3. Harmony
HARMONY
The moment Lucas’s mouth presses to mine, everything inside me goes quiet except the rush of wanting him closer.
He kisses me with one hand cupping the back of my neck and the other at my waist, his fingers spreading there as if he’s trying to remind himself not to take more.
I make a small sound against his mouth, and whatever restraint he’s been holding on to slips.
He steps into me, backing me against the front door, and the hard strength of him makes my knees go weak.
I forget the porch. I forget that we’re standing outside my parents’ house.
I forget every sensible reason this should feel too fast, too sudden, after one dinner and ten years apart.
All I know is that Lucas is kissing me, and I’m kissing him back with both hands on his chest, desperate for the solid heat of him beneath my palms.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is uneven, and his forehead rests against mine. His eyes open slowly, dark and focused in a way that sends a shiver through me.
“Harmony,” he says, my name rough in his throat.
I swallow, dizzy from the kiss and from the man in front of me.
Somewhere between dinner and this porch, the boy I used to know has slipped completely out of reach.
I can remember him, but I can’t see him right now.
Right now all I see is huge shoulders, a hard jaw, hungry eyes, and a man who’s looking at me as if he’s been waiting longer than he wants to admit.
“Do you want to come in?” I murmur.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Yes.”
I unlock the front door with hands that aren’t entirely steady and step inside. He follows me in, closing the door behind him with a click that seems to seal us away from the rest of the world.
“My parents are out for the evening,” I say distractedly. “They’re having dinner with friends. They won’t be back for a while.”
Lucas goes still behind me.
I turn. His eyes hold mine, and something raw moves through his expression. “You telling me that because you want me to behave, or because you don’t?”
My stomach flips. “I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
I breathe out a nervous laugh. “No. It isn’t.”
He crosses the space between us in three strides.
Both of his hands frame my face this time, and the next kiss is deeper, hotter, less careful.
I rise onto my toes to meet him, and he makes a rough sound that vibrates through me as his hands slide down my sides, over my waist, to my hips.
He grips me there, hard, firmly enough that I know he could move me anywhere he wanted.
The thought makes my whole body go soft.
We stumble down the hallway between kisses, half-laughing and half-moaning each time we collide into the wall.
I point toward the guest room, and Lucas walks me backward through the open door, his mouth moving from mine to the side of my throat.
My hands shake as I reach for the buttons on his shirt, and he covers them with his own.
“Slow down,” he murmurs.
“I don’t want to.”
His eyes flash. “I know. That’s the problem. I want to savor this.”
I tug my hands free and get the first button open. “Lucas.”
We can both hear the need in my voice. He kisses me again, and there’s nothing careful about the way he backs me to the bed.
His shirt comes off first, and I barely have time to process the solid muscle of his chest before his hands are on my top, asking without words.
I lift my arms, and he pulls it over my head, his gaze dropping to my bra with such open hunger that I stop feeling self-conscious and start feeling powerful.
“Jesus,” he says. “You’re beautiful.”
My breath catches. “You can touch me.”
His hands claim my waist, then move upward with maddening patience.
When his thumbs brush beneath the curve of my breasts, my back arches, and he exhales hard through his nose.
He unhooks my bra and slides it down my arms, then cups my tits in both hands, his thumbs stroking over my nipples until I gasp.
“You like that, huh?”
“I like everything you’re doing to me.”
“Good. That’s what I want to hear.”
He lowers his mouth to my breast, and pleasure shoots straight through me. I dig my fingers into his hair while he sucks one nipple, then the other, his beard scraping lightly against my skin. Everything about him feels too big, too hot, too much, but my body wants all of it.
He lays me back on the bed and strips off my jeans with careful hands that don’t match the tension in his face. When I’m in nothing but my underwear, his gaze drags over me with so much want that I press my thighs together. He notices immediately.
“Don’t hide from me.”
The command in his voice sends a rush of heat through me, and I relax, letting my thighs part.
