Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Olivia
Emotional Spiraling Might Be Inevitable
The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind me, I press my back to it and inhale as I’ve just run a mile barefoot uphill— carrying an eighty-pound dog that’s almost as tall as me and a suitcase full of bad decisions.
My heart is doing that thing again.
You know, where it forgets the basic rhythm it’s had my entire life and instead opts for full jazz solos.
Every nerve ending is still lit up as if Lucian’s touch rewired me.
My skin’s flushed, my thighs are sticky, and his scent—clean sweat, want, and whatever sinful thing he whispered about dreaming of—is stamped all over me like a custom fucking signature.
I should turn on the water.
That’s what normal people do after a near-orgasmic, mind-melting, contract-sealing sex scene.
They shower. They rinse off their regrets.
They pretend they didn’t moan someone’s name like it was a damn mantra.
Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror.
My lips are swollen.
My neck looks like it had a passionate disagreement with someone who uses his mouth like a weapon of mass seduction.
My shirt? Streaked with proof of exactly what I did to my outrageously hot, maddeningly smug, contract-wielding neighbor.
I mean, I didn’t even let him inside me—and he still came undone like that.
Which . . . wow.
That happened.
I’ve never seen a guy coming like that on me.
It’s really my first and I wouldn’t mind if it’s not my last. It was so hot.
So much for not going full sex, if that wasn’t full sex, I don’t know if I’m ready for what full sex is going to look like with him.
Maybe I am. Maybe I want him to throw me on the kitchen counter, tear off my shirt, and finally let me wrap around him until I’m shaking.
Until all that cum is filling me.
God, I want to ride him.
Hard. Slow. Until I’m panting into his neck and he forgets every single rule he wrote in that ridiculous, borderline romantic sex contract.
I lean over the sink, palms pressed to the porcelain as if it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
My hair falls forward, frizzed and wild, still carrying the scent of sex and peanut sauce.
I don’t even care that I’m going to look like a poodle tomorrow.
I just need one second.
One second to breathe.
To regroup. To remind myself that this isn’t real.
We’re doing this responsibly.
With rules. With boundaries.
With a signed document, like mature adults who definitely aren’t developing feelings or imagining what it’d be like to wake up beside each other for real.
Nope.
Definitely not doing that.
I squeeze my eyes shut and turn the water on—because at this point, it’s either rinse off the lust or march back out there and let him destroy me again.
Thoroughly. Repeatedly.
And honestly?
The jury’s still deliberating.
I stare at the tile wall, then glance at my phone where I’ve already typed “Is it considered bad form to catch feelings after the benefits package is activated?”
My thumb hovers over send.
Don’t do it, Olivia.
Do not text Aspen.
She’ll go full therapist-meets-Disney-princess mode and say something profoundly sweet-slash-unhelpful like, “Feelings aren’t bad, Liv. They’re just little truths trying to wear shoes.” Or worse, she’ll sic Bruno on me—her terrifyingly intense soulmate who looks like he bench-presses feelings for fun and somehow still manages to treat her like she invented sunlight.
They don’t even believe in marriage, claiming it’s a contract designed to protect real estate rather than love.
“Love doesn’t need paperwork,” Aspen once stated while sipping matcha and braiding her hair like a woodland creature.
And here I am, fully wrapped in a towel of regret and a contract of convenience.
Yet it doesn’t feel like a waste.
Not even close.
If anything, it feels like I just signed up for something real—like the fine print said “You will feel things, idiot,” and I skimmed it like a rookie on two hours of sleep and half a granola bar.
I turn on the shower, watching as the water thunders to life and steam curls up like it knows secrets I haven’t yet admitted.
Like it’s trying to tell me, This isn’t just about sex, and you damn well know it.
“The steam is a liar,” I mutter, tugging my hair into a sad little bun and stepping under the spray.
“This is proximity. Hormones. Biology.”
And the fact that he resembles a goddamn football-playing Greek demigod who says ‘good girl’ as if it were sacred text.
That’s it. Simple biology.
A little oral worship.
Some minor contract violations pending review.
Still . . . I can feel him.
His mouth rested between my thighs.
The sound of his voice—low, rough, and possessive—when he claimed it was his.
The way he held me like he wanted to memorize the shape of me from the inside out.
My legs wobble at the memory.
Get.
It.
Together.
I scrub shampoo into my hair like it has wronged me personally, rinse away the heat, and try to ignore the fact that I’m flushing in places I’m not even touching.
