His fingers flex at his sides.
Then he mumbles, barely above a whisper, looking away, “You…don’t have to explain, it’s not like…”
Then I see it
The slight shift in his expression. The almost relief in his eyes, like he wants to believe me, like a weight is lifting off his chest, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, stepping closer.
His breath hitches.
Because the truth is, I need him to believe me, not just about this, but about everything. I reach out slowly, fingertips brushing against his wrist. He doesn’t pull away, but he stays rigid, like he doesn’t know what to do with the contact.
“I don’t want you doubting me,” I tell him softly.
He finally looks up at me, brown eyes glassy, uncertain.
“I—” He starts, then stops, like the words are stuck in his throat.
I squeeze his wrist gently, grounding him.
“Lucas,” I murmur, voice steady. “I mean it.”
I step forward, closing the space between us. He doesn’t move away, He just looks up at me with his doe brown eyes,glassy, his emotions spilling through the cracks he tries so hard to keep sealed. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
He’s so beautiful.
I reach for him, wrapping my hands around his waist and pulling him against me. He’s tense at first, rigid in my hold, but after a beat, I feel the resistance fade. His hands—small and hesitant— settle on my shoulders. Not pushing me away, not pulling me closer. Just there.
I couldn’t take my mind off him all week while in Thailand for my mother’s skincare launch. His lips, eyes, and the little, shy smiles he gives me sometimes.
My fingers trail up, brushing against his neck. The hickey is still there, faint but visible. A mark I left on his skin. I wonder if he touched it in the mirror. If he had traced over it with his fingers, like I would have. I watch him swallow, throat bobbing, and my gaze moves to his lips. Soft, Pink, and full.
“I want to taste you again,” I murmur, the words spilling out like a confession I can’t hold back.
He shudders. Lips parting, breath hitching. And I don’t waste it.
I kiss him.
For a heartbeat, I expect hesitation—but instead, he exhales sharply, almost a gasp, and melts into me. His hands clutch at my shoulders, desperate, pulling me closer until our bodies press flush. The second I deepen the kiss, he gives in, lets me in, and I drink him down like I’ve been starving.
Because I have.
I thread my fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head and claim him deeper. When my tongue brushes his, his whole body shudders in my arms, a sound slipping from his throat that makes me ache with want. I’m unraveling, undone by how responsive he is, by the way he clings, by the realization thatI want to ruin him slowly and thoroughly until he’s marked as mine in every way possible.
But I don’t rush, not with him.
Something about him makes me greedy, yes, but also careful. Makes me want to savor. To stretch this moment, hold him longer, taste him deeper.
So I slow the kiss. I pull back just enough for our lips to hover, breaths mingling in the space between us. My thumb drags over his swollen mouth, and I smirk when he trembles at the touch. His eyes flutter open—dazed, dark, unfocused—and something unspoken in them begs me not to stop.
So I don’t.
I claim his mouth again, harder this time, devouring him until his fingers dig into my shoulders. I walk him backward, never breaking the kiss, until the back of my knees hit the couch. I drop down, pulling him with me until he’s straddling my lap, his weight settles over my crotch, and a raw groan tears from me.
“Fuck—”
He jerks, startled, pulling back with a pant. His chest rises and falls in sharp bursts, his lips parting like he’s on the edge of words but too shaken to speak them.