His fingers hook in my underwear and pull them down slowly, exposing me inch by inch until I’m on full display for him.
Lucas looks at me for a long second, his jaw rigid, then lowers himself between my thighs.
The first touch of his mouth steals all of the air from my lungs.
He licks me with slow, devastating strokes, his hands spreading my thighs wider.
I cry out, and he groans against me, the sound sending another rush of heat through my body.
His tongue circles my clit, then presses firmer, and my hips lift off the bed.
“Oh my god,” I moan. “Lucas.”
His big hands lock around my thighs, holding me open while he works me higher.
I feel wet and aching and helpless under his mouth, my cream slick against his tongue as he eats me with a focus that makes the room disappear.
When he slides two fingers inside me, thrusting them in and out of me while his mouth stays on my clit, I come so hard I don’t even recognize my own moans.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is wet, his eyes dark, and my entire body pulses at the sight of him. He stands and strips off the rest of his clothes, and I stare because I can’t help it. His cock is thick and hard, and I’m consumed by the thought of him being inside me.
He comes over me slowly, bracing one arm beside my head. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want it.”
“Tell me exactly what you want.”
I meet his eyes. “I want you inside me. I need you inside me.”
The head of his cock presses against me, swollen and slick with pre-cum. He pushes in slowly, inch after inch, and my fingers grip his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Harmony.”
I feel stretched, filled, completely taken by the slow, steady drive of him. He gives me time, kissing my mouth, my jaw, my throat, murmuring my name against my skin until the ache is almost unbearable. I wrap my legs around his hips, and his control finally snaps.
He grinds his hips against me and starts fucking me deep and hard, one hand gripping my thigh while the other braces against the mattress.
Every thrust sends pleasure surging through me, and I cling to him, breathing his name against his mouth.
He drops his forehead to mine, his jaw clenched, his body powerful over mine.
“Touch yourself,” he grits out. “I want to feel you come around me.”
The words push me closer. I slide my fingers between us and rub my clit, so swollen and wet. His pace turns faster, his breathing more ragged, and when my second orgasm hits, I cry out against his shoulder, my pussy tightening around his cock.
Lucas curses, thrusts once, twice, then goes tense above me as he comes. His mouth claims mine, and for a moment neither of us moves. The room is quiet except for our breathing, and his weight is warm and heavy in a way that makes me feel incredibly, inexplicably safe.
Morning comes in thin light and creeping panic.
For several seconds, I don’t move. Lucas is asleep behind me, one big arm over my stomach, his chest warm against my back. The guest room is too quiet, the sheets are tangled around our legs, and my body feels tender in ways that make every memory from last night rush back at once.
The kiss.
His hands.
His mouth.
The way I said his name when I came.
My face heats so fast I have to press both palms over it.
I don’t regret it. That’s the problem. Regret would be easier. I could tell myself we got carried away, that it was a mistake, that the past made everything feel more intense than it really was.
But I liked it. I liked all of it. And that makes the panic worse, because I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with the fact that I slept with Lucas after one dinner.
I came home to figure out my life, not complicate it with the boy who used to know every version of me and the man who now knows what I sound like when I fall apart under him.
Lucas shifts behind me, his arm tightening for half a second before he wakes. His mouth brushes the back of my shoulder in a sleepy, affectionate touch that makes my throat close.
“Morning,” he murmurs.
“Morning,” I barely whisper.
He goes still. I feel the change in him. The relaxation fades, replaced by alertness so fast it’s startling. He lifts himself on one elbow and looks down at my face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Harmony.”
Of course he doesn’t believe me. I sit up, pulling the sheet with me. “It’s just morning.”
His gaze moves toward the closed bedroom door, then back to me, and I watch him come to the wrong conclusion. “Your parents back?”
I nod.
“Okay.” He sits up, calm and already solving a problem I haven’t actually named. “I’ll head out before they realize I stayed over.”
