Make It Sweet

I didn’t know if I was supposed to ignore the massive erection he sported or be impressed by it. No, ignore it, I thought as he shot me a wry but completely unrepentant look and sauntered to the bathroom, the tight globes of his bubble butt moving like poetry.

Giddiness fuzzed through me. I’d fallen for men before. Had love affairs and long-term boyfriends. This should have been familiar territory. It wasn’t. It was the difference between being an understudy in a play and landing the starring role. Everything was simply more.

And that should’ve scared me. But it didn’t. At least not at first. Not when we were driving back to Rosemont, the wind in my hair, Lucian by my side. All I could feel was anticipation. Need. Lust. Happiness.

Happiness was such a fragile thing in my life. I’d find it, grab on to it with both hands, only to have it ebb away when I wasn’t ready.

It wasn’t until I pulled into the parking space at Rosemont that I realized something was wrong, that Lucian was no longer relaxed or smiling. He moved stiffly, his gaze sliding away from me.

“You okay?” I asked, nervous. Was he regretting letting down his walls?

He turned his head, his body tense. “Just tired.”

Tired. God, that sounded like a line I’d use on Greg when I didn’t want him to expect sex. My heart skipped a beat and then started a pained tattoo.

Lucian grabbed our bags and headed to the path. I followed, not knowing what to say.

We were almost upon the fork in the path where it split, one leading to my bungalow, the other toward Lucian’s pool house. I tensed, feeling queasy with unease as I wondered which path he would take. But he didn’t get that far before Sal appeared, strolling along without an apparent care.

Lucian stopped. “This mean Anton is gone?”

Sal scoffed, his hot-pink lips twisting. “No. It means that while I love my mami, I couldn’t take another day with her blasting telenovelas at all hours.”

“Maybe you should consider actually getting a place of your own,” said Anton from behind me, making me jump in surprise.

Both Sal and Lucian turned his way with surprisingly similar scowls.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Sal said. “Like hell?”

Anton smirked. “I’m too hot for hell. So it looks like you’re stuck with me. At least until training camp—” He shut up with a grimace and glared at Sal, like it was his fault that Anton had slipped up.

Lucian stood stiff as a board, but his lips curled in dark humor. “Stop tiptoeing around me. It’s annoying.” With that, he strode off, leaving us all behind.

I didn’t mind him walking away from his cousin, but it stung that he hadn’t acknowledged me. Moreover, it pissed me off. Not looking at Sal or Anton, I pushed past and went after Lucian.

He was fast, even though his stride was steady. I didn’t catch up to him until he was opening the door to the pool house.

“You left me behind.”

He stilled and then cursed under his breath. But he didn’t turn his head. “I’m sorry, Em. I didn’t think.”

“You didn’t think,” I repeated. And then felt like a complete fool. We’d had only one night together. One night of kissing like horny, desperate teens. Promises hadn’t been made. Nothing concrete, at any rate. Maybe I’d read too much into it.

He opened the door wider and stepped in, leaving me to once again follow.

My irritation rose, prickling and tumbling about in my belly. Okay, maybe I had read more into last night than Lucian had. It was something, and I’d be damned if he just left it at this.

“What the hell is going on?”

In the act of dropping the bags on the floor, he ducked his head and took a long breath. “Nothing. It was a long night, and maybe we should rest . . .”

“Lucian.”

He raised his head and met my eyes. His were bleary, his expression tight and hard.

I took a breath and let it out. “You have a choice right now. Shut me out, or let me in. I’m hoping you’ll do the latter.”

He blinked as if struck, and all at once, his stiff shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry,” he rasped. “I can’t . . . not right now . . .”

I braced myself as disappointment lashed over me.

He raised a hand in a half-helpless, half-frustrated gesture. “My head. It’s my head, Em. I can’t . . .”

Oh. Oh.

I took a step, but his snarl halted me.

He gripped the back of his neck tightly. “I don’t think you fully understand the horror I feel over telling the woman I want more than anything that I can’t perform because I have a fucking headache. It must be some cosmic joke, but I don’t have it in me right now to laugh.”