The storm had passed sometime after midnight, leaving behind that clean, almost metallic smell that only Seattle rain can produce. Emma woke slowly, her body deliciously sore in places she hadn't felt used in months—maybe years. Sunlight sliced through the half-closed blinds, painting thin golden stripes across her bare stomach.
She was alone in bed.
For one panicked second her heart lurched—had he slipped out while she slept? The classic fuck-and-run. But then she heard it: the soft clink of a mug being set down in the kitchen, the low hiss of the coffee maker she'd finally remembered to fill last night. Relief washed through her, followed immediately by a different kind of heat. He stayed.
Emma stretched, feeling the faint ache between her thighs, the faint fingerprint bruises blooming on her hips where he'd gripped her hard enough to leave evidence. She smiled into the pillow. Evidence. Proof it hadn't been a fever dream.
She rolled out of bed, wincing slightly, and grabbed the first thing within reach—his black Henley from last night. It smelled like him: rain-soaked leather, cedarwood, and that dark, masculine undertone that had made her knees weak even before he touched her. The shirt hung loose on her frame, the hem brushing mid-thigh. She didn't bother with underwear. Why pretend modesty now?
Lucas stood at the counter with his back to her, wearing only yesterday's jeans slung low on his hips. The muscles in his shoulders shifted as he poured coffee into two mismatched mugs. Tattoos she hadn't noticed in the candlelight last night curved over his left shoulder blade—a stylized raven with spread wings, ink faded just enough to suggest it had been there a long time.
"Morning," she said, voice still thick with sleep.
He turned, and the slow, appreciative rake of his eyes from her bare legs up to where his shirt barely covered her made her nipples tighten instantly against the soft cotton.
"Morning." His voice was gravel-rough. "You look better in my shirt than I do."
Emma crossed the small kitchen in three steps and accepted the mug he held out. Their fingers brushed—deliberately this time. She took a sip. Black, strong, exactly how she liked it. He'd paid attention during one of their hallway small-talks months ago. That small detail hit her harder than it should have.
"You didn't leave," she said quietly.
"Didn't want to." He leaned back against the counter, legs spread in that casual-masculine way that made the front of his jeans look sinfully full. "Figured running out before you woke up would make me the asshole. And I'd rather not be the asshole."
She laughed softly. "Points for self-awareness."
He reached out, hooked a finger in the neckline of his own shirt, and tugged her closer until she stood between his thighs. "I also figured if I stayed, there was a decent chance I'd get to do this again."
His free hand slid under the hem, palm warm and sure against the bare curve of her ass. He squeezed once, possessively, then let his fingers drift between her thighs from behind. She was already slick—had been since the moment she smelled him on the fabric.
"Jesus, Emma," he muttered against her temple. "You wake up this wet every morning or is this just for me?"
"Shut up," she breathed, but there was no heat in it. She set her mug down, hands finding the button of his jeans instead.
He caught her wrist gently. "Easy. We've got time."
"Do we?" She tilted her head, studying him. "You have somewhere to be?"
"Work at ten. Construction site downtown. But that still gives us…" He glanced at the microwave clock. "…almost three hours."
Her laugh was low, a little wicked. "Plenty of time then."
She sank to her knees right there on the kitchen tile—cold against her skin, grounding. Lucas sucked in a breath as she worked his jeans open and tugged them down just enough. He was already half-hard, thickening further under her gaze. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking once, twice, watching his abs tighten.
"You don't have to—" he started.
"I want to." She looked up at him through her lashes. "I didn't get to finish this last night."
Before he could argue she took him into her mouth—slow, deliberate. Just the head at first, tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge, tasting the bead of pre-cum that had already gathered there. His hand found her hair, not pushing, just holding. Fingers flexing like he was fighting for control.
She took him deeper, relaxing her throat the way she'd learned years ago with a college boyfriend who didn't deserve the skill. Lucas groaned—long, low, almost pained. His hips gave the smallest involuntary thrust.
"Fuck… that's good," he rasped. "Too good."
She hummed around him in answer, the vibration making his thighs shake. One hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently while the other stroked what her mouth couldn't reach. Saliva slicked him, dripping down to her fingers. Messy. Perfect.
When his breathing turned ragged and his grip in her hair tightened almost to the point of pain, she pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him.
"Bedroom?" she asked, lips shiny and swollen.
He didn't answer with words. Just hauled her up by the arms, kissed her hard—tasting himself on her tongue—and walked her backward toward the bedroom, never breaking contact.
They didn't make it to the bed.
Halfway there he spun her, bent her over the footboard. The wooden edge pressed into her hips as he kicked her feet wider. His shirt rode up her back. Cool air hit her exposed skin, then his heat as he pressed against her from behind.
"Condom?" she managed.
"Wallet. Nightstand. Grabbed it when I got the coffee."
Practical man. She liked that.
She stretched, managed to snag the foil packet. He tore it open with his teeth, rolled it on with practiced efficiency. Then his hand was between her legs again, fingers sliding through her folds, spreading her wetness.
"You're soaked," he muttered, almost reverent. "All from sucking me off?"
"And from thinking about you fucking me again," she admitted, no shame left.
That seemed to snap something in him.
He lined up and pushed in—slow this time, letting her feel every thick inch. She moaned long and low, fingers curling over the footboard. When he bottomed out, hips flush against her ass, he held still for a heartbeat.
"You good?" His voice was strained.
"Move," she begged.
He did.
Not gentle. Not this time.
Each thrust drove the air from her lungs. Deep, punishing strokes that hit exactly where she needed. His hand wrapped around her throat from behind—not squeezing, just holding—while the other found her clit and rubbed tight, fast circles.
The angle was brutal in the best way. She could feel him everywhere—stretching her, filling her, owning her in that moment. The sounds were filthy: wet slaps, her gasping moans, his guttural curses.
"Touch yourself," he ordered suddenly. "I want to feel you come on my cock before I let go."
Emma obeyed instantly, replacing his fingers with her own. She rubbed frantically while he fucked her harder, faster. The dual sensation—his thick length dragging against her walls, her fingers on her swollen clit—pushed her over fast.
She came with a broken cry, walls fluttering and clenching around him. Lucas swore viciously, thrusts turning erratic. Three more deep strokes and he buried himself to the hilt, pulsing inside her as he came with a long, shuddering groan.
They stayed like that for long seconds—panting, sweat-slick, connected.
Finally he eased out, disposed of the condom, then gathered her against his chest. They made it to the bed this time. Collapsed together in a tangle of limbs.
His fingers traced lazy patterns on her spine. "You okay?"
"Better than okay." She pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "You?"
"Never better." A pause. "This… doesn't have to be just once. Or twice."
Emma lifted her head to look at him. His eyes were serious now, searching hers.
"I don't do casual half-assed," he said quietly. "If we keep doing this, I want more than just your body when the power goes out."
Her heart did something complicated—half thrilled, half terrified.
She swallowed. "I'm… not great at this part. The talking-about-feelings part."
"Neither am I." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "But I'm willing to try if you are."
She studied him for a long moment—the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the way his mouth curved when he was trying not to smile too big, the steady way he held her gaze without flinching.
"Okay," she whispered. "Let's try."
His smile broke free then—slow, real, devastating.
"Good."
He kissed her forehead, then her mouth—soft this time, almost sweet.
Outside, the city was waking up. Horns, distant sirens, the low rumble of a delivery truck. Normal life.
But inside her apartment, something had shifted. Something irreversible.
And Emma wasn't sure whether to be scared or exhilarated.
Probably both.