“Lucas, you don’t have to?—”
“It’s all right.” He reaches for his clothes, moving quietly. “I’ll call you later.”
The words should reassure me, but they only twist the knot in my stomach tighter. He gets dressed, then leans over the bed and brushes a kiss against my forehead.
“Get some more sleep,” he says.
Then he slips out.
I sit there in the tangled sheets, listening to the faint creak of the hallway floor and the careful opening of the front door.
A day later, I get to the park early with two coffees and a stomach full of nerves.
The day is bright, cool, and too pretty for the conversation I’ve been practicing since I texted Lucas yesterday.
He’d called a few hours after he left, just as he promised, and I let it go to voicemail because I couldn’t make myself sound normal.
Then I spent the rest of the day staring at my phone, drafting and deleting messages until I finally asked if he wanted to meet up after his shift.
Now I’m sitting on a bench near the walking trail, one coffee cooling beside me and the other untouched in my hands.
Every few minutes, I rehearse the same words in my head.
Last night was nice. No, too mild. Last night was amazing.
Too honest. I think we should be careful.
Too vague. I value our friendship. Too formal.
By the time I see him walking across the grass toward me, every version has abandoned me.
He’s in a dark T-shirt and uniform pants, his hair lightly damp from a shower, his large presence enough to make several people glance his way as he passes.
My heart immediately starts behaving as though I didn’t invite him here to create distance.
He spots me, and he brightens, the kind of brightness that makes everything harder.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches me.
“Hi.” I stand too quickly and nearly spill coffee on my hand. “I got you coffee.”
He takes it from me, smiling. “Thanks.”
For a second, neither of us speaks. He studies me over the lid of his cup, and I can tell he’s already reading too much from my face.
“What’s on your mind?” he asks carefully.
I breathe in. “So…the other night was really nice.”
His expression stills.
Damn it.
“More than nice,” I add quickly. “It was good. Really good. I just think maybe we should slow down.”
He doesn’t move. “Okay.”
“I mean, we have history, and everything feels familiar, but it also doesn’t. I’m back home trying to figure out what I’m doing with my life, and I’m not sure it’s a great idea to rush into something like this.”
His jaw tightens.
I keep going because if I stop, I might not finish. “I think it would be smarter if we moved forward as just friends. At least for now.”
He looks down at his coffee, then back at me, and the smile he gives me is almost convincing enough that someone else might believe it.
I don’t.
“Friends,” he says.
“Yes.”
“Okay. I can do friends.”
The words land too casually.
“Lucas.”
“What?” He lifts one shoulder. “I’ll survive.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” His voice gentles. “If that’s what you need, that’s what we’ll do.”
Relief hits me, followed by something that feels far less comfortable. “Thank you.”
“Don’t feel bad for asking for what you want.”
I look down at my coffee because looking at him is too hard. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
“You won’t.”
His reassurance should make me feel better. It does, a little. It also makes my chest ache.
“So we’re okay?” I ask.
He nods. “We’re okay.” Then he smiles. “Does being friends mean I still get the coffee?”
I laugh because he clearly wants me to, and because I need the release. “Yes, Lucas. Friends can have coffee.”
“Good. Because this is the only thing keeping me upright after that shift.”
We sit on the bench together, close enough that I can feel the space between us as a living thing.
He tells me about a call involving a cat stuck on a roof, and I tell him about accidentally running into my tenth-grade English teacher at the grocery store.
The conversation works. It almost feels normal.
Almost.
When he eventually walks me to my car, he doesn’t touch my back. He doesn’t take my hand. He stays exactly the careful distance I asked for, and I hate how much I notice.
“Talk later?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
He steps back, coffee in hand, giving me room to leave.
I tell myself this is better. This is smart. This is how we protect whatever fragile thing came back to life between us.
I tell myself we’ll be fine.
Then I drive away with both hands tight on the wheel, wondering why fine feels so much like losing something.