Page 9 of Lucas

If I leave now, will this be last time I see Lucas? Shouldn’t it mean something that when we got out of the hot tub, he led me to his bed? That I stayed the night, cradled in his comforting arms? Or that he’s willing, and ready, to fuck me again and again? His hard cock presses against my thigh.

Give your head a shake, Eden.

As usual, I’m reading too much into the situation, leaning on unrealistic fantasies. I don’t even know Lucas’s last name. He could be a serial killer, or married—fuck me, I pray he isn’t married. I try to remember if I saw even a faint circle around his ring finger, but thinking about his hands—his strong, capable hands—just fires up my libido again. Ridiculous.

“I should probably get ready for work,” I say. “I have that nasty employee to deal with. And, I’ll have to go home first—” My cheeks burn at the memory of my discarded blouse, probably still at the front door, torn and stained with Austin’s blood. “—and, um, put on some clean clothes.”

Lucas chuckles. “I took the liberty of having someone deliver a new outfit. I trust it will meet your approval.”

My throat closes in. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s my fault your blouse is ruined.” His eyebrows narrow, and he bites his lower lip. I inhale, breathe out. He’s got more than the fight on his mind, because while Austin’s blood may have soiled my shirt, it was the way Lucas pawed at me that resulted in it being ripped. Urgent, almost animalistic, like a man consumed.

My voice turns embarrassingly dreamy. “Who are you?”

His lip curls up in a sexy smirk. “International man of mystery.”

I shuffle position to sit upright and smile. “I’m pretty sure that title is taken.”

“How do you know that isn’t me?”

Touché. The warmth in my belly spreads throughout my body. I’m positive I must be glowing from the inside out. “Well, there’s nothing mysterious about me.” I pull the satin sheets up over my chest and wriggle my butt so it’s up against the ornate headboard. My fingers find their way to Lucas’ hair, and I draw absent circles through the tight curls that are no longer tamed by his ball cap. I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something familiar about this man—or maybe I’m just daydreaming, pretending that he’s somehow stepped right from my most secret fantasies and into reality.

I squeeze my eyes shut and smile, silently chastising my naivety, grateful Lucas can’t read my thoughts. What would he think?

He peers up at me, curious, amused. “What are you grinning about?”

Tattoos and scars aside, there’s something vulnerable about Lucas. A dull ache creeps across my chest, like phantom sympathy for pains I yearn to know more about.

I shake my head. “Never mind. It’s just—” Ridiculous, I think. Jesus. I’m being so silly. Allowing my fictional dreams to play out with a hot guy who probably just wanted to get laid. Bad things happen when my overactive imagination is allowed to run loose. “I think I’ve read way too many books.”

Lucas rolls over on his side and rests his hand on my stomach. I’m sure he can feel the fluttering of a million butterflies awakening. He props his head on his elbow, and his eyes darken. “Any scenes you’d like to act out?”

My face goes hot. “I think we already took care of that.”

I blink, trying to reset my balance, certain we’re not at all on the same emotional page. Lucas is still thinking about this as sex—just sex—while my traitorous feelings have begun to unfold with alarming speed. I need to staunch them now, while I still have some semblance of control.

“Maybe we need to create new scenes then,” he says, skillfully derailing my plan. “You could write them…”

“How did you know I’m a writer?”

Our dialogue over the last eight hours has been reduced to grunts, come-ons, and flirtatious teasing—I’ve not revealed one personal thing about myself. And whatever I know of Lucas is a culmination of assumptions based on my observations of his environment. I’m a trained reporter, with a keen eye for detail. The luxurious apartment, juxtaposed against the hoodie puddled on the garden terrace deck; the collection of metal music t-shirts and rock paraphernalia on his walls, in sharp contrast with the crisply pressed suits I caught sight of hanging in the closet—it all tells me that Lucas is a complex man, and my gut says he’s hiding, or running, from something.

Isn’t that how our fates intertwined?

His eyebrow rises. “I didn’t, actually. But now I know something else about you. Fiction or…?”

I smile, thinking about the half dozen partially finished manuscripts tucked in my desk drawer, most of them hopeless romance with guys that look, act, talk just like Lucas. No wonder I’m tongue-tied with lust—it’s like my muse has magically come to life.

“Just a journalist.”

Maybe it’s my overactive imagination, but the instant I say the words, it’s like the air in the room shifts. Tenses. My reporter instincts go on high alert, and suddenly I’m thrust into defensive mode. “I don’t work for the National Inquirer or anything like that.” Though, Rubberneckers is fast degrading into the kind of tabloid journalism that I loathe.

Lucas’s muscles relax a little, giving me more reason to suspect he hasn’t been entirely above board with me. And why should he? Did I think that just because he’s tasted my pussy I’ve earned full access to his personal life?

“Let me guess…” Lucas strokes the light stubble across his chin. “Fashion?”

I out loud laugh. “God, no. I’m the least put together person in the world.”