13. Chapter 12
Chapter 12
Luke
N ancy kneels between my legs, her hands resting firmly on my thighs, fingers tracing slow, absent-minded patterns over the fabric of my jeans. My breath comes a little too fast, my body a little too tense, as she looks up at me, her blue eyes dark and knowing.
She’s taking her time.
Dragging this out.
Enjoying every second of it.
She unbuttons my jeans, so I lift my arse so she can pull them down. My boxers come down with my jeans. Pure lust spreads across her face when she takes hold of my hard cock.
“I think I know how to thank you,” she chuckles before swirling the tip of my dick with her tongue.
I should say something, make some clever remark, regain some kind of control, but my brain is static, my focus narrowing to the way she moves, the heat of her hands, the soft press of her lips as she trails kisses lower, her breath warm against my skin.
My fingers tangle in her hair, more instinct than thought. She gently sucks me into her warm mouth, and I am ready to explode. She tilts her head slightly, letting me guide her, her smile just barely there before she continues.
A quiet curse slips from my lips as my head falls back against the sofa.
She is absolute sin wrapped in soft curves and teasing glances, and I know I’m done for.
Her touch is slow, deliberate, designed to drive me mad. She uses her lips, her tongue, and her fingers to provide the sweetest torture there is.
I try to keep some kind of restraint, try to hold on, but Nancy doesn’t let me.
She works me apart with steady hands, soft lips, quiet, wicked confidence—until I can do nothing but sink into it, gripping her hair, groaning her name, and giving in completely.
Nancy moves with a quiet confidence, like she’s enjoying every flicker of control she has over me… and she does have it. Completely.
Too much.
I groan, my hand sliding to her cheek, tilting her face up. My cock pops from her mouth, glistening with the moisture of her saliva. Her lips are slightly swollen, her eyes hooded, and there’s a smugness in the curve of her mouth that nearly ruins me.
I exhale sharply, letting out a breathless chuckle, half-dazed, half-destroyed.
“Come here,” I murmur, my voice rough.
I guide her up, pulling her into my lap, capturing her mouth with mine, the urgency shifting into something deeper, something slower. My hands slide over her back, memorising every dip and curve, savouring the warmth of her against me.
But it’s not enough.
Not here.
Not like this.
I take her hand, leading her through the dimly lit hallway, the only sound the soft creak of floorboards beneath our steps. Neither of us speaks, but the air between us is thick, humming with anticipation, charged with something that’s been building since the moment she stepped into my world.
When we reach the bedroom, I step aside, watching as she moves toward the bed.
Nancy doesn’t hesitate.
She reaches for the thin straps of her dress, sliding them down her shoulders with an easy, unhurried confidence. The fabric pools at her feet, leaving her standing there in nothing but lace underwear, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
She holds my gaze, eyes dark with something undeniable, something that makes my pulse hammer in my throat.
Then, slowly, she takes off her underwear as well and climbs onto the bed, stretching out against the cool linen, her body relaxed but expectant.
Her fingers trace along the duvet, an invitation in the way she tilts her chin, in the deliberate way she looks at me.
“Well?” Her voice is soft, teasing, but there’s something deeper in it, too… a challenge, a promise.
I exhale slowly, giving my cock a few deliberate, desperate pumps.
She is absolute perfection, stretched out in my bed, waiting for me.
And there isn’t a single chance in hell that I’m making her wait any longer.
I move fast—too fast—dragging my shirt over my head like it’s personally offended me.
Nancy watches, amused, her head resting on her hand as she stretches out across the bed, her bare legs crossed at the ankles, looking so utterly relaxed while I’m here losing my mind over her.
Then, because of course I do, I catch my foot on the edge of the rug and nearly go flying.
Nancy laughs her whole body shaking with it, her blue eyes alight with mischief.
I straighten quickly, scowling, though it’s hard to be properly annoyed when she looks so damn beautiful like that.
“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I mutter.
She bites her lip, still grinning. “Oh, I am.”
I narrow my eyes. “Right. That’s it.”
I move.
Crawling onto the bed, pinning her beneath me before she can wiggle away, my hands sliding over soft, bare skin. She gasps, but it melts into breathless laughter, her fingers threading through my hair as I kiss her until she’s not laughing anymore.
