Chapter 6 The Night Desire Boiled Over
Lucy woke to the sound of her mother’s excited voice drifting up the stairs the next morning. Elena was already dressed for another long day at the office, but her tone carried that familiar wedding-glow. “Marcus, honey, I just got the confirmation, my big client trip is locked in for next week. Four full days in Chicago. I hate leaving you two right before the wedding, but it’s non-negotiable.”
Lucy’s heart kicked hard. Four days. Alone in the house with Marcus. She stayed quiet on the landing, listening as Marcus’s low reply rumbled up: “We’ll be fine, Elena. Handle your work. Lucy and I can finish the last-minute details.” The words were casual, but Lucy caught the slight strain beneath them. She smiled to herself, already imagining how those four days would unfold. No more half-measures. No more almosts.
She padded downstairs in a loose tank and sleep shorts, hair tousled like she’d just rolled out of bed. Elena kissed her cheek, then Marcus, and hurried out the door with a wave. The moment the car pulled away, the air in the kitchen shifted, thicker, heavier, alive with everything they’d been circling for days.
Marcus stood at the counter in gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest, pouring coffee like it was the most normal morning in the world. But his shoulders were tense, jaw set. Lucy slid onto a stool across from him, letting her bare legs dangle and part just enough. The tank dipped low in front; she made no move to fix it.
“Four days,” she said softly, tracing the rim of her mug with one finger. “Just you and me. No interruptions.”
He didn’t look up. “Lucy, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She leaned forward, elbows on the counter, giving him a clear view down her top. “Talk about the obvious? You felt how hard you were against me last night at the sink. I know you want this as badly as I do.”
Marcus finally met her eyes. Hazel burned dark. “Wanting and doing are two different things. I’m marrying your mother in two weeks. This house, this family, it’s not a playground for your hormones.”
Lucy’s pulse throbbed between her thighs. She slipped off the stool and circled the island slowly, stopping right beside him. Close enough that her breast brushed his arm. “Hormones?” she whispered. “This isn’t hormones, Marcus. This is me dripping wet every time you walk into a room. Every time you look at me like you want to bend me over and fuck the attitude right out of me.”
His hand tightened around his mug until the ceramic creaked. For a heartbeat she thought he might grab her again, harder this time. Instead he stepped back, breathing rough. “Go get dressed. We’re finishing the seating chart today. And keep your hands to yourself.”
She smiled sweetly. “Whatever you say… Daddy.”
The word hung in the air like smoke. Marcus’s nostrils flared, but he turned away without another word.
They worked on the dining table spread with wedding charts and name cards. Sunlight poured through the windows, warm and golden. Lucy sat cross-legged in the same tiny outfit, deliberately leaning across the table so her tank rode up her back. Every time Marcus reached for a card, their arms brushed. Every time he spoke, his voice grew rougher.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” he muttered after the third accidental graze.
“Am I?” She shifted, letting one knee rest against his thigh under the table. “Or are you just noticing how good it feels?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he stood abruptly and moved to the couch, putting distance between them. Lucy followed, curling up beside him with the chart on her lap. Their shoulders touched. Heat rolled off his body in waves. She could see the outline of him in those sweatpants, half-hard already, thick and heavy.
“Lucy,” he warned, low and gravelly.
She turned her head, lips inches from his ear. “Tell me you don’t want to touch me right now. Tell me you don’t want to slide your hand between my legs and feel how soaked I am for you.”
Marcus’s hand landed on her knee, large, warm, trembling with restraint. His fingers flexed once, then stilled. “You’re going to ruin me,” he breathed.
“Maybe,” she whispered back. “But you’ll love every second of it.”
The chart forgotten, they sat frozen on the couch. Marcus’s hand stayed on her knee, thumb stroking slow circles that sent sparks straight to her core. Lucy’s breath shallowed. She tilted her face toward his, so close their noses nearly brushed. His eyes dropped to her mouth, dark with hunger.
“Fuck,” he rasped. His free hand came up, fingers threading into her hair, not pulling, just holding. The tension stretched tighter than a wire. One inch. That was all it would take. Lucy parted her lips, heart slamming against her ribs, already imagining the taste of him, the way his tongue would claim her.
Marcus leaned in, slow, inevitable. Their mouths hovered a breath apart. She felt the heat of him, the faint coffee on his lips. Then his phone rang on the coffee table, Elena’s ringtone cutting through like a blade.
He jerked back as if electrocuted, hand flying off her knee. “Shit.” He snatched the phone and answered, voice steady but strained. “Hey, babe. Yeah, we’re working on the seating… Everything’s fine.”
Lucy stayed where she was, thighs pressed tight together, aching. She watched the conflict twist across his face while he talked, loyalty, guilt, raw need all battling for control. When he hung up, he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Marcus disappeared into the backyard for an hour, mowing the lawn again like it could burn off the tension. Lucy stayed inside, body humming, mind racing. She touched herself once in the hallway bathroom, quick, desperate, coming with her fingers in her mouth to stay quiet, but it only sharpened the hunger. Four days alone with him loomed like a storm on the horizon.
When he finally came back inside, shirt damp with sweat and clinging to every ridge of muscle, he found her in the kitchen drinking water. Their eyes locked across the room. No words. Just heat and the silent understanding that the next time they were alone for real, the dam would break.
Marcus wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, exposing the hard lines of his abs. “Elena lands back late Thursday night,” he said quietly. “Until then… we stay out of each other’s way.”
Lucy set her glass down and walked past him, close enough that her shoulder grazed his chest. She paused at the doorway, glancing back with a wicked little smile.
“Whatever you say… Daddy.”
She left him standing there, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. Upstairs, she closed her bedroom door and leaned against it, pulse thundering. The wedding was close. The trip was closer. And Marcus’s control? It was hanging by the thinnest thread imaginable.
She whispered to the empty room, voice husky with promise, “One more push. That’s all it’ll take.”
