He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he closes the distance with a slow, deliberate step. Lucian stops just close enough that I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his jaw works when he’s choosing words. “I’ll show up and do the things you asked for, even when it’s boring or hard. I don’t expect you to forgive me overnight. I don’t expect trust to be given back because I ask for it. I will earn it, and I will be patient. If groveling is what it takes, I’ll do it. I’ll get on my knees if that’s what you need.”
My chest tightens, and the air seems to thin around us the moment he says he would get on his knees. It’s not the image of him begging that unmoors me, but the picture my mind stitches together: Lucian on his knees, eyes fixed on mine, that dangerous mouth softened into something like contrition. I feel it as a physical thing, a pull under my ribs, because I’ve never seen him like that. He’s always been the one who takes up space, who reads me and bends me with a look, who can break and rebuild me with the same hand.
Now my brain short-circuits, not with shame but with memory: his fingers tangled in my hair, the heat of his breath at my ear, the way his voice could turn rough and private and make the world shrink until it was only us. Those memories are electric and messy and utterly his, and imagining that same manchoosing humility and being on his knees, not as a performance but as an offering—feels like watching a storm learn to be gentle.
“Let me show you.” He reaches for my hand and guides me toward the bed with the same careful steadiness he promised.
The sight of him lowering himself is nothing like the image my mind had skittered toward earlier. This is way fucking hotter.
Lucian’s hands come to my hips, anchoring me while his gaze drags over me like he’s memorizing every inch he’s been denied. There’s something reverent in it, like he’s stripped himself of every sharp edge and kept only the part of him that knows how to kneel.
Lucian’s thumbs press into my hips like punctuation, grounding me there while his hands slide outward, tracing the line where fabric meets skin. He pauses, just long enough to look up at me, a silent question in his eyes.
I nod.
That’s all it takes.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my skirt and eases it down inch by inch, never breaking eye contact. The drag of fabric against my skin feels louder than it should, every centimeter exposed deliberate, intentional. When it finally pools around my ankles, he nudges it aside.
His hands return immediately, reverent again, palms smoothing over bare skin as if he’s apologizing for every moment he wasn’t allowed to. His touch is unhurried, like he’s proving something with restraint instead of hunger.
Lucian leans in, pressing his mouth to my thigh first. Not where I expected, or where I want. A soft kiss, then another, mapping his way upward with maddening patience. His breath ghosts over me between touches, close enough to promise, far enough to torment.
I shiver, and he notices.
A quiet sound leaves him—approval, maybe? Satisfaction.
He trails kisses higher, pauses again, then drags his hands slowly up my legs, thumbs brushing just close enough to my center to make my pulse stutter. Every movement feels intentional, like he’s reminding me that this isn’t about urgency, and instead it’s about attention.
When he finally rises, it’s unhurried, his mouth worshiping its way back up my body, his hands following, anchoring, steadying. By the time his hands reach my waist, and his mouth is on my sternum, I’m already undone, my breathing turns shallow, as my skin hums, completely aware of every place he hasn’t touched yet.
Lucian rests his forehead against my neck for a beat, still on his knees, like he’s collecting himself.
Then he looks at me again, eyes dark, mouth soft, devotion written all over his face.
And I know—this isn’t him asking for forgiveness.
This is him earning it.
22
Celeste
“Use me,” he whispers.
My breath catches, my pulse stuttering as I get lost in his hungry gaze. This man, who has always been in control, is now offering himself without hesitation.
“For whatever you need,” he adds quietly. “However you want.”
Something in my chest loosens, something sharp and aching turning molten. I thread my fingers into his hair, slow at first, testing the weight of it, the way he leans into my touch like it’s exactly where he belongs.
His hands tighten under my thighs in quiet surrender as he moves them over his shoulders. I cross my ankles and use them and my hands in his hair to guide him where I need him most. I arch off the bed at the sudden warmth from his mouth across my center.
“That’s it,” he growls against my pussy, the vibrations from his voice cause my thighs to tremble.
Every reaction he gives me feels earned, like he’s grounding himself in the simple truth of serving me, of holding still while I take what my body asks for. My grip in his hair firms, my hips finding a rhythm that’s entirely mine, and he lets me take control without resistance.
I’m breathing hard as I use him exactly the way he offered, and I lose myself to the pleasure I’m taking from him. The world narrows to sensation and heat and the quiet devotion of the man beneath me, steady and relentless in his attention.
