Chapter 2: Headlights and a Hungry Mouth
The windows had fogged completely, little rivers of condensation racing down the glass. My breath came in shallow pulls, my forehead pressed to the curve of Lucas's neck, the salt of his skin on my tongue. The truck smelled like sex and cheap beer and the ghost of that old burger in the bed, and I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except the way his hands were still on my hips, holding me like I might disappear if he let go.
"We should probably..." he started.
"Don't."
"Vera—"
"Don't ruin this."
He went quiet. His thumb traced small circles on my hip bone, right over the edge of my octopus tattoo, and I felt the tenderness of it in my throat.
"It's not ruining," he said finally. "It's just—we're in a truck. In a field. My come is dripping down your leg."
I snorted, a graceless sound that broke the spell. "Romantic."
"I try."
I lifted my head and looked at him. Really looked. His pupils were still blown wide, his lips swollen from my teeth, his hair a disaster. He looked wrecked in a way that made my chest ache.
"I meant what I said," I told him. "I'm not hiding this."
He didn't answer right away. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words he couldn't quite spit out.
"Lucas."
"I heard you."
"Then say something."
He sighed, long and heavy, and shifted beneath me. His softening cock slipped out, and I felt the loss of him like a physical thing. The come trickled down my thigh, warm and sticky, and I didn't bother wiping it away.
"My brother's going to find out," he said. "Eventually. Probably soon. Marcus already knows something's up."
"Fuck Marcus."
"Marcus is an asshole, but he's not wrong." Lucas's hands tightened on my hips. "This isn't just—this isn't a one-time thing. I can feel it. You can feel it. And when Daniel finds out—"
"Daniel doesn't get a vote."
"He's my brother."
"And he's my ex. Past tense. Very past tense. He's been married for two years. He doesn't get to have opinions about who I fuck."
Lucas flinched. Just slightly, a tightening around his eyes, but I caught it.
"What?" I demanded.
"Nothing."
"That wasn't nothing. Your face did a thing."
"My face didn't do anything."
"Your face absolutely did a thing. What was it?"
He looked away, staring out the fogged windshield at the glow of the bar lights through the trees. The parking lot was a distant smear of neon and shadow, and we were hidden here in the dark, separate from everything.
"It's just weird," he said. "Hearing you say that. About him."
"Why?"
"Because you loved him. For a long time. And then you didn't, but you still—" He stopped, shaking his head. "Forget it."
"No. Finish."
"You still carry him. Somewhere. You always will. And I don't know how to feel about that."
The words landed somewhere in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I pulled back, climbing off his lap, settling onto the passenger seat with my back against the door. My shirt was somewhere on the floorboard, my shorts with it, and the cold air hit my bare skin like a slap.
"That's not fair," I said.
"I know."
"I don't carry him. I haven't thought about him in—"
"You literally brought him up at the bar. To my face. Almost immediately."
"That was different."
"How?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. He had a point. A stupid, annoying, unassailable point.
"That was about you," I said finally. "Not him. I was trying to—I don't know. Remind you that the obstacle was gone. That we didn't have an excuse anymore."
Lucas stared at me. The anger in his face softened, replaced by something less definable. Something that looked almost like hope.
"You were trying to give me permission," he said slowly.
"Yeah."
"To do what?"
"To want me." My voice cracked on the word, and I hated it. Hated how vulnerable I sounded, how much of myself I was laying bare in this ruined truck in the middle of nowhere.
Lucas reached across the console and took my hand. His fingers were warm against mine.
"I've wanted you since before you even knew he existed," he said.
The words hit like a fist to the sternum.
"What?"
"I was at that party. The one where you met him. I saw you first. You were wearing that green dress, the one with the—"
"The flowers. The little yellow flowers."
"Yeah." He swallowed. "I was going to talk to you. But then Daniel got there first, and you looked at him like—" He stopped. "Like he was the only thing in the room. And I was just the older brother. The one who was supposed to stay out of the way."
I remembered that night. I remembered the green dress and the cheap beer and the way Daniel had smiled at me across the crowded room. I remembered thinking he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.
I didn't remember Lucas.
But I should have. I should have seen him standing there, watching, wanting. I should have noticed.
"Why didn't you say something?" I whispered.
"Because he was happy. And you were happy. And I was—" He laughed, bitter and hollow. "I was supposed to be the good one. The one who didn't screw things up."
"That's a shitty job description."
