He worked me through it, gentling his touch but never stopping, drawing out every last pulse until I was boneless and sated in the passenger seat.
"Better?" he asked, his amber eyes warm with satisfaction.
I nodded, unable to form words. He withdrew his fingers slowly and brought them to his lips, licking them clean with a deliberate, almost theatrical slowness that made my spent core clench with renewed interest.
"Good." He settled back into his seat, his gaze returning to the building across the street as if nothing had happened. "Now we wait."
I stared at him—at the slight curve of his lips, the satisfied gleam in his amber eyes, the way his hand rested casually on his thigh like he hadn't just finger-banged me to oblivion in a stakeout van. And I realized, not for the first time, that Lucien's particular brand of care was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.
He wasn't gentle. He wasn't soft. He was rough and possessive and sometimes terrifying in his intensity. But he saw me—really saw me—and he knew exactly what I needed, even when I didn't know myself.
"I love you," I said quietly.
His eyes flickered to me, surprise softening his features. "I know."
"Romantic."
"I'm not romantic. I'm practical." But his hand found mine across the center console, his rough fingers intertwining with my own. "And I love you too. Even if I'm bad at saying it."
"You're not bad at showing it."
He squeezed my hand, and we sat in comfortable silence, watching the door that refused to open, waiting for enemies who might never appear. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't exciting. But it wasours—this strange, chaotic life we'd built together.
And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
