For some reason, the fact that he didn’t have this whole thing planned out relieved me. It made it seem like we were on even ground for once.
Lucas stroked my jaw with his thumb. “For the first time in my life, I don’t care what I’m doing as long as it keeps going.” He stared into my eyes, and I braced for what he was going to say next. “You scared the hell out of me when you didn’t answer your phone yesterday. I care about what happens to you, Yve. I care that you’re safe. Happy. Smiling.”
The corners of my mouth lifted. “Are you saying . . . you like me too?” It was a completely awkward, straight-out-of-junior-high question, but it seemed that both of us were on the remedial level when it came to relationships—again, even ground that steadied me.
Lucas’s lips quirked. “Yeah. I am.”
“Okay then.” I swallowed and we both nodded. But I still felt the need to get one thing straight. I had the feeling that he was the kind of guy who’d take ten miles if you gave him an inch, rather than just one. “But don’t think that means you can go buying me whatever you want, whenever you want. I’m not—”
His grip on my chin tightened, his gaze sharpening. “Listen to me. I’ve never thought of you like that. A whore—a mistress—would be altogether much more inclined to please me. You challenge me, rebel against me, and push me on every level. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Sweet relief, and something much more complicated, swept through me. “Okay then,” I said again, unable to find any other words that would be appropriate.
“So are we good?” he asked.
I still had no clue what we were doing here, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to dig in and analyze this anymore. I just wanted to live it.
“We’re good,” I replied.
Lucas lowered his face, and before his lips pressed to mine, he said, “Good, because I’m taking you to dinner.”
Rather than argue, I reached up and wrapped my hands around his neck to pull his mouth the rest of the way to mine.
“Shut up and kiss me. We can argue about dinner later.”
RARELY DID I LOSE AN argument, but occasionally I conceded—like tonight. Instead of the small Cajun restaurant I’d wanted to take Yve to, we stood before the door to one of the last places I wanted to be.
The metal plate slid open to reveal Constantine Leahy’s face. His eyes widened with surprise. “No shit. Guess I owe Lord a hundred bucks because I swore you wouldn’t be back.”
“I’m sure you’re good for it.”
Con’s eyes landed on Yve. He shook his head and repeated, “No shit.”
“You letting us in or are we leaving?”
Yve squeezed my hand. It was a clear signal to shut the fuck up.
“We were invited. He’s letting us in,” she said.
Con slid the plate shut and a moment later, the door to the gym opened. “You were invited, Yve. I don’t remember anyone inviting him. And you’re late, by the way. Elle gave up on you an hour ago.”
I considered it impressive that Yve didn’t blush. “Got sidetracked,” was all she said as we followed him inside.
Sidetracked in the master closet. Because I couldn’t keep my hands off her.
And thank fuck she couldn’t keep her hands off me either. I’d never experienced wanting of this intensity. I wanted her all the time, and not just in my bed, in my life. I wanted to be around her. Hear her laugh. Listen to her tell me I was wrong about something.
No one challenged me like she did, and it was addictive. She was addictive.
That was the only explanation I had for the fact that her clothes hung in the closet we’d broken in so thoroughly, and why I would go to great lengths to keep them there. I wasn’t ready to dig deeper into the motivation behind my actions just yet.
“Food should be ready in a few. Some of the boys were helping, so it got a little dicey for a bit.”
The scent of basil, garlic, and tomatoes filled my nose as we moved up the hall to the kitchen. I still didn’t know how Yve had talked me into this—a spaghetti dinner the night before a boxing tournament.
Con turned and headed into the kitchen, which was complete pandemonium. Elle, Vanessa, and four large boys piled spaghetti, sauce, and loaves of thick grainy bread into huge dishes on the stainless-steel table in the center of the room.
Elle spotted us first. “Well, well,” she started, and I thought she’d was aiming the words at me, but I was wrong. “Look who showed up after all of the work was done. Nice, Yve. Real nice.”
This time Yve’s cheeks did take on a dusky tint. “Anything left to help with?”
Vanessa turned from the sink, wiping her hands on a towel. “There are another six boys out there in charge of setting the tables, and I’m a little scared to see how it’s going. Lord is supposedly supervising, so it’s anyone’s guess.”
“Perfect. We’ll handle it.”
Vanessa’s assessing stare landed on me. “You’re still under orders to keep your knee away from Con’s balls. I have plans for them later.”
I choked on the visual. She was certainly no longer the society princess I’d once thought she was. “Not a problem.”
Yve tugged me toward the doorway, and I followed.
Two long tables had been set up between the weight equipment and the ring and covered with white plastic tablecloths. Vanessa’s concerns had some merit, because four of the boys were on the other side of the room messing around with the punching bags. Lord was with them, demonstrating something. The other two were arguing over who was actually going to set the table.