"Yeah. Well." He shrugged. "I did it anyway. For years. Watched you two together, watched you become part of our family, watched your brilliant highs and your terrible lows and how hard you worked to find the middle. Watched Daniel rise to that occasion when he could and watch him not rise to it when he couldn't." He paused. "I never thought he deserved you."
"Lucas."
"And then you broke up. And I thought—finally. Finally I could—" He shook his head. "But you were in pieces. And it was my brother's fault, partially. So I couldn't. I couldn't do that to you. I couldn't be the rebound. I couldn't be the consolation prize."
I pulled my hand free and leaned back against the window, my arms crossed over my bare chest. The fog on the glass was cold against my shoulder, and I felt suddenly, painfully exposed.
"You weren't a consolation prize," I said.
"I know that now."
"Do you?"
He met my eyes. The blue was steady, unwavering.
"I know that I've spent two years not letting myself think about you. Not letting myself wonder. Not letting myself hope. And I know that the second I heard your voice in that bar, all of that discipline went out the window." He exhaled slowly. "I know that I want this. Want you. Whatever that means. And I know that terrifies me."
The confession hung in the air between us, heavy and electric.
I reached down and grabbed my Fleetwood Mac shirt off the floorboard, pulling it over my head. The fabric still smelled like my perfume and his sweat and the smoke from the bar. I didn't bother with the bra.
"We're going to do this," I said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yeah." He nodded slowly. "I think we are."
"Secret meetings. Parking lots. Whatever we have to do until we figure out the right way to—" I gestured vaguely. "Handle it. Tell people. Not tell people. Whatever."
"That sounds like a terrible plan."
"It is a terrible plan. But it's the one we have."
His mouth quirked. "Improvising. Classic Vera."
"Shut up."
He laughed, real and warm, and something in my chest loosened. I leaned across the console and kissed him, soft this time, a promise rather than a demand.
When I pulled back, his eyes were dark again, that flicker of want igniting.
"Again?" he asked.
"I was thinking about it."
"You're insatiable."
"You're complaining?"
He shook his head slowly. "Never."
I climbed back into his lap, straddling him, and this time I took my time. I kissed the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the pulse point below his ear. I dragged my teeth along his collarbone, and he shuddered beneath me.
"Vera."
"Mm?"
"What are you—"
"I'm going to give you something," I whispered against his skin. "Something you're going to think about every time you close your eyes. Every time you're alone. Every time you're in this truck."
His breath caught.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
I slid off his lap, careful, deliberate, and knelt on the floorboard between his legs. The truck was cramped, the space tight, and I had to hunch my shoulders to fit, my knees pressing into the rough carpet where years of dirt and crumbs and regret had gathered.
Lucas watched me, his chest rising and falling fast, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he needed an anchor.
"You don't have to do this," he said again.
"I know."
"You don't owe me anything."
"I know."
I reached for the button of his jeans, still undone from before, and pulled them open. The zipper rasped as I dragged it down, and the smell of him—musk and sweat and the faint, animal scent of sex—flooded my senses.
I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulled. He lifted his hips to help, and his cock spilled out, half-hard and slick with the remnants of what we'd already done. The sight of it made my mouth water.
"Fuck," he breathed.
I looked up at him, meeting his eyes, and then I leaned down and licked a slow stripe from his balls to the tip, tasting myself on him, salty and bitter and something darker underneath.
His whole body jerked.
"Jesus Christ."
I did it again, slower this time, dragging my tongue flat and wet along the length of him, feeling him swell and harden under the attention. When I reached the tip, I took just the head into my mouth, sucking gently, lapping at the slit.
"Fuck, Vera."
His hand found the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. He didn't push, didn't force, just held on like I was the only steady thing in his world.
I relaxed my throat and took him deeper. Inch by slow inch, feeling him stretch me, fill me, the weight of him heavy on my tongue. I breathed through my nose, steadied myself, and then I pushed further.
He hit the back of my throat, and my gag reflex kicked in. My eyes watered, tears pricking at the corners, and I pulled back just enough, not off, just enough to catch my breath.
"Easy," Lucas murmured. "You don't have to—"
I didn't let him finish. I pushed down again, deeper this time, taking him all the way until my nose pressed into the hair at his base. I held there, throat working, tears streaming down my cheeks, and then I pulled off with a wet pop that echoed in the quiet cab.
"I'm going to give you the best blow job of your life," I said, my voice hoarse. "And you're going to remember it every time you touch yourself for the next ten years."
