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“Breast man, huh?” I manage.
A wicked grin curls his lips as his eyes lift to mine. “Just these breasts. Give me a second to live out my favorite teenage shower fantasy.”
The words trigger another flood of heat at my core. The thought of a seventeen-year-old Lucas fantasizing about my breasts is weirdly, excessively erotic.
“You wanted me,” I whisper, almost disbelievingly.
With a final squeeze, his hands leave my chest. I almost moan at the loss, but then he clasps my neck, gripping tenderly as he lifts my face toward his. His eyes are stark with desire, simmering with an emotion that makes my breath catch.
“I’ve wanted you since the summer before sophomore year. Probably before then, if I’m honest, but that’s when I started having to jack off every morning before seeing you or risk sporting wood all day.”
My laugh is soundless, a rough exhale tinged with an unexpected bite of pain. I can’t help but remember that last summer at camp, our single, stolen kiss and the searing burn of his rejection the following morning.
My gaze lowers. I bite my lip, a pang of old hurt curling through me. “You sure hid it well.”
“Hey. Look at me.” I do, and his eyes scan mine, his chest heaving on a deep breath. “Whatever you may think, I’ve never not wanted you, and what I felt then is nothing to what I feel now. A match flame to a forest fire. Hate me tomorrow, Celeste, but give me tonight. I don’t deserve it, but I’m still asking. Please.”
The last word is a whisper. A plea wrenched from a dark, lonely place inside him that mirrors the same place inside me: the echoing cavity left by his absence in my life.
The past melts away in the heat of the moment, the tension in his body, the flickering need in his eyes, the spasms of his fingers on my neck and in my hair.
I touch his face as I’ve always, always longed to, tracing his temples and cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, and finally dragging my fingers across his lips. Going to my tiptoes, I press a soft kiss to that beautiful mouth.
“Yes.”
26
He guides me by the hand. Down the hall, up shadowed stairs, and into a dim bedroom. The only light comes from the bathroom, the door half-closed. A gentle glow reaches the bed.
I swallow hard, my heart drumming with anticipation and sudden nerves. I’ve only been with three people in my life, and two of them were mistakes. Lucas, on the other hand, exudes that particular magnetism of a man experienced in the bedroom.
He doesn’t flaunt it. I know he’d never brag about it. But… us women just know.
“Come here,” he murmurs, tugging me the final few steps to the bed. He sits on the edge and draws me between his legs, his hands clasping my hips as mine fall naturally to his shoulders.
Then he looks up at me and smiles—a subtle curve of lips that makes my stomach flip.
“The thought of you at my mercy is”—he sucks air through his teeth, then blows out hard—“almost enough to make me nut right now. But if you want to be the boss, I’ll let you. Fuck, you can do whatever you want to me and I’ll love every second.”
My voice, it seems, was left downstairs with my shoes. All I can do is make a small, pitiful sound. His smile widens, those enchanting eyes on my face even as his thumbs begin tracing circles on my hipbones. My cotton pants might as well be invisible, my body so sensitized it feels like he’s touching bare skin.
“Does that mean you want me to be in charge?” he asks.
There’s so much tension beneath my hands, his shoulders rock hard in stark contrast to his fingers, which remain gentle.
“Nod or shake your head, Peapod.”
Maybe it’s the use of my nickname that does it—a reminder that this is Lucas—but my inhibitions fly out the proverbial window.
I nod, sharp and graceless.
Some of the tension in him eases, his head bowing toward my chest. A warm kiss presses between my breasts. Farther south, his fingers deftly untie the drawstring of my pants. With little fanfare, he tugs the material over my hips and sends it to the floor.
“Well, isn’t this a lovely surprise.”
His gravelly voice sends a bolt of heat straight to where he’s looking: at the flimsy, bright red, lacy underwear cradling my sex. His gaze flashes up, so full of desire, of all the things he wants to do to me, that my thighs squeeze together helplessly. He notices, of course, and to my immediate horror, his head lowers again toward my belly, and he drags in a heavy breath through his nose.
“Fuck, you smell divine.”