When I step out of the shower, I don’t feel cleansed—I feel exposed.
Like steam isn’t enough to wash away the emotional residue of Lucian Crawford at full volume.
Five minutes later, I’m wrapped in a towel, hair dripping, and mentally preparing to re-enter the scene of the crime.
More like hoping he’s asleep so I can just head to my temporary bedroom.
If not, he might think I’ve drowned.
Or ran away through the bathroom window—I glance over but see it might be impossible since it’s too high, and I don’t even know if it can open.
He could think I passed out curled around a bar of lavender soap and a full-blown identity crisis.
But he’d be wrong. I’m still here.
Still spiraling.
Still way too into the man I’m supposed to be casually sleeping with.
I crack the door and peek out.
And nearly scream.
He stands effortlessly, as if gravity doesn’t affect him, as if he isn't burdened by the same pile of emotions I’m struggling to contain. He steps closer—slow, deliberate—brushing my damp hair from my shoulder, his fingers grazing the curve of my neck. I freeze.
Everything stills except my heart, which now performs Olympic-level gymnastics behind my ribs.
“Are you okay?”
I’m speechless because what can I respond? No, I’m . . . not sure how I am. “Tired. Yeah, I’m exhausted.”
“Then I’d probably have to make you tea,” he murmurs. “Or let you steal one of my shirts. Or offer Sarah’s emotional support services. She’s certified in guilt trips and cuddle therapy.”
Oh God, he’s being nice.
My towel suddenly feels very insufficient. My brain, too.
I should say something witty. Deflect. Pretend this isn’t happening. Or suggest the world’s worst idea, like crawling into his bed because it’s bigger, warmer, and would definitely ruin me.
“I’m not emotionally spiraling,” I say.
Lucian’s brow lifts in clear disbelief.
“Fine,” I amend, “I’m not not emotionally spiraling.”
His smirk returns, just enough to make me feel like I’m teetering on a ledge built out of heat and hormones.
“Come on,” he says softly, stepping aside and nodding toward his room. “Let me help you get settled.”
“Lucian—”
“No funny business,” he adds. “Unless you ask for it.”
“I’m in a towel.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
“You’re literally shirtless.”
“Exactly. We’re even.”
He leads me down the hall, his hand gliding over my lower back as if it’s nothing—as if it doesn’t short-circuit every rational thought in my mind.
His room is dimly lit, soft, and smells like him. Clean soap and comfort and something warm I don’t want to name. He disappears into his closet for a moment and comes back with a folded T-shirt and a pair of boxers.
“You want help?” he asks, voice low.
I hesitate. Then nod.
Because I’m tired.
Because my brain is pudding.
Because there’s a quiet in him right now that feels both safety and trouble all wrapped in one.
He holds the shirt up while I let the towel drop just enough for him to slide it over my head. His hands brush my sides, careful, yet confident. It’s oversized—of course—and smells like laundry and him. He crouches, guiding my foot through the boxers one at a time, his fingers grazing my calves.
I’m going to combust.
“There,” he says softly, standing. “Now you’re officially part of the lounge club.”
I stare at him, baffled. “You’re doing it again.”
“What?”
“Taking care of me.”
Lucian shrugs like it’s not a big deal. Like he’s not rearranging my internal structure every time he does something like this.
“Come on,” he says, pulling back the covers. “Sarah already claimed the side closest to the window. You get middle.”
“Middle?” I echo, even as I crawl in. “This bed is enormous. Why are we stacking like pancakes?”
“Proximity,” he says, sliding in behind me. “For health reasons, temperature regulation. Plus, spooning is part of the contract.”
“Which clause is that?”
“Addendum three. We accept warm cuddles and/or inappropriate morning wood.”
I laugh as I lean back against him. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me close, and the ridiculous thing is—it feels effortless. Too effortless.
Like we’ve done this before.
Like this is home.
His nose brushes the back of my neck. “You smell like my soap.”
“Should I remind you that I just came out of the shower?” I whisper.
“You’re the one who’s making it hard to sleep.”
“Is that a compliment?”
Lucian hums. “It’s a fact.”
And then—silence.
His breathing evens out behind me. His hand remains warm on my stomach. Oddly enough, I don’t feel like I need to run.
I close my eyes.
Wrapped in his shirt. In his arms.
Wondering when this stopped being about benefits and started becoming something that could break me wide open.