"Vera—"
I wrapped my hand around his slick shaft, jerking him slowly while my tongue flicked at the slit. The tip of my tongue traced lazy circles, catching the pre-come that beaded there, and I savored the taste of him, the salt, the heat.
"You like that?"
"Yes—fuck—yes."
"Tell me what you want."
"Your mouth. Please. I need your mouth."
I took him back between my lips, hollowing my cheeks, sucking hard. My hand kept working the base in tandem with my mouth, a rhythm that had him groaning, his hips bucking up despite himself.
His fingers tightened in my hair, not pulling, just holding on. I looked up at him through my lashes and found his eyes fixed on me, dark and wild and desperate.
"You look so fucking good like this," he rasped. "Your mouth full of my cock. Fucking hell."
I hummed around him, the vibration making him curse, and then I went faster. Sliding up and down, taking him deep then pulling back, tongue swirling, hand pumping. Spit dripped down my chin, messy and obscene, and I didn't care. I wanted him wrecked. I wanted him ruined. I wanted him to feel the way I felt every time I thought about him.
"Vera—Vera, I'm close—"
I didn't stop. I doubled down, hollowing my cheeks, swallowing around him, taking him as deep as I could manage. The tears were falling freely now, mascara smearing, and my jaw ached, and my throat burned, and I had never felt more alive.
"I'm gonna—fuck, I'm gonna come—"
I felt him pulse on my tongue, and then he was spilling down my throat, hot and thick and overwhelming. I swallowed, once, twice, three times, drinking him down until there was nothing left, until he was spent and shaking beneath me.
I pulled off slowly, licking my lips, tasting the last of him. When I looked up, his head was thrown back, his chest heaving, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
"Holy shit," he breathed.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and grinned. "Told you."
He looked down at me, dazed, and then he laughed. Low and wondering and unguarded.
"You're something else," he said.
"I know."
He reached down and pulled me up, hauling me back into his lap, kissing me deep and messy, tasting himself on my tongue. When he pulled back, his eyes were soft in a way I'd never seen before.
"Stay with me tonight," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
"Come home with me. Stay. Not for—not for more sex. Just. Stay."
The words hung in the air, fragile and terrifying.
"My car's at the bar," I said, deflecting.
"I'll drive you back tomorrow. Or you can take my truck and I'll get a ride. Whatever. I just—" He swallowed. "I don't want you to leave. Not yet."
I thought about Priya, who was probably blowing up my phone. I thought about my apartment, cold and empty and full of things I didn't want to think about. I thought about the way Lucas looked at me, like I was something worth keeping.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'll stay."
He kissed me again, softer this time, and I let myself melt into it, let myself have this one thing, this one moment, before reality came crashing back.
The windows had fogged over completely. The bar lights glowed through the trees like distant stars. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, and I thought about how strange it was to feel so at home in the middle of nowhere.
Lucas started the truck.
I leaned my head against his shoulder.
And we drove into the dark together, not knowing where we were going, but not caring either.
Not yet.
The highway stretched black and endless ahead of us, headlights cutting through the dark like a blade through skin. I had my bare feet up on the dashboard, my shorts still somewhere on the floorboard, Lucas's flannel draped over my thighs. The heater hummed, blowing warm air across my legs, and I watched the white lines flicker past in a hypnotic rhythm.
He kept one hand on the wheel and one on my knee, thumb tracing idle circles on my skin. Neither of us had spoken since we pulled out of the grove. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It was the kind of quiet that settles after something seismic, when words feel too small for what just happened.
"You're thinking loud," I said.
He glanced at me, then back at the road. "Yeah."
"Want to share with the class?"
His jaw tightened, relaxed, tightened again. "Just wondering what the hell I'm doing."
"Driving?"
"Not what I meant."
I pulled my knees up, wrapping my arms around them, the flannel bunching around my waist. The truck smelled like him—leather and cedar and something faintly sweet, like the ghost of an old air freshener. I breathed it in and tried not to think about how much I liked it.
"You're not doing anything wrong," I said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
He didn't answer. The radio was off, the only sound the steady rumble of the engine and the occasional whine of tires against asphalt. Outside, the world was a blur of dark fields and darker tree lines, punctuated by the rare glow of a farmhouse window.
"I keep waiting for the guilt to hit," he said finally. "And it's not. It's just... not."
"Is that a problem?"
"I don't know." He squeezed my knee. "Should it be?"
