-Reed.
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That crazy bastard booked a hotel for us.
I don't even remember agreeing to it. One minute we were drying off in the sun, laughing like we hadn't broken laws together, and the next—I was climbing into the passenger seat, somehow resigned to whatever came next. I always end up doing the things I swore I wouldn't. Maybe I'm just easy to persuade. Or maybe—I have a weakness for him.
Let's go with the second one. At least it sounds more romantic than "spineless idiot follows pretty man into building."
The hotel room was… absurd.
Massive. Minimalist. The kind of space that made you whisper without knowing why. Pale wood floors, wide glass panels, linen curtains that moved like breath. And the lighting—God, the lighting—like it had been hand-curated by a soft-focus deity. Golden, ambient, not a single unflattering shadow. Every corner felt intentional. A room that didn't just exist, it performed.
Lucien walked in like he belonged in it. Of course.
"I'll take a shower real quick," he said, already heading toward the bathroom like this was a regular Tuesday and not the beginning of something I probably couldn't undo.
I stood in the middle of the room for a second, slightly sunburned, slightly confused by my own willingness to go along with it all.
Then I sat down slowly on the sofa. The fabric was soft, and my skin was still tingling—salt from the sea crusting around my collarbones, drying tight on my back. It stung a little, but I didn't mind. Not really.
The sting reminded me I was here. That this day was real. That Lucien had kissed me, watched me smile at the sea, and booked us a hotel room. For what? Rest? Proximity? Something else?
I leaned back, letting my body sink into the couch.
It was quiet now. Except for the faint sound of water beginning to run behind the bathroom door.
And I sat there, aching in that way you do after joy. Not pain. Just… fullness. The kind that feels like it doesn't belong to you, so you wait for it to get taken back.
I sat there for maybe two minutes. Three, max.
The sound of the shower running didn't help.
I tried to close my eyes. Tried to let myself feel… relaxed, or whatever normal people did after swimming in the sea and being kissed stupid. But instead, I stood up. Because of course I did.
It started innocent—just a little look around. A curious wander. Totally justifiable behavior in the context of new surroundings. Not snooping. Not weird.
I walked past the bed—king-sized, sheets folded with the precision of a psych ward—then rounded the corner to a hallway I hadn't noticed before. It wasn't a long hallway. Just a weird architectural nook that clearly existed so rich people could feel like their hotel suite had mystery.
At the end of it: another door. I pushed it open and blinked.
Another bathroom. Of course he got us a room with two bathrooms.
Because Lucien doesn't just move through the world—he curates it. With elegant restraint and just enough passive aggression to make you question your own standards.
This bathroom was slightly smaller than the main one, but still nicer than my actual apartment. The tiles were matte black, the lights warm and soft, the mirror smarter than me. A full rack of fresh towels, folded like art. A bottle of something that looked too fancy to touch but smelled like pine and heaven.
I hesitated.
Then, with exactly one second of guilt, I started undressing.
The moment the water hit my skin, I exhaled. Deep. Like I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath since we left the sea.
It was hot, but not scalding. The good kind of hot. The kind that soaks into your bones and starts pulling apart the tension molecule by molecule.
And naturally, that's when my brain decided to spiral.
You're in a hotel room. With him. Shirtless. Salt still in your hair. You agreed to this. You. Why did you agree to this? What is this?
It's not a date. It's not not a date. It's not sex. Probably. Maybe? Unless it is. But if it is, do you want that? Or do you want something else? Something quieter. Something terrifying.
The water kept running. My thoughts didn't.
I leaned my forehead against the tile wall and sighed.
Somehow, I missed the days when my biggest worry was Doug screaming about rent and accidentally opening scam emails.
At least that made sense.
I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a bathrobe that probably cost more than my old laptop. My skin was still warm from the shower, slightly pink at the edges, and I felt… new. Not better. Just peeled. Like the water had taken something with it I hadn't named yet.
The suite was quiet, except for the low sound of Lucien muttering under his breath.
He was sitting in the middle of the bed, towel slung low around his hips, back slightly hunched as he fiddled with the TV remote like it was a Rubik's Cube made of glass and vague threats. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. Water clung to his collarbone, sliding down in lazy trails like even gravity took its time with him.
He didn't look at me right away, just said, "I'm trying to find that song you played in the car. The one that came up first."
I blinked. "Paprika?"
He perked up, eyes flicking to me with this little moment of triumph. "Yesss, that one."
He found it on YouTube or Spotify or wherever his private internet connects to royalty-grade audio quality, and let it play. The room filled with that dreamy synth and soft cymbals, and just like that, we were back on the road. Back in the water. Back in whatever this was.
