I poked his ticklish spot, and he skittered away with an actual deep male giggle that made me smile despite myself. “Don’t you dare make innuendo. I’m grumpy.”
He caught my wrist in a loose grip and raised my hand to his mouth. “You’re wonderful.” Holding my gaze, he sucked my finger into his warm mouth, the flat of his tongue stroking me.
Heat swelled between my legs, but it was the look in his eyes, all fond tenderness and affection, that had my insides fluttering. “You’re forgiven.”
Lucian’s answering kiss was a little longer, a lot sweeter. I leaned into him, cake forgotten, my arms wrapping around his neck. I allowed myself to enjoy him, let go, and just feel.
Since returning home to Rosemont, we hadn’t been taking it slow, per se, not when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other for more than a few minutes. But we’d been cautious, each in our own way, guarding our hearts by making a point of not speaking too long or too deeply about emotions best kept to ourselves.
I told myself it was smart. But with each day spent in Lucian’s company, it felt less like safety and more like a mistake not to say what I was feeling. I was an actress; I knew how to play a part. But I didn’t want to do that with Lucian. The problem was I didn’t know how to tear down the walls of caution we had between us.
It was easy to get distracted, especially when Lucian did things like lift me up and set me on the counter, spreading my thighs with quiet authority to step close and kiss me deeper.
“Man,” a deep voice complained. “Not in the kitchen!”
We pulled apart to find Anton scowling at us in disgust.
“For God’s sake, you cook food here, Luc.”
Lucian kept his hand on my nape and snorted. “Keep interrupting me, and you can make your own meals.”
“Hey, Anton,” I said, content to stay in the circle of Lucian’s arms, despite the side-eye his cousin was giving us.
Anton shook a reproachful finger. “And you, America’s princess.”
Lucian must have felt me tense, because his grip tightened just enough to convey support. But the damage had been done. My happy buzz flitted away, replaced by a heavy weight low in my belly.
I’d taken a night to read over the scripts sent my way. They were all wrong, all weak copies of my Princess Anya role or stale romantic comedies. I didn’t have anything against a good romantic comedy, wit and verve, but the scripts I’d read didn’t cut it. Nor did I want to be typecast. Frankly, I wanted something meaty, something to sink my teeth into. Something the polar opposite of Anya.
“With that sweetly beautiful face,” my agent had said, “it’s going to be tough to convince directors. They see you as a princess.”
“I skewered no less than five men on Dark Castle,” I’d snapped back. “I literally liquidated scores more. There was nothing sweet about it.”
“And yet that’s how they see you.”
The whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth, and I turned to sneak a dollop of chocolate buttercream from the counter. Lucian looked on with quiet concern as I licked my finger. Usually, watching me suck my finger would have elicited a different response from him. But he knew me well enough to understand where my mind was going.
Under the curtain of my hair he stroked my skin, then turned to Anton. “Did you want something, or are you simply walking around trying to annoy people?”
I didn’t miss the flicker of disappointment in Anton’s eyes. Despite the apparent joy he took in needling Lucian, it bothered him to be so readily dismissed. Maybe even hurt. But it wasn’t my place to play referee with them.
“Carlos told me you turned down the Raston fundraiser.”
Lucian’s eyes narrowed in warning. “I did.”
“Who is Carlos?” I felt compelled to ask.
“Our agent.” Anton reached over and grabbed an apple from the ceramic fruit basket on the opposite counter.
Frankly, it surprised me that they shared an agent, seeing how terribly they got along. But it also felt strange that I didn’t know that. There wasn’t any reason for me to, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being in the dark when it came to many aspects of Lucian’s life.
Anton took a huge bite out of the apple and spoke between munching. “The Raston fundraiser is an annual event for charity that Ozzy boy has always participated in.”
“Ant.”
Lucian’s sharp rebuke went unheeded.
“It raises an insane amount of cash for hungry children,” Anton went on, speaking to me in a voice laced with admonishment. “Children who are invited to skate alongside their heroes like good old Luc here.”
Lucian’s hand slid from my neck as he stepped away and grabbed the dishrag from the sink. His shoulders worked beneath the fabric of his T-shirt as he methodically wiped down the countertop, going at it like the pristine surface needed a good polish. “As I told Carlos,” he growled, swiping the same spot, “as I’m no longer playing, my presence would be superfluous.”