Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Lucian
Addendum Nine: We’re Fucked
She’s still wrapped around me: breath hot against my neck, nails trailing lightly down my back like she’s trying to hold onto something she’s already afraid she lost.
I should tell her she hasn’t.
That she won’t.
That I’m not going anywhere.
If she needs it, I’ll stay forever.
But that’s delusional, right?
That’s endorphins, sex haze, and too many days of pretending this isn’t real—when it clearly fucking is.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
I don’t want to.
Her chest rises and falls against mine, uneven and slow like she’s riding the comedown from something that hit harder than either of us expected.
And maybe it shouldn’t have felt like this.
Maybe a hallway fuck shouldn’t have unraveled me.
But here we are.
I press a kiss to her temple—just a soft brush of lips, instinct more than thought—and feel her go completely still.
Then a shaky breath.
Then her voice, barely a whisper.
“I think I forgot how to walk.”
I huff a laugh, still buried inside her, not even pretending to be functional.
“That’s okay. I can carry you.”
“No, no,” she mutters.
“We’re not doing that. You don’t get to go full romantic hero right after rearranging my pelvic floor with that big cock.”
“You say that,” I murmur, “but your legs are still wrapped around me like you’re auditioning for koala mating season.”
She groans but doesn’t move.
Doesn’t let go.
I run my hand slowly up her spine.
Her skin’s damp, flushed, her hair sticking to her forehead.
Her eyes are dazed, lips kiss-swollen, and I swear I’ve never seen anything so perfect in my life.
But she needs a reset.
A breather.
So, I kiss her jaw and whisper, “Come on, let’s shower.”
She blinks at me.
“What?”
“You heard me. You’re shaking and sweaty. We’re getting clean.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“Yes, I am?—”
I slide my hand down her thigh.
“You’re trembling.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue again, but I’m already lifting her higher so we can move.
She gasps as I slide out of her, slow and slick.
I bite back a groan that doesn’t sound half as composed as I want it to.
“You’re impossible,” she mumbles as I carry her down the hallway.
“Sure,” I say. “But you’re letting me carry your exhausted ass to the bathroom, so maybe you’re just as bad.”
“I should sue you for damages,” she grumbles.
“I was walking perfectly fine until you weaponized that cock.”
“So, you’re saying you don’t want my cock anymore?”
She snorts.
“No need to spiral. I’m just . . . never mind.”
“See?” I grin.
“You love my cock and maybe next time you want it, I’ll make you beg and apologize for calling it an appendage like it doesn’t matter.”
She attempts a glare but it’s pathetic at best—too soft, too undone.
When I set her on the shower bench and turn on the water, she just slumps back against the tiles.
“This shower could fit ten people at least,” she mutters.
“Why is it so big? Are you planning orgies? I could even shave in here.”
“Do you want help shaving, baby?” I run a finger along her thigh, dangerously close to where she’s still throbbing.
“I meant my legs,” she says, voice cracking with exhaustion.
“Though yes, I keep it trimmed.”
“Let’s table the shaving and the orgy for another day,” I say as I strip off my sweats.
“Right now is all about recovery.”
She groans as I peel off her tank top and tug her leggings away from her ankles.
Next time, I should undress her or just ask her them not to wear clothes while she’s in my house.
Olivia’s limbs feel like jelly, and she doesn’t even fake protest when I guide her under the warm spray.
She sighs, and her shoulders drop, releasing some of the tension.
“Better?”
She nods.
I step in behind her, wrap my arms around her waist, press a kiss to her neck, and breathe her in.
We just stand like that for a minute—her back to my chest, steam curling around us, the night still clinging to our skin.
I grab the shampoo and lather it into her hair, massaging gentle circles into her scalp.
She leans back against me, her head resting on my shoulder.
“You’re spoiling me,” she says, voice soft.
“I know.”
“Don’t.”
My hands still.
She turns, blinking at me through wet lashes.
