“Babe,” Saint murmured, picking up on Lucian’s reluctance.
Delilah ignored him, her eyes wide and pleading. “I get it—this is a lot to pile on out of the blue. And a huge change in lifestyle for you. But would you consider looking over my menu plans and see if it stirs any creative interest for you?”
Lucian blinked, clearly surprised at her fervor. I wasn’t. I’d spent time with Delilah and knew she was passionate about cooking and food. It wasn’t a leap to see that she’d be excited to meet someone with the same sort of talent and passion for food. The funny thing was that Lucian didn’t seem to understand how much of himself he revealed through his work. Delilah was right; he was a fighter. But he was also a thoughtful artist who evoked emotions through his food. His dishes were sensual in a way I didn’t think he realized.
Under Delilah’s unblinking puppy eyes, he relented with a quirk of his mouth, as though he wanted to keep resisting but didn’t have the energy to fight her force of will. “All right. I’ll give you my email, and you can send them over.”
“Yes!” She did a little fist pump that had Saint chuckling and hauling her back against his wide chest. They looked so comfortable together, so much in love, that a small pang of envy pinched my heart. Delilah beamed up at him before giving me a happy, relaxed smile. “He’s much better than Greg, Em. So much better.”
A collective beat went around the table. Delilah clearly knew she’d spoken out of turn, her lips parting in distress. She was quick enough to understand that giving me a look of apology would be too obvious, but I knew she was sorry all the same. Saint, being more sensitive than most people knew, scooped his bride up and, in an impressive display of strength, stood and lifted her with him.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he said, holding her in his arms. “I have a few dances to claim.”
They left us alone with the specter of Greg hanging over us like a big stink. I launched a preemptive strike. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Lucian watched me with a predatory stillness, and I braced myself, wondering how he’d go about getting the information out of me.
“All right.”
His simple acceptance made me feel small instead of relieved. But I held my tongue and fiddled with the rumpled edge of the tablecloth. People got cheated on all the time. It wasn’t their shame; it was the cheater’s. Even so, the memory of Greg between some stranger’s thighs crawled along my skin and settled in my chest. Was I really so easy to leave?
“Somehow, I doubt it,” Lucian said. And I realized that, much to my chagrin, I had asked the question out loud.
I ducked my head and plucked at a stray crumb that had fallen onto the blue puddle of my skirt. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”
“All right.”
“I’m just a little . . . raw.”
Instinctively, I knew he’d understand that; Lucian was raw about a lot of things too. Silence stretched tight between us, taken up by the laughter of the party around us. Here, at the table, though, we were in our own bubble.
“I think about you.” Lucian’s rough but low proclamation had me lifting my head.
“About me?” But I knew. The force of his gaze told the tale, the way he seemed to strain toward me but sat absolutely still.
Lines of grim determination bracketed his lush mouth, as though he regretted speaking. But then he continued, the words tumbling over my skin in a hot wave. “Think about touching you again, tasting you. I go to sleep with your name on my tongue and your scent on my skin.”
I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move, ensnared by the urgent pulse of his words.
“I wake up hard and aching, remembering how your sweet little nipple rose for me. Think about how I want to suck it again, fucking feast on you.”
We stared at each other, heat and tension coiling between us like a living thing, tugging at my nipples, stealing my breath. His chest rose and fell in agitation, color washing over the sculpted crests of his cheeks.
I wanted. I wanted so badly.
He swallowed audibly. “You haunt me, Emma. Every damn thing about you does.”
My fingers curled into a fist as blood rushed through my veins. “I think about you too. I’ve seen you bare but never got to touch. I want to.”
Lucian grunted an agonized sound of want.
My words came out breathless. “I think about it at night, when I’m alone.”
He closed his eyes, as though absorbing a hit. When they opened, the frosty green burned bright. “You don’t know what that does to me, honey.”
“Tell me.”
A lock of his inky hair fell over his brow as he turned his head with a jerk, giving me his strong profile. “I feel owned. By you. And I like it.”
I exhaled as my insides dipped.
But his expression hardened, the strong curve of his jaw bunching. “And I shouldn’t, Em. I shouldn’t.”
Recoiling, I blinked hard, not expecting that. Pride shouted that I hold my tongue, but I asked the question anyway. “Why?”
“Because you deserve better than me.” He grimaced but didn’t shy away from holding my gaze. “You deserve everything.”
“Lucian—”
But before I said another word, five of my former coworkers, drunk and cheerful, descended en masse.
“Emma love! There you are,” Danny shouted, oblivious of the tension humming between Lucian and me.
Lucian held my gaze for a brief moment longer, remorse and wry acceptance darkening his eyes. Then he rose, stopping only to touch my shoulder with the very tips of his fingers. His softly murmured words drifted down amid the racket. “I’m sorry, Em.”
It speared into my chest and left a hollow hole as he walked away, leaving me to deal with something far worse than talking about my cheating dickhead of an ex-boyfriend. I had to take a long slow walk down memory lane as my friends and costars decided that what I really needed was to be reminded of all that I’d lost.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Emma
“You picked a good one, Emma.” Delilah leaned back in the white wicker chair with a sigh, a glass of champagne in her hand. Fairy lights strung overhead gave the area a soft glow, but it was nothing compared to the luminous glow in her smile.
“I’d say you picked a good one.” I lifted my glass in cheers.
She tipped her glass to that but wouldn’t be dissuaded. “You don’t want to talk about your new man? I would. He’s gorgeous, talented, and clearly gone on you.”
My mind tripped over that last bit. Delilah didn’t know he wasn’t truly my man; Lucian and I had decided it would be easier to keep that to ourselves.
And that hurt. Because I knew without doubt that I was “gone on” Lucian. I started falling the second I laid eyes on him. It was stupid, stupid, stupid. He thought he didn’t deserve me and walked away, despite this overwhelming desire that simmered over anytime we got into each other’s orbit. The feel of his mouth on my nipple had remained for days, haunting me with need and lust. But where the flesh was willing, the mind was not. Lucian wasn’t going to give in. He’d made that perfectly clear.
Where did that leave me? Panting over him and making a fool out of myself. I had some pride. Some dignity.