Then he looked at me. Fully. Like I was the thing playing now.
I shifted.
"Come here," he said, quietly. Not a command. Not a question. Just an invitation that felt like it had teeth.
I moved toward him slowly, bare feet soundless on the floor, heart doing that annoying thing where it tried to punch a hole through my ribs. When I reached the bed, I climbed up and sat cross-legged, facing him. The robe parted slightly at my knees, but I didn't fix it. He didn't look away.
"You had fun?" he asked, voice low, a little careful.
I nodded, licking my lips once. "Yeah… I did. I—" I looked down at my hands. "I don't usually let myself. Like, not without calculating what the cost might be. How it could end. Who'll leave first."
Lucien didn't speak immediately.
Then, softly: "Same. It's been a while. But today was... fun."
I nodded again, eyes lifting just enough to meet his.
Then I smirked. "So you enjoyed my taste in music that much, huh?"
He laughed. Not the short polite one. The real one—shoulders shaking slightly, mouth curling wide.
"It's just the song," he said. "It feels like… a rewind. To the beginning of the day. Like we somehow started over without noticing."
And I knew exactly what he meant.
Because right now—sitting there, half-wrapped in fabric and silence, listening to a song that had accidentally become the soundtrack to something real—I didn't feel like the guy who'd been ghosted by exes, or the guy who signed shady documents and Googled how to tell if you're laundering money.
I felt like someone worth spending the day with.
I let myself fall back, limbs giving out as my spine hit the mattress with a quiet thud. My head dangled slightly off the edge of the bed, upside-down view of the ceiling warping into soft halos of light.
I sighed. Not dramatically, just honestly. The kind of exhale that carried the weight of too many spirals and too little sleep.
From where I was, Lucien was a blur of motion—towel still clinging to his hips, shadows dancing across his chest as he moved closer. I heard the shift of fabric, the creak of the mattress under his knees.
Then—close.
I didn't look up. I just stayed there, half upside-down, heart fluttering somewhere in the middle of my ribs as I felt his presence hover.
And then he lowered himself over me. Slowly. Purposefully.
His breath ghosted across my jaw, warm and deliberate, just enough to make my skin tense. He didn't speak. Lucien never wasted words when his mouth had better things to do.
He kissed the curve of my neck, just beneath my ear. Soft. Barely pressure. Like he was tasting the sea salt still lingering there. His lips were warm, moving lower in slow drags that made it hard to think. He kissed once. Then again. Then parted his lips just enough for teeth.
I twitched—hips involuntarily pushing upward, breath catching in my throat as he bit gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to claim the moment.
And all the while, his fingers were moving too.
One hand found the tie at my waist, the knot still damp from the shower, loose but holding. He tugged once—casual, confident, as if undoing me was something he'd been practicing in his head for weeks.
The knot gave way with a whisper of cotton sliding over skin.
He pulled the robe open slowly, deliberately, the warm air meeting my chest like a second mouth.
I should've said something. A joke, maybe. A quip to dilute the intimacy. But my voice was gone—swallowed by the song still playing low in the background, by the ache behind my sternum, by the way his hands didn't rush, didn't demand.
Lucien kissed lower—just above my collarbone now, lips brushing over skin that still hummed from the salt and sun. His teeth grazed again, softer this time, and I let out a sound I didn't recognize as mine.
Because this wasn't just lust. It wasn't just physical.
It was him. Taking his time. Taking me apart. One breath, one kiss, one unraveling thread at a time.
His mouth moved lower.
Every inch of my skin he kissed felt claimed—mapped by heat and breath, marked by the reverent weight of someone who wasn't just touching, but learning. My robe was open now, clinging to my arms like it didn't want to let go. Lucien peeled it further, slow, sliding it down with both hands until it pooled uselessly beneath me.
He never looked away. Even as he kissed down my chest, even as his mouth brushed places that made my spine arc and my thoughts splinter, he kept his eyes on mine like he needed to see what it was doing to me.
And it was doing a lot.
My skin felt too tight and too bare at once. I was pulsing, aching in the kind of way that made you want to beg and curse in the same breath. I tried to speak—say his name, crack a joke, do something to break the tension—but he reached up and traced his fingers along my ribs, and the breath died in my throat.
Lucien kissed my hip bone next—slowly, deliberately—teeth grazing the edge of it like he wanted me to remember that place. And I would. I already did.
Then he moved back up, palms sliding over my thighs, dragging heat in their wake. His movements weren't fast. They weren't mechanical. They were curious. Like he wanted to memorize me through contact, not just conquer me.