There’s something raw in her eyes that nearly levels me.
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” she says.
“What? Washing your hair?”
“All of this.” Her voice wavers.
“You’re not supposed to be like this.”
“Like what?”
“Tender.”
She says it like an accusation.
I blink. She’s wet, bare, vulnerable in a way she probably didn’t mean to be, and looking at me like I just ruined something we promised not to touch.
“I’m not trying to make this complicated,” I say carefully.
“I know. But it is.”
And there it is.
The retreat.
The wall is going back up.
She steps away, grabs the soap like it’s armor, and scrubs at her arms like she’s trying to erase the way I just kissed her shoulder like it meant something.
“Olivia—”
“I’m good,” she says too brightly.
“Clean. Satisfied. Hydrated. Ready to go.”
She doesn’t look at me when she says it.
Just grabs the soap like a shield and starts scrubbing her arms like she can erase the tenderness from her skin.
So I don’t push.
I don’t ask her to stay.
Or to talk. Or to feel anything she’s not ready to feel.
Instead, I grab the soap and help her anyway—gently washing her back, and arms, running suds down her spine and across the curve of her hip, even though she’s already mostly done.
Even though she’s pretending this didn’t mean anything.
Even though I already know I’ll do it again tomorrow.
And the day after that.
Because I want to.
Because I’m fucked.
And maybe—just maybe—so is she.
We finish the shower in silence, our bodies close, skin brushing skin as the water rinses us clean.
I towel her off first. Soft and slow.
Her cheeks are pink from heat, her hair curling around her temples, and she doesn’t flinch when I dry the back of her neck.
She just lets me.
Then I dry myself and press a kiss to her damp hair like a goddamn goner.
Like, I don’t care that she’s pretending we’re fine and I’m pretending I don’t want to kiss her until we’re both raw again.
I hand her one of my old T-shirts, and she pulls it over her head without comment.
It hangs on her like temptation—like a dare.
Still, I say nothing.
Not until we’re both back in the kitchen, her fingers twisting the hem of the shirt, her hair towel-wrapped and dripping down her back.
“So,” I say, grabbing a dish towel and tossing it on the counter.
“Wanna order takeout?”
She blinks at me.
“What about the salmon?”
I peer at the pan on the stove.
Still warm. Slightly overcooked, maybe.
Abandoned in the name of hallway sex.
“Salmon might be past saving,” I say with a shrug.
“Could’ve dried out. And the spinach salad’s probably wilting.”
She lifts the lid on the pan, pokes at the salmon with a fork, and narrows her eyes.
“It’s actually perfect.”
“Oh. Well, shit.” I grin.
“Guess we eat like adults tonight.”
She rolls her eyes and grabs plates as if it’s not a big deal that she’s still barefoot, in my shirt, eating with the man who just made her forget her name for ten straight minutes against a wall.
We sit across from each other—bare knees knocking under the table, pretending that everything’s normal.
Like she didn’t moan my name like a prayer.
Like I didn’t carry her into the shower like she was mine.
She takes a bite of the salad and sighs.
“Strawberries are still good.”
“I’m shocked. Thought the whole fridge might’ve gone to hell while we were . . . occupied.”
“Time moves differently during hallway sex,” she says dryly, stabbing at a spinach leaf.
I nearly choke on my bite.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
She shrugs.
“What else do you call something that leaves your soul and hamstrings permanently altered?”
I bark out a laugh.
God, she’s fucking perfect.
For a moment, we simply eat.
No tension. No teasing.
Just the quiet clinks of forks and glasses.
But it doesn’t last. Not for me.
Because the second she shifts in her chair—tugs the oversized shirt down over her thighs as if she's unaware of its effect on me—I know I’m doomed.
I can’t pretend anymore.
I can’t sit here and play it cool. Can’t smile across the table and then sleep two feet from her as if I don’t still taste her on my tongue.
I set down my fork.
