Page 47 of All Mixed Up

“Fuck.” His grate was the expletive at its dirtiest, braided with carnal completion as he spilled inside me. The heat of his come was detectable even through the condom, and I mewled from the bliss of it as he spasmed over and over again. Dear God. Was there anything more beautiful in this world than the sight of this god in the middle of an orgasm?

As we spiraled down—slowly—from the explosions, my tiny shudders and convulsions were also Lucien’s. Our entwined energies were enough to keep reality shoved back by blessed inches. I’d never been more thankful for the fact.

At last, I lowered back to the ground. My senses were as broken as the leaves beneath my back, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to be put back together again. But Lucien did just that by pressing his forehead to mine, resealing every connection of our minds, our souls, our hearts.

We remained like that, simply absorbing each other, for minutes that went by like microseconds. As always, time was our mortal enemy, but we fought to make the most of it. The summer breeze rustled through the trees, and eventually brought the sound of muted voices, as well. Some of them were interspersed with knowing laughter.

“Shit!” Though I whispered it, panic husked the syllable. I sat up straight, suddenly remembering our discarded bikes and uneaten picnic. “You think they know we’re in here?” I stage-whispered to Lucien.

His chuckle was not a reassurance. “Ah, most certainly, mon reve,” he stated, tucking me back against him. I nuzzled into the protective plane of his chest as he finished, “And probably wishing they were us, as well.”

“And why did I not ever want to step foot in this city?”

And why had I thought those words would stay put in my head?

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I licked my lips, waiting for Lucien to launch a fresh inquisition about them. I tensed, preparing myself to resist his charm-filled probe.

Instead, he mounted a more terrifying campaign.

His silence.

It didn’t come without a backup. He fine-tuned his stare to its most piercing shade of black before he fully looked back down at me. His face was set in steady solemnity, and his muscles were set in the same watchful stillness.

Stillness.

As he simply waited on me.

And waited.

I wanted to look away.

I couldn’t.

And God, how I wanted to tell him…everything.

But couldn’t.

Telling him would mean surrendering another chunk of my soul to him. And damn it, he had so much of it already. Too much.

Another burst of wind hit the trees. This gust was chillier than the others. And moister. And sadder.

An aura Lucien once more seemed to absorb by osmosis.

With a sigh that seemed almost grief-stricken, he trudged to his feet. “Rain is coming, ma bichette,” he murmured. “And while the idea of getting you muddy and wet has its appeal…” With one gruff shrug, he brought back his dangerous D’artagnan side once again—only that dashing warrior was even better now.

For one last moment, he was still my hot, naked swordfighter.

But just for a moment.

As I pulled my riding gear back on, he pulled off the condom. After zipping up, he threw his dirty, wrinkled shirt over his shoulders and departed our fantasy hideaway. When I stepped out from the trees, it was to find him walking back from the trash can, tapping on his cell phone with one thumb.

A barely tamped sigh. No; forget it. I sighed anyway. Reality again. Inevitable, but disgusting all the same.

“What’s happening?” I asked. He was wearing his “business emergency” expression. And yeah, it was scary that I knew that. Equally alarming? My total non-stress about his shirt, knowing he kept a few extras at the office for shit that popped up. Like interrupted picnics-that-weren’t-picnics.

And that would teach me to assume absolutely anything.