“Jimmy,” he murmured, voice trembling.
“Yes,” I breathed, the word raw. “God—yes.”
Lucien’s hand found mine. The next thing I knew, he was leading me out of the kitchen. The air around us felt too thick to breathe. My heart hammered in my chest, and every step up the staircase was a slow surrender to something I couldn’t name.
He didn’t pull; he guided. His thumb traced slow circles against my knuckles, a silent promise that made my throat ache. The stairs creaked under our feet. The world had narrowed to the sound of his breathing, the rough slide of our palms, and the tremor in my legs that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting him.
We reached the landing. Lucien turned left, pushed open a door, and light spilled in from the tall windows.
His bedroom.
It hit me all at once—this was where I wanted to be more than anywhere else on earth. The realization came with a rush of shame and longing that nearly dropped me to my knees. Theroom was warm, the bed neatly made, dark sheets against pale walls, and the scent of him was everywhere—cologne and cedar and something wilder underneath.
Lucien let go of my hand. Then he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, then tossed it to the floor.
For a second, I just stared.
His body was everything I’d ever been afraid to want—lean muscle, dusted with dark hair, skin the color of sunlight through whiskey. A faint scar crossed one rib like a secret. His chest rose and fell, and my breath went with it.
Lucien didn’t speak. He stepped in closer, caught me around the waist, and kissed me again. The kiss was rougher now, desperate. His mouth claimed mine, and I couldn’t stop the soft sound that escaped me. The world dissolved into sensation—his heat, his scent, the weight of him pressing me backward until my calves hit the bed.
Then, Lucien lifted me off my feet.
He set me down on the mattress, the springs sighing under us. His mouth was still on mine, slower now, tasting, mapping, learning. Lucien’s large hands framed my face like I was something precious, and for a dizzy, perfect moment I believed it.
Then it happened.
The image slammed into my mind so hard I gasped. Daddy’s face—his eyes cold, his mouth a straight slash of fury. His voice followed, booming from the pulpit and the back of my skull all at once.
Abomination. Perverse. You’ll burn.
Scripture reeled through me like a whip. Better to pluck out the eye that offends. The wages of sin is death.
My body went stiff.
Lucien froze above me, sensing it immediately. “Jimmy?” His voice was soft, concerned. “Hey—something shifted. You okay?”
I couldn’t answer. I couldn’t even look at him. My lungs wouldn’t work. The room tilted; the air was wrong.
“I—” I pushed at his chest, weak at first, then harder. “I can’t.”
“Jimmy—”
“I can’t!”
Chapter Eight
Lucien
“Jimmy—wait!”
My voice cracked on his name. For a beat I thought he might stop, that the rope between us would pull taut and hold—but the only answer I got was the thuds of his feet pounding down the stairs.
“Jimmy!” I called again, and I heard the front door wrenched open, then the door hit the jamb with a brutal, shaking slam that rattled the picture frames along the hallway and set a high, shocked ring twanging in my ears.
Silence rushed in on the tail of it.
I ran downstairs, taking the steps two at a time. A heartbeat later his engine coughed to life, and then tires squealed against the street.