Just breathing me in.
Just melting into me.
I slow things down, letting my lips explore, letting my hands trace the curves of her, taking my time with her.
She sighs into me, soft, and warm, and utterly irresistible, her body moving with mine, her hands roaming, her lips parting against mine. Like she owns the place, she opens the drawer of my bedside table and takes out a condom. With a confident grin, she tears it open and rolls it on. The sheer ease of it nearly undoes me. I inhale sharply, then kiss her, deep and wanting.
And when I finally sink my hard cock into her slick pussy, I feel ready to explode. We move together, slow, deep, deliberate… nothing frantic now, nothing rushed. Just feeling. Just learning each other in a way that feels more dangerous than I expected.
Nancy whispers my name, her fingers curling against my back, her body pressing into mine. I want to get even closer to her, I want to get as close as I can. I kiss her deeply as we both shudder to a perfect orgasm. If I could stop time, it would be right in this moment.
Because this isn’t just sex.
It’s something else entirely.
The bed feels too empty when I wake up.
I blink against the early morning light filtering through the curtains, my body still heavy with sleep, my mind slow to catch up.
Then it does.
Nancy.
I turn over, expecting to find her curled up beside me, tangled in the duvet, the way she should be.
But the space next to me is cold.
She’s gone.
I let out a quiet curse, raking a hand through my hair as I sit up. Again?
Pushing the irritation aside, I shove on a pair of shorts and head downstairs, because this doesn’t sit right. Not after last night. Not after everything.
When I step into the kitchen, I find her.
She’s sitting at the table, a mug of tea cradled in her hands, wearing the most ridiculous pyjamas I have ever seen—grey cotton, covered in tiny kittens.
And somehow, she even makes that look sexy.
Her hair is still messy from sleep, her legs folded up beneath her, her fingers curled around the mug like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded.
But she’s too still.
Too quiet.
Her gaze is fixed on something far away, her lips pressed together in a way that immediately puts me on edge.
I frown, stepping closer, leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. “Morning.”
She doesn’t kiss me back.
My stomach drops.
Something’s wrong.
I slide into the chair across from her, watching the way she keeps her fingers curled around her mug, like she’s bracing herself.
Something is off.
“Nancy,” I say carefully. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales slowly, then lifts her gaze to mine.
And when she speaks, her voice is calm. Controlled.
“Who are you, Luke?” She pauses. “Or should I call you John Brooks?”
My stomach tightens.
Before I can respond, she pushes a sheet of paper across the table towards me.
I glance down.
A royalty statement.
One of mine.
The name John Brooks printed neatly across the top, the figures beneath it a clear reminder of the life I’ve kept separate from her.
My jaw tenses.
She folds her arms. “I wasn’t snooping,” she says, voice even. “I saw it by coincidence when I was making tea.”
I drag a hand over my jaw, exhaling slowly. No point denying it.
I sit back, meeting her gaze. “I’m John Brooks. I mean, I’m Luke Evans, but my pen name is John Brooks.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
I grip the edge of the table, keeping my voice steady. “I was a criminal defence lawyer. That part was true. But I haven’t been one for a while.”
She stays quiet, watching me like she’s waiting for more.
I rub a hand over my face, exhaling slowly. “I’m a private person, always have been.” I glance down at the paper between us, then back at her. “But working in criminal defence made me even more… guarded.”
Her expression stays unreadable, but I know she’s listening.
I lean back in my chair, fingers tapping lightly against the table. “When you spend years defending people accused of some of the worst things imaginable, it changes you. You see what people are capable of. You see the darkest parts of human nature, and you start expecting the worst from everyone.”
Her fingers tighten around her mug.
“I became pessimistic. Distrusting.” I shake my head slightly. “And then the books happened. I started writing as an escape from all of it. At first, it was just a side thing. A way to get it out of my head.” I let out a dry breath. “Didn’t exactly expect to become a bestselling author.”
Nancy tilts her head, still silent, still watching.
