"Thank you," Lucas replied, his gaze never leaving mine. "She'll be down momentarily."
The spell broken, I stepped back, gathering my purse and phone. "I should go."
"Of course." He maintained a careful distance as he walked me to the elevator. "I have appointments most of today, but dinner? Tomorrow night?"
I should have said no. Should have insisted on time to think, to process, to establish those boundaries he'd mentioned. Should have been the responsible adult I prided myself on being.
Instead, I heard myself say, "Yes."
His smile was subtle but genuine, reaching his eyes in a way that made my heart stutter. "I'll text you the details."
The elevator arrived, its doors sliding open with soft precision. I stepped inside, turning to face him as the doors began to close.
"Lucas," I said impulsively. "This scares me."
"Good," he replied, just before the doors sealed between us. "The best things usually do."
The descent was smooth, silent, giving me too much space to think. To second-guess. To imagine worst-case scenarios and catastrophic outcomes. By the time I reached the lobby, anxietyhad overtaken the lingering physical satisfaction, replacing it with gnawing dread.
The car waited as promised, and the driver, discreet and professional, held the door for me.
The privacy screen was raised, giving me a small cocoon in which to continue my spiral of self-recrimination.
My phone buzzed with a new email notification. Miles again, following up on lunch.
The sight of his name on my screen sent fresh guilt coursing through me. Whatever had been between us was over, had been his choice to end, but that didn't erase the fundamental betrayal of sleeping with his father.
I should cancel the Westlake project. Should end whatever was developing with Lucas before it destroyed all of us. Should make the responsible, ethical choice.
My fingers hovered over the screen, preparing to compose an email withdrawing from the account. It would be the right thing. The smart thing. The safe thing.
Instead, I opened Miles's email and typed:Lunch works. Thompson's at 1pm?
As I hit send, I recognized the self-destructive impulse driving the decision. The part of me I'd just acknowledged—the part that craved intensity over safety, risk over security—was taking control. Pushing me toward choices I knew could end in disaster.
I was agreeing to lunch with the son less than twelve hours after I'd been in his father's bed. Was maintaining a professional connection that would require regular interaction with both men. Was stepping right into the center of a family dynamic already strained without my involvement.
And I couldn't stop myself.
Because beneath the guilt and anxiety and fear lurked something more powerful, more compelling—the memory ofLucas's hands on my body, his voice in my ear, his recognition of parts of me I'd never shown anyone else. The promise of more nights like the last, more moments of connection that transcended the physical.
I typed another message, this one to Lucas:
Tomorrow at 8. Send me the address. And Lucas? I want more.
Direct.
Unapologetic.
A declaration of intent that frightened me even as I sent it.
His response came almost immediately:
As do I, little fox. As do I.
Three simple words that sealed our fate. That pushed me further down this path of beautiful destruction.
I closed my eyes, leaning back against the leather seat as the car navigated through morning traffic.
