voice is hoarse.
I can still hear the way she moaned my name.
Now she’s trying to pull a Becky Fuller, all bright-eyed and awkward, using it like its armor.
I run my thumb along her jaw.
“Didn’t want HR coming after me for failing to cover the benefits package properly.”
She snorts.
It’s adorable. “Right. Because you’re so big on protocols.”
I lift a brow.
“Hey, I’m very compliant. Especially when you wear Tuesday panties on a Monday.”
Her face scrunches up like she wants to laugh and hide under the covers simultaneously.
“Can we please not talk about the panties?”
“No promises,” I murmur, brushing a kiss against her mouth.
“They’re basically my Roman Empire now.”
Her laugh bursts like she wasn’t ready for it, and something in my chest pulls tight.
She’s still on top of me, her skin pressed against mine, yet I can sense her attempting to pull away—emotionally, mentally, behind that fast-talking, never-stand-still charm.
She shifts, glancing down at the mess between us.
“Okay, um, do you have a towel or a mop or—paper towels?”
“I think I’ve got a sock that’ll do the trick.”
“Lucian,” she gasps, smacking my chest.
I grin, but the moment stills just enough for something real to slip in.
She starts to sit up, and I catch her wrist—not hard, not urgent.
Just enough.
She pauses, eyes meeting mine.
“You okay?” I ask, low.
That tiny crease comes back.
She nods, quickly. Too quickly and I’m not sure if I like it.
“Yeah. Totally. I mean, this is what we signed up for, right?” she states or asks, I’m not sure.
Right.
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
I feel it—the slight internal shift, the subtle sting of her brushing it off like it’s just a checkbox.
Like this didn’t mean something.
Like she didn’t just wreck me in the best damn way possible.
I let go of her wrist. She slips off me and reaches for her shirt, slipping it over her head in one smooth motion.
Her movements are casual, maybe even a little clumsy—her fingers catching on the collar, her hair trapped inside it until she pulls it free.
She looks like a woman trying very hard to stay composed, but her cheeks are still flushed, and she won’t quite meet my eyes.
She stands, adjusting the hem of the shirt that now clings to her in places, her chest still faintly streaked with what I gave her.
She wipes at it with the edge of the fabric and sighs.
“Well . . . that’s gonna leave a weird laundry moment.”
I sit up slowly, resting my forearms on my knees.
Watching her.
“Olivia.”
She looks at me—finally.
I don’t say it. I almost do.
The truth of it—it’s there, heavy on my tongue.
This wasn’t just a release.
I’ve never wanted to kiss someone like this afterward.
I've never wanted to pull them into me and hold them close, just to make sure they were still there.
But I’ve always been better with action than words.
So, I stand. Cross to her. And when she goes to say something else—probably another joke to lighten the air—I kiss her again.
This one’s different.
It’s not a claiming. It’s not control.
It’s soft. Messy. Full of everything I don’t say.
Her breath catches. Her fingers curl into my sides. At first, she kisses me back with hesitation, but then, all at once, she kisses me with abandon.
When I pull back, her eyes stay closed a second too long.
I run a hand through her hair and murmur, “You wanna shower? Or should I grab you a commemorative sock?”
She huffs out a laugh, eyes fluttering open like she’s halfway between bliss and disbelief. “Shower. And don’t follow me in.”
I force a grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Even though I absolutely fucking would.
Not in a creepy way. Not even in a way typical of a horny football guy.
Just in a ‘please let me be near you five seconds longer,’ kind of way.
But she’s already turning, heading toward the bathroom as if she hasn’t completely blown my mind and short-circuited half my moral code.
I stare at the spot where she stood just moments ago. It’s still warm, still carrying the scent of vanilla, of sex, and that lavender shampoo she pretends she buys for Sarah.
My hands drop to my sides, useless now.
God, I wanted more. I wanted her pressed against the tile, water trickling down her back while she moaned my name again. I wanted to kiss her under the spray and make her forget whatever overthinking spiral she’s probably spinning into right now.
But instead, I let her go.
Because she asked.
Because whatever this is between us, it’s real enough that I’m not about to ruin it by pushing. She deserves someone who listens when she says no, even when his body is screaming fuck yes.
So, I fall back on the only armor I’ve ever had—humor and cocky deflection.
“Not until round two of your training module is scheduled,” I add, deadpan.
She pauses in the doorway just long enough to roll her eyes.
And smile.
That little smile—the one she doesn’t even know she gives me—sticks with me long after the bathroom door closes and the water starts running.
And me?
I stand in the middle of my room, still naked, definitely half-wrecked, and already wondering how I’m supposed to survive the next few hours without touching her again.
Craving it.
Craving her.