"Still with me?" he asked, voice low and amused, hovering just above my mouth now.
I nodded. Swallowed. "Barely."
"Good."
Then he kissed me again—harder this time. Less teasing, more intention. His tongue moved with purpose, demanding and giving all at once, and I responded like I'd been waiting for this all day—maybe longer.
I let my hands roam, finally—fingertips tracing the hard lines of his back, the curve of his shoulder blades, the dip of his spine. His towel had shifted, dangerously low. I tugged at it without grace, and he let it fall, no hesitation.
We were bare now. All of us. Every stupid part.
He pressed against me fully, the weight of his body settling between my legs, and the sensation nearly broke me.
I gasped—sharp, breathless—as his hips rolled once, just enough for friction, just enough to promise more. He groaned against my mouth, deep and wrecked, and that sound was mine now.
Everything slowed.
The way our skin slipped, caught, burned. The way fingers dug and mouths opened. The way every second pressed into the next with need that had nothing to do with relief and everything to do with knowing—really knowing—what it was like to be wanted.
And then he started exploring—his mouth trailing down my jaw, along the side of my throat, to the hollow of my collarbone where he lingered with his tongue. His hands moved across my chest, fingers grazing, then circling one nipple with maddening slowness. He watched the way I twitched, breathed in the hitch of my breath like it was a reward.
It wasn't just lust. It was study. Every touch a question. Every reaction—every gasp, every arch—an answer.
He kissed down my chest, over my ribs, pausing as if each new patch of skin deserved its own moment.
His mouth kept moving lower, slow and deliberate, like he had nowhere else to be but here—on me, with me. I felt his breath trail down my stomach, his lips brushing over skin that tensed under every touch. Then he shifted, settled lower between my legs.
And then—his mouth closed around me.
Hot. Wet. Confident.
I gasped, sharp and sudden, my spine bowing off the mattress. My hand shot out, gripping the sheets like I needed something to hold onto or I might float out of my body.
He moved slowly, dragging his tongue along the underside, then taking more of me in with a rhythm that was maddening in its control. Not frantic. Not greedy. Just steady. Measured. Like he wanted to taste the sound it pulled from me. And when I let out a strangled, "fuck," he chuckled softly around me.
That sound—the hum of it—sent a jolt straight through my core.
His hands gripped my hips, firm but patient, thumbs smoothing circles into my skin as he kept going. He pulled back briefly, tongue flicking the tip with careful attention, then took me again, deeper this time. I moaned—louder than I meant to—and felt my thighs tremble as heat pooled lower, tighter, unbearable in the best way.
"Okay," I gasped, breathless. "Okay."
He didn't stop.
He took his time. Switching between long, slow pulls and teasing flicks of his tongue, learning how I responded, adjusting like he was memorizing a language no one else had ever spoken fluently.
When I finally looked down, his eyes were on me—half-lidded, focused, proud.
Eventually, he eased up—kissed the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, then my hip, then up my stomach again, slow as ever. By the time he crawled back over me, my chest was heaving, my legs weak, my entire body humming.
Lucien leaned down and kissed me, and I let him taste the mess he'd made.
He kissed me—slow and deep—mouth warm, lips parted, tongue tasting me like he hadn't just had me unraveling beneath him.
I kissed him back. Greedy now. Needy. A little wrecked.
Then I pushed gently at his shoulder. He paused—brows raised like he was about to ask a question—but I shook my head, giving him a look that said let me.
He lay back without resistance.
It felt strange, at first, being the one above him. Not because I hadn't done this before—but because this meant something. This wasn't a performance. This was Lucien, sprawled out before me, towel long gone, chest rising slowly, eyes watching me with something dangerously close to softness.
I kissed him—once, under his jaw.
Again, lower. Along his neck, tasting salt, skin, something distinctly him.
He exhaled… quiet, controlled, like he wasn't used to being taken apart.
I let my mouth wander, down his throat, across his chest, catching one of his nipples between my lips just to feel him jolt beneath me. He sucked in a breath, hand twitching where it rested beside his head, and I smiled against his skin.
I kept going, kissing down his stomach, feeling the shift of muscle beneath my tongue, the way his hips stuttered when I reached the crease of his thigh.
I glanced up once.
Lucien was watching me, chest flushed, lips parted slightly.
And for the first time, he looked undone.
I didn't look away. I lowered my head—and took him into my mouth.
He cursed… quietly, but it still felt like a thunderclap in the otherwise sacred silence of the room.
I moved slowly at first—getting used to the weight of him, the taste, the way his thighs tensed every time I sank lower. My hand wrapped around what I couldn't take, stroking in time with my mouth, building a rhythm that made his breath go ragged.