I thought about Daniel. About the way he used to look at me, like I was a puzzle he was tired of solving. About the way he stopped looking at me at all, those last few months, his eyes sliding past me to something else, someone else, anything but the mess I'd become.
"No," I said. "It shouldn't."
Lucas nodded slowly. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.
"Good," he said.
We drove in silence for another mile. The road curved left, then right, then straightened out again, and I watched the stars wheel overhead through the windshield, impossibly bright this far from the city. I thought about Priya, who was definitely going to murder me. I thought about my phone, still in my bag, probably lit up with a dozen texts I wasn't ready to read.
I thought about the way Lucas had looked at me in the truck, when I was on my knees, his cock in my mouth. Like I was something sacred. Like I was something he'd been starving for.
"You're doing it again," he said.
"Doing what?"
"Thinking loud."
I smiled despite myself. "Sorry."
"Don't be." He turned onto a gravel road, and the truck rattled beneath us, tires crunching over loose stones. "We're almost there."
"Where's there?"
"My place. Figured you might want to clean up. Eat something. Whatever."
I hadn't thought about food in hours. My stomach growled at the mention, loud enough that Lucas heard it, and he laughed.
"Okay," I said. "Food sounds good."
The house appeared at the end of the drive, a small ranch-style place with a sagging porch and a single light burning over the door. It wasn't much to look at from the outside—weathered siding, a crooked gutter, a lawn that hadn't seen a mower in weeks. But the light was warm, and the windows glowed gold, and something in my chest unclenched at the sight of it.
He parked and killed the engine. We sat there for a moment, the silence settling around us like a blanket.
"Come on," he said, and opened his door.
I followed him up the steps, my bare feet cold against the weathered wood of the porch. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, and I stepped inside.
The place was small. A couch, a coffee table covered in empty bottles and old magazines, a TV that looked like it predated the Reagan administration. The kitchen was visible through a doorway to the left, dishes piled in the sink, a half-eaten box of pizza on the counter. It smelled like stale air and something vaguely like cinnamon, and I loved it immediately.
"Bathroom's down the hall," Lucas said, gesturing. "Towels are in the closet. Help yourself."
I padded down the hallway, found the bathroom, and closed the door behind me. The mirror showed me a version of myself I barely recognized—mascara smeared, hair a disaster, lips swollen and red. My Fleetwood Mac shirt was wrinkled, the neckline stretched, and I could still taste him on my tongue.
I turned on the shower and stepped under the spray.
The water was hot, almost scalding, and I stood there for a long time, letting it beat against my shoulders, my back, my face. I washed my hair with his shampoo—something cheap and masculine, smelling like cedar and smoke—and scrubbed my skin until it was pink. When I stepped out, I felt raw and new, like something that had been shed.
I wrapped myself in a towel and went looking for him.
He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a beer in his hand. He'd changed into sweatpants and a t-shirt, and his hair was damp, like he'd splashed water on his face. When he saw me, his eyes traveled down my body, slow and deliberate, and I felt the heat of his gaze like a physical touch.
"There's pizza," he said. "If you want it. It's probably cold, but—"
"I don't want pizza."
His eyebrow arched. "No?"
"No."
I crossed the kitchen and took the beer from his hand, setting it on the counter. Then I pressed myself against him, my towel damp and thin between us, and kissed him.
He responded immediately, his hands finding my waist, pulling me closer. His mouth was warm and tasted like beer and something sweeter underneath, and I licked into him like I was starving.
"I thought you wanted food," he murmured against my lips.
"I want something else."
"What's that?"
I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You. Inside me. Now."
His breath hitched. "Vera—"
"I'm serious, Lucas. I've been thinking about it since the truck. Since the bar. Since the first time I saw you tonight and remembered what it felt like to want someone this much."
"This much?"
"This much."
He stared at me for a long moment, searching my face for something. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because he kissed me again, harder this time, and then he was lifting me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, my towel falling away.
He carried me through the house, past the couch, past the hallway, into a bedroom I hadn't seen. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled, clothes piled in a corner. He laid me down on the mattress and stood over me, pulling his shirt over his head.
I watched him undress, my heart hammering against my ribs. His body was exactly what I'd imagined—broad shoulders, defined chest, a trail of dark hair leading down to the waistband of his sweatpants. When he pushed those down too, his cock sprang free, already hard, already slick at the tip.
"Get on the bed," I said.
He raised an eyebrow. "Bossy."
"You like it."