I glance at the paper again. “The few times I’ve told people; it’s gone one of three ways.” I hold up a finger. “They belittle it, ‘oh, you write crime books, how cute.’” Another finger. “They immediately try to get me to help them get published, as if that’s how this works.” A third finger. “Or—on occasion—they think I must be sitting on a ridiculous amount of money and they suddenly become very interested in what I can do for them.”
Nancy’s brow furrows slightly, but she doesn’t interrupt.
I shake my head. “It’s like the second people hear the name John Brooks; Luke Evans stops existing. And I just… I hate it.”
Silence stretches between us.
I drag a hand through my hair. “So, I don’t tell people when I first meet them. Not because I’m trying to lie, but because it’s easier that way. If they’re going to stick around, they usually figure it out eventually.”
My mouth quirks slightly, but there’s no humour in it. “Not that many people tend to stick around.”
Nancy keeps her gaze on me, steady and unreadable. Then, finally, she speaks.
“Do you think they don’t stick around because they feel like you’re hiding something?”
I exhale sharply, leaning back in my chair. “Maybe.” I tilt my head, meeting her eyes. “Or maybe nobody’s ever really made the effort to get to know me… until you turned up.”
Nancy studies me, her blue eyes sharp, but there’s something softer there, too. Like she’s trying to see past all of it.
“So,” she says eventually. “Who is Luke Evans?”
Her expression remains unreadable and that unsettles me more than if she were angry or shouting.
I don’t know how to do this.
I don’t know how to sit across from someone, lay myself bare, and hope they don’t look at me differently afterward. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of keeping people at arm’s length. It’s safer. Easier. Less messy.
But she’s here. Still here.
And for the first time in a long time, I want someone to see me properly.
So, I try.
I exhale slowly, my fingers pressing into the table. “I like the quiet. But that doesn’t mean I like being alone.”
Nancy’s brows pull together slightly, like she’s turning those words over in her head.
I rest my elbows on the table, lacing my fingers together. “I’ve really only got one friend. Well, two.” I pause. “Philip—he’s my editor. He’s been with me since my first book. And his husband, Mark. They’re probably the closest thing I have to family.”
“Your editor?”
I nod. “Yeah. But he is so much more. He’s been managing my career for years. Knows me too well, really.” I smirk slightly. “He’s also the most persistent person I know. If it weren’t for him, I’d probably still be a miserable lawyer, hating my life.”
She tilts her head. “So, he convinced you to quit law?”
“More like bullied me into it,” I admit. “Told me I had talent, that I was wasting my time defending people I didn’t believe in when I could be writing books instead.” I glance down at the royalty statement she’d pushed toward me. “Turns out, he was right.”
Nancy watches me, quiet for a beat, then asks, “And aside from Philip and Mark?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “That’s it.”
Her fingers tighten slightly around her mug, but she doesn’t speak.
“My parents are gone. No siblings. No family.” I exhale slowly. “It’s just me.”
Something flickers across her face, but she keeps her voice steady. “That sounds… lonely.”
I don’t answer. Because it is.
I shift slightly in my seat, clearing my throat. “I like to cook. Obviously. Not a fan of dogs… especially after Bernard’s biological attack last week.”
Nancy snorts, and for a brief moment, the weight on my chest lifts.
“Winter is my favourite time of year,” I add.
Her head jerks up slightly, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “You? The human embodiment of mild disapproval, enjoying winter?”
I exhale a small laugh. “Yeah.”
“Explain yourself, Evans.”
“I like the way everything slows down. The cold. Fires. The excuse to stay in and just… exist.” I pause. “And I like Christmas.”
Nancy’s eyes widen slightly, and it’s ridiculous how much I like that reaction.
“You?” she breathes.
I nod. “I put up a tree every year. Lights. Tacky decorations. The whole thing.” My throat tightens. “Even though nobody ever sees it… aside from me, of course.”
Something flickers across her face. Something soft, something that makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I haven’t completely messed this up.
I clear my throat. “I hate book signings. Hate having to be John Brooks. Because I have the same name as a Hollywood actor, I had to pick a pen name and somehow this pen name has taken on its own persona. John Brooks is a self-assured, crime-obsessed author. But it’s all fake. I’d rather just be Luke Evans.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then, softly, she says, “I think I like Luke Evans.”
And just like that, the walls I’ve spent years building crack a little more.