Make It Sweet

“Addlepated,” I repeated with a smile.

His answering grin was swift and brilliant, and it took a little of my breath with it. “A Mamie term.”

“Ah.”

His grin faded. “People have always either called me Oz or Luc. That’s what I’m used to. But with you . . .” He paused, his lips parted and that frown returning, reluctant and annoyed. And he shrugged, more like a roll of his shoulder, as though he were trying to loosen the tension there. “You’ve called me Lucian from the start. It sounds right.”

Warmth spread through me, slow like honey.

Our gazes collided and held as something simmered between us. Lucian’s lids lowered in lazy perusal. Of me on the bed. I didn’t miss the way his nostrils flared on a drawn-in breath, the way his dusky skin darkened. A pulse beat in my neck, steady, hard.

“Lucian . . .” It rolled over my tongue like cream.

Honey and cream. I wanted to pour both over those tight abs of his and just lick.

Perhaps he knew that, because he jerked straight. His jaw twitched, and those wintergreen eyes told me to behave. But I didn’t want to. I wanted to tease and tempt him the way he tempted me.

One night sharing a bed with Lucian. I didn’t think I’d survive it.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lucian

That bed. That fucking bed. It would be the bane of my existence for the next twenty-four hours. That and the image of Emma sitting on the edge of it with a witchy smile that all but dared me to tumble her back and fuck her into the soft covers.

If she wanted to pretend there was absolutely no temptation in sharing a bed, fine. But I saw the faint flush in her cheeks as she looked up at me, the way her lips parted like an invitation to take a taste. And that made it worse. So much worse. If I thought for a second that she had no interest in me, I would grit my teeth and suffer through a night in bed with her without another thought.

But knowing she would be suffering too? That was another matter altogether. It felt like a physical imperative to ease her need and thus ease mine. And then what? When the sweat cooled, we’d still be the same people, me with a life going nowhere, while Emma’s was open to countless possibilities.

Before, when I was a cocky son of a bitch, I wouldn’t have cared about the after. I would have gone for what I wanted and damned the consequences. Now, everything felt too fragile, too real. There was a good chance I’d cling to Emma like a lifeline. And the humiliation of that prospect, when she would soon be moving on, was too much.

I had some pride left. I’d cling to that instead. And resist temptation.

Sure you will, Ozzy boy.

In an attempt to do right by Emma, I’d forgone my usual jeans and T-shirt and put on a fine-knit-collar top and wool slacks, the kind of thing I’d wear for interviews. I regretted the choice now. The collar, though unbuttoned at the top, still managed to choke me. And the slacks, while loose fit, felt clinging. Shit, everything clung and pulled. I needed air. Lots of it.

Emma still sat on the bed, one leg curled beneath her, the other hanging off the edge and slowly swinging like a pendulum. Every time her lower leg swayed, her toned thigh would bunch, then ease. The movement was hypnotic. I wanted to set my hand there and feel that firm golden flesh.

“What do you want to do now?” she asked. So very innocently. That leg kept swaying.

Devil woman.

“I need air.” Without waiting for a response, I fled the fucking room.

Emma’s soft laughter followed me. “Have fun exploring.”

Yep. She knew. This was going to be hell.

It was quiet in the hallway, abandoned for the moment. I leaned against the wall and tried to level my breathing. Didn’t help to kill the stiffness in my dick. It pushed out my pants in a bulge that even I thought looked obscene. Emma had to have seen it. And God, she was good at riling me up. I had absolutely no idea what she thought of it. I wanted to turn around and ask.

Hell, I wanted to turn around and show her. Beg her to give me some relief. I’d be good; I’d return the favor with interest. God, I wanted that. I just plain wanted.

No. That’s not what we’re doing this weekend. Behave, Oz.

Given that I now hated the voice in my head and still had a hard-on that would get me arrested for public indecency, I ran the heel of my hand down its rude length. Firmly. A grunt left me, and my abs clenched. I did it again, angling my body toward the wall, my free hand flat against the cool surface.