She notices. Of course, she does.
Her eyes flick to mine, cautious. Curious. A little guarded.
I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not sleeping without you tonight.”
Her lips part.
Not in shock.
More like she knew this was coming. Like she was waiting for me to say it.
“I know you’re scared,” I say, voice low, “and I’m trying really fucking hard to be patient. But Liv . . . you in my bed? That’s not just about sex anymore. I want to hold you. I want to fall asleep with your leg over mine and your hair in my face and wake up to your complaining about my alarm.”
Her eyes soften. Her throat works around a swallow.
I push the plate aside and stand.
“Come with me.”
I don’t mean for it to sound like a line, but there’s this charge low in my chest—tight, restless—and it won’t let me back down. I wrap an arm around her waist and ease her into my lap. Her thighs bracket mine, warm and soft, and I cup her face like she’s both a dare and a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.
“I don’t know what the fuck you did to me.” My thumbs trace along her cheeks, slow and sure. “This is all you. Me wanting you next to me. Wanting to kiss you until time forgets we’re here. Wanting to tell you things I’ve never said out loud. Wanting to fall asleep next to you and not feel like I’m the last one left.”
Her eyes go glassy. Not some dramatic, tear-streaked movie version—just a woman trying her best to remain composed, even as her edges begin to fray.
“It’s fucking terrifying,” I whisper. “But I want to figure it out. With you.”
She swallows hard, voice barely audible. “What if it breaks me?”
That stops me. Just for a beat. Then I kiss her forehead, her nose, the soft curve of her cheekbone. Gentle. Careful. Almost as if I’m learning a language she’s never let anyone speak before.
“Who hurt you, Liv?”
She exhales. Just a breath. Nothing more.
“There’s a reason you flinch when things get too real. A reason you keep your armor laced so tight. What happened, baby?”
She leans back just enough to see me. Not far enough to bolt.
“Love hurts,” she says, her voice almost . . . gone. “It ruins people. I saw it with my parents. One morning, my dad just… decided my mom wasn’t it anymore. No warning. No big fight. Just gone. For someone younger. Someone shinier. Someone with fewer laugh lines and no history.”
Her gaze drops to my chest like it’s safer than looking me in the eye.
“For years, Mom tried to make sense of it. She blamed herself for not being enough. And I—I don’t want that. I don’t want to love someone so much that they can wreck me.”
My ribs feel too tight.
I lift her chin so she has to meet my eyes. “You won’t be her.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“No,” I admit. “But I can tell you this: I’m scared too.”
Her brows lift slightly, eyes wide.
“I was married, Liv. To someone I thought had my back. Someone who smiled for the cameras and told me what I wanted to hear . . . until the whole thing became a business strategy. Ingrid didn’t care about love. She cared about leverage. About being the wife of a Crawford. About what she could take with her when she left.”
I rub the back of my neck, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe past it.
“After that, I figured maybe every woman wanted something. Status. Security. Headlines. Not love. Definitely not me.”
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch. Just listens, like she knows how hard it is to say this part.
“But then you came crashing in,” I murmur. “Didn’t care about my name. Didn’t care about my contract. You roasted my toast, stole my dog, and took my shirts. And somewhere between your sarcasm and that first kiss that made me forget my damn name . . . I started believing again.”
She blinks. And I swear she forgets to breathe for a full second.
“I’m not asking you to fall.” I pause. “I’m not asking for declarations or a grand plan. But if you’re scared . . . good. So am I. And maybe that’s how we know it’s real.”
Her bottom lip trembles.
So I kiss her.
Not because I’m trying to win her.
Because I already knew I lost the second she said my name as if I were something she wanted to keep.
The kiss isn’t hungry.
It’s not claiming.
It’s not about sex.
It’s slow.
Intentional. A confession I can’t say out loud.
And she kisses me back.
Like she’s letting herself believe.
Like maybe—just maybe—she’s ready to fall too.