Chapter 2
Lucy's POV
That was the moment everything changed.
His hand had slid into my hair, tilting my head back, and his mouth had claimed mine with an urgency that stole my breath. This wasn't the tentative kiss I'd initiated—this was consuming, demanding, his tongue sliding against mine with expert precision that made my knees weak. His other hand had found my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel every hard plane of his body through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against my hip.
When he'd finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard, his grip on my waist tight enough that I knew I'd have bruises there in the morning.
"Once you cross this threshold," he'd said, his voice rough and dangerous, "there's no going back. I won't be able to pretend this didn't happen."
Despite the way my heart was racing, I'd met his eyes steadily. "Maybe I don't want you to pretend."
His control had snapped completely then. In one fluid motion he'd rolled us over, pinning me beneath him, his weight pressing me into the sheets. His mouth had found my neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin in a way that made me gasp, made sounds escape my throat I'd never made before.
His hands had been everywhere—sliding under the t-shirt, pushing it up and over my head, his palms hot against my ribs, my breasts. Each touch was deliberate, controlled despite the urgency thrumming through his body. He'd paused to look at me in the dim light, and the raw hunger mixed with something almost reverent in his expression had made my chest tighten.
My own attempts to reciprocate had been clumsy, my hands trembling as I'd reached for him. When I'd fumbled with his shirt, he'd removed it himself, revealing defined muscle and scattered scars. "You can touch me," he'd said, guiding my palm to his chest. "Don't be afraid."
When his hand had slipped lower, fingers finding places that made my breath catch, I'd tensed automatically. He'd paused immediately, his eyes searching my face. "Have you done this before?"
"Yes," I'd managed, even though it barely counted—fumbling attempts with Quinn that had been more awkward than pleasurable. "But not... not like this."
Something had shifted in his expression, hunger tempered with care. "Then we go slow," he'd said. "And you tell me if anything doesn't feel right."
His fingers had moved with expert precision, building pressure and pleasure that made my head spin. When he'd slipped inside me—one finger, then another—the stretch had been uncomfortable at first, but he'd been patient, his thumb circling that spot that made coherent thought impossible.
"That's it," he'd murmured. "You're doing so well."
When the first climax hit, I'd cried out, my back arching, pleasure crashing through me in waves. He'd watched me through it all, and when I'd finally come back to myself, trembling, he'd brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting me while holding my gaze.
"I need to be inside you," he'd said, his voice strained.
"I'm on the pill," I'd heard myself saying, even though I'd missed doses recently. "And I'm clean."
"So am I," he'd said. "But Lucy, if you want to stop—"
"I don't want to stop."
He'd positioned himself between my legs, his hands gentle on my hips. The first press of him had made me tense—he was larger than Quinn, larger than I'd expected. "Look at me," he'd commanded softly. "Stay with me. If it's too much, we stop."
The initial pain had been sharp enough to make me dig my nails into his shoulders, to make a small sound escape my lips. He'd frozen immediately, his entire body rigid. "Breathe," he'd reminded me. "I'm not moving until you're ready."
I'd forced myself to relax, and gradually the discomfort had faded into fullness that felt almost right. When I'd nodded, he'd begun to move with shallow, careful thrusts, his jaw tight with restraint.
"You feel incredible," he'd said, his voice rough. "Tell me how it feels."
"Full," I'd managed. "It's—it's good. Don't stop."
His pace had increased, each thrust going deeper, building a rhythm that had my breath coming in gasps. His thumb had found that sensitive spot again, and the dual sensation had been overwhelming.
"Ethan," I'd breathed.
"I've got you," he'd promised. "Just let go."
When the second climax hit, I'd cried out his name, my body convulsing around him, my nails raking down his back. He'd groaned, his control slipping, and I'd felt him pulse inside me as he'd shuddered through his own release.
I'd thought we were done. I'd been wrong.
After only minutes, I'd felt him hardening again, his hands moving with renewed purpose. "Again," he'd said.
What followed dissolved into fragments—being positioned above him, his hands on my hips teaching me how to move, the overwhelming sensation of this new angle. Being flipped again when my movements became uncoordinated, his pace relentless as he drove me toward another peak.
"One more," he'd demanded, even as I'd protested I couldn't take anymore.
And somehow my body had obeyed, pleasure crashing through me with enough force to make my vision go dark, to make consciousness slip away. The last thing I'd remembered was his arms tightening around me, his voice calling my name, and then darkness.
Now, standing in his study in the cold morning light, I can still feel every place he touched me, the ache between my legs, the taste of him on my lips. The shame is crushing—made worse by the physical evidence I can't hide: tenderness when I move, marks blooming on my neck and hips, the way my body feels used in a way that's both foreign and somehow right.
I need to leave. Before he wakes up.
I grab my torn dress and scattered shoes—evidence of how desperately we'd moved last night—and slip downstairs through the silent house, all glass and steel and incomprehensible wealth.
I'm reaching for the front door when I hear footsteps.
"Ms. Lowe."
Sean stands in the hallway, still wearing yesterday's rumpled suit, holding a paper bag and manila folder. His expression is professionally blank except for something in his eyes that might be sympathy.
"Mr. Reid asked me to give you these before you left."
Inside the bag: Plan B, water, Advil, a bagel. And underneath, legal documents on expensive letterhead.
Draft Property Agreement - Preliminary Documentation
Proposed Transfer: Partial interest in Long Island residence
Beneficiary: Lucia Lowe
"What is this?" My voice comes out small.
"A draft proposal. Not binding," Sean says. "Mr. Reid's lawyer prepared it at 6 AM. If you sign, it would give you legal interest in the property. Security, should there be complications."
"I can't accept this."
"You don't have to decide now. Take it. Read it. He'll pay for a lawyer consultation if you want one."
"Why is he doing this?"
Sean's voice softens. "Because he woke up at 5 AM and watched you sleep for an hour, then called his lawyer and said, 'I need to make sure she's protected. I need to make sure I didn't just make her life worse.'"
Something cracks open in my chest.
"He's still asleep," Sean continues. "He finally crashed at 6:30, after arranging everything. He's submitted leave requests for both of you—Monday and Tuesday. To give you time to figure this out."
"I need to go," I whisper.
"The car's ready."
I follow him to the garage, clutching the bag and folder. As we pull away in the black Tesla, I look back and see a tall figure standing motionless on the second-floor balcony, watching me leave.
