Eventually, he drops his hand from my chin, starts the truck, and puts it in Drive. When he takes off, he leaves his right hand resting on the shifter.
It’s big, his hand. Long fingers, thick meaty palms.
I think about what I want to do. I think about the pros and cons. There’s nothing impulsive about it.
Then I take his hand in mine, lacing my fingers between his, and say, “Let’s call us even.”
23
Branson
Lucien’sapartmentislovely.It feels like him. Everything’s pretty in a masculine way with soft edges. He’s done that thing where the color on the ceilings is the same as the color on the walls, and it works well. Being here feels like I’ve dropped out of one dimension and landed in another. A warmer, gentler place than I’m used to.
The apartment consists of two bedrooms, a good-sized living room/dining room, and a smaller separate kitchen. The space isn’t huge, but Lucien hasn’t shied away from bold furniture. He’s paired modern pieces with art deco armchairs and unusual lighting. It’s interesting, and I like it a lot.
“Wow,” I say, once I’ve put my bags down in the main bedroom. “I can see why you love it here.”
He bites back a smile and waves me off, but a flood of warmth flows through the bond. I like that too. I like itmore than I can say. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but there’s something about knowing that something I did made Lucien happy that’s like crack to me. It feels like hope, like a possibility that this might actually work.
We spend the afternoon moving warily around each other while also taking care not to be too far away from each other. He clears drawers and closet space for me, and I unpack the clothes I brought back from the cabin. We talk about unimportant things like what we want to eat for dinner to distract each other from how surreal it is to be moving in together when a few short weeks ago, we’d hardly said ten words to each other.
Lucien swings his arms easily as he moves from the kitchen to the living area, trailing his hands over pieces of furniture as though he’s mentally taking stock that everything is where it should be. He seems comfortable here. The way he walks is different from the way he walked at the cabin, less tense, gait smoother. The slight limp he sported for the first few days after his heat ended is gone now, and his voice is almost back to normal with only the slightest throaty husk left.
As always, his presence distracts me severely. It’s impossible for me to be around him and concentrate at the same time. He looks beautiful at home. Sweet and content as he tucks a lock of blond hair behind his ear. He’s so sexy inhis own space that it’s hard for me to ignore the way my dick throbs when I’m close to him. So sexy that I can’t help thinking of him naked, legs open, writhing on my cock.
Obviously, I’m not going to do anything about it. I wouldn’t dream of it. He’s just been through a severe heat, and he’s still recovering. All bodies are different, but it takes a while for omegas to feel ready for intimacy after a heat. Everyone knows that.
I’d hate to do anything that made him feel pressured, so I think the best thing for me to do is to try not to look at him too much. I’ll maintain eye contact when needed—and by that I mean my eyes on his eyes, not on any other part of him, but I won’t let my gaze drift downward.
I’ll simply focus on what’s important, which is, of course, his comfort.
It will take a little self-control, but it’s fine. I have a ton of self-control.
I scrape our plates and load the dishwasher as Lucien looks on. Dinner was a slightly fraught affair that involved me spending a considerable amount of time wondering what the hell gave me the impression that I have a lot of self-control. It’s a mystery I’ve yet to solve.
“Mm,” says Lucien, crinkling his nose and pointing to the bowl I’ve just put in the dishwasher. “Do you think that’s the best place for that bowl?”
His expression, while cute and delectably kissable, lets me know it’s definitely not the best place for the bowl.
After several similar comments from him, I step back and let him move crockery around until he’s satisfied with the way everything’s packed.
“So,” he says once the dishwasher is running, “I think I’m going to take a shower.” His voice trails off and he glances down the hall toward the bedroom. His lips press together, and a subtle flicker of hesitation flows through the bond. “You can, like, come with me, if you want.”
I forget about self-control for a brief moment, and all but bound toward him, closing in on him so fast that his eyes widen slightly. Fortunately, I remember myself, and slow my roll.
To say that hovering in the bathroom—trying to act unproblematic—while Lucien is in the shower stark naked is a challenge, doesn’t begin to cover it. I know I had a whole big plan about maintaining eye contact. But I’m not sure I realized quite how much skin is on display when a man showers.
A lot. There’s a lot of skin.
Alotof skin.
Soft, smooth skin that glistens where the water hits it. Soft, smooth skin I’ve bitten and kissed. Skin I’ve scented. Skin I’ve inhaled.
Licked.
Bitten.
It’s not just his skin either. It’s that when Lucien’s in the shower, his hair is wet, and he pushes it back off his face.