He was trying to stay composed—I could feel it—but every time I sucked a little harder or flicked my tongue just right, I felt him slip. Bit by bit. Moan by moan.
"You're…" he managed, voice barely a whisper, "…a lot more gutted than you look."
I pulled back just enough to speak, my voice low and ruined with want. "Good."
Then I went back down.
I worked him with my mouth, hands, lips—pacing it just enough to keep him from tipping over too fast, but keeping the edge close. I wanted to wreck him slowly. Memorize the way he fell apart. And God, he was beautiful falling.
Lucien's hand found the back of my head—not pushing, just holding. Guiding. He moaned my name once, quiet but raw, like it surprised him that I could do this to him.
And I wanted more.
I wanted all of him.
He was close. I could feel it in the way his hips started to rise more urgently, in the way his breathing stuttered against the quiet room. His fingers curled a little tighter in my hair—not harsh, just holding on. Like he needed something to ground himself.
"Reed—" he said, sharp around the edges, almost warning.
But I didn't stop.
I wanted to be the one to take him there. To watch him fall apart and know that it was me—my mouth, my hands, my want, my choice.
And then he did.
He came with a quiet, low sound that sent heat shivering through me. His back arched, his thighs tensed, and his fingers flexed against my scalp like he didn't know whether to pull me closer or let go completely. I kept going, slower now, drawing it out, letting him breathe through it.
By the time I pulled away, his chest was still rising fast, sweat glistening across his collarbones, mouth parted in something like wonder. And maybe disbelief.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Sat up slowly.
Lucien looked at me like I'd just rewritten gravity.
"Jesus," he whispered.
"Not quite," I muttered, breathless. "But close."
He laughed—soft and real. His hand reached for mine, pulling me forward again.
"You think we're done?" he asked, voice like silk dipped in smoke.
And then he was pulling me into his lap, shifting us until I was straddling him, my robe already forgotten, both of us bare, hot skin pressed to hot skin. He kissed me hard—his tongue still tasting like want, his hands roaming with less hesitation now. Less restraint.
It wasn't long before he was touching me again—stroking me with slow, practiced confidence, murmuring things against my neck that made my head fall back and my hips grind helplessly into his hand.
He watched me come apart—eyes locked on mine, lips parted as he whispered "look at me" and I did. I had to. Because there was no shame in it. No hiding.
Just him. Seeing me.
And when I came—hard and messy between us—it felt like something more than release. It felt like surrender. Like permission. Like letting myself be held in a way that wasn't about protection or control but simply… being known.
We stayed tangled there for a while, skin slick, hearts loud, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air like we were afraid it might be the last quiet moment in the world.
We lay there in the half-dark, our bodies tangled like they were still unsure where one ended and the other began. The sheets were kicked somewhere down by our feet. My leg was draped over his hip, and one of his hands—lazy now, warm and open—rested against my lower back like he wasn't ready to let go.
Neither was I.
The air was thick with salt and skin and heat that hadn't quite cooled. The playlist had stopped. The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Like the room had taken a deep breath with us.
I rested my head against his shoulder, chest still rising and falling in a rhythm that felt borrowed from him.
"Well," I said, voice hoarse, "so much for taking things slow."
Lucien chuckled—low and soft, his chest vibrating beneath my cheek. "That was slow."
"Oh my God," I muttered, biting back a grin. "You're impossible."
"And you," he said, dragging his fingers along my spine, "are full of surprises."
I rolled onto my side just enough to look at him. "You didn't see that coming?"
"I saw you coming," he murmured, lips twitching. "I just didn't expect to… feel so much during."
That shut me up. Not because I didn't believe him—but because I did.
The silence stretched again. A little more raw now. A little more open.
"I used to think," I started, voice quieter, "that sex was always this… currency thing. Like, if someone wanted you, it was either to feel good or feel in control. Never really about you. Just what you could do. Or give."
Lucien nodded slowly. "I know that feeling."
I let the words settle. Then added, "This didn't feel like that."
His hand tightened slightly against my back. Just enough to say I heard you.
"Me neither," he said.
I snorted. "So what you're saying is… we've both been emotionally wrecked by this."
"Thoroughly," he said, smiling now. "Devastated. Send help."
I laughed—real, easy, safe. It felt good in my throat.
Then quieter: "So… what happens now?"
Lucien turned his head, met my gaze without hesitation. "We sleep."
"Sleep," I echoed, trying not to overthink it. "That's… unexpectedly romantic."
"We'll ruin it in the morning," he said. "For now, let's just be."
I nodded.
And for once—I let myself do just that.
Be.
With him.