He did. I could see it in the way his pupils dilated, the way his breath quickened. He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself against the headboard, and I crawled toward him on my hands and knees.
I straddled his thighs, my cunt hovering just above his cock, close enough to feel the heat of him. He reached for my hips, but I caught his wrists and pinned them to the mattress on either side of his head.
"No," I said. "Let me."
"Let you what?"
"Everything."
He swallowed hard but didn't argue. I released his wrists and leaned forward, my hair falling around us like a curtain, and kissed him slow and deep. His hands stayed where I'd put them, fisted in the sheets, and the trust in that small gesture made something twist in my chest.
I reached between us and wrapped my hand around his cock. He was hot and hard and leaking, and I stroked him once, twice, watching his face as his eyes fluttered shut.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I like your hand on my cock. I like the way you touch me. I like—" He broke off, gasping as I ran my thumb over the slit, spreading the pre-come around the head. "Fuck."
I lifted myself up, positioned him at my entrance, and sank down.
The stretch was immediate, intense, a fullness that stole my breath. I paused halfway, adjusting, and then I pushed down the rest of the way, taking him to the hilt.
"Jesus," he breathed.
I didn't move. Not yet. I wanted to feel him, all of him, the way he filled me, the way his pulse beat inside me. I leaned forward, my hands braced on his chest, and started to move.
Slow at first. A rocking of my hips, a deliberate grind. I watched his face, the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes tracked my every movement. His hands were still fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, and I could see the effort it took for him to stay still.
"You can touch me," I said.
His hands found my hips immediately, gripping hard enough to bruise. He didn't try to control the rhythm, just held on like I was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
I rode him faster. The angle shifted, and suddenly every thrust hit that spot inside me, the one that made my vision blur and my thighs shake. I moaned, low and guttural, and Lucas cursed.
"That's it," he said. "Fuck, Vera, that's it. Ride my cock. Take what you need."
"Shut up."
"What?"
"Shut up and let me—" I broke off, gasping as another wave of pleasure rolled through me. "Let me use you."
"Use me." His voice was rough, almost reverent. "Fuck, yes. Use me."
I did.
I set a brutal pace, my hips slamming down onto his, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. Sweat beaded on my forehead, dripped down between my breasts, and I didn't care. I was chasing something, something I'd been missing for years, something I'd forgotten I even wanted.
Orgasm hit me like a freight train.
It started in my core, a tight coil of heat that unspooled all at once, shooting through my limbs, my fingers, my toes. I cried out, my head thrown back, my cunt clenching around him in waves.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
Lucas watched me come undone, his eyes wide, his mouth open. He didn't move, didn't thrust, just let me ride out every last shudder of pleasure until I collapsed against his chest, panting.
"You're not done," I whispered.
"I know."
I lifted my head, looked at him. His eyes were dark and hooded, his lips parted, and I could feel his cock still hard inside me.
"I want you to come," I said.
"I will."
"No. Inside me."
His breath caught.
"Vera—"
"I'm on the pill. I'm clean. I want to feel it."
He stared at me for a long moment, and then his hands tightened on my hips and he started to move.
He fucked me from below, a relentless upward thrust that had me gasping, overstimulated, shaking. I buried my face in his neck and held on, my nails raking down his shoulders, and he fucked me harder, faster, until his rhythm stuttered and broke.
"Fuck—Vera—I'm—"
"Come."
He did.
I felt it, hot and thick, spilling inside me like a promise. He groaned my name, his body shuddering beneath me, his hands gripping my ass like he was trying to pull me inside him. And I stayed there, pressed against his chest, as the world slowly pieced itself back together.
When he finally softened and slipped out, I rolled off him, landing on the mattress beside him. The sheets were soaked with sweat and I was dripping his come down my thighs, and I had never felt more satisfied in my entire life.
I rode beside him in the truck, she was not regretting her decision at all. The words from earlier replayed in my head, and I laughed softly.
"What?" Lucas asked, his voice sleepy and sated.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"I'm just—" I turned my head to look at him. "Happy. That's all."
He smiled, slow and real. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He reached over and pulled me against his side, my head resting on his chest. His heart was still beating fast under my ear, and I listened to it slow, breath by breath, as sleep crept in at the edges of my vision.
"Stay," he said.
"I already said I would."
"Good." He kissed the top of my head. "Because I wasn't going to let you leave."
I closed my eyes.
The last thing I felt was his hand in my hair, gentle and steady, and the last thing I thought was that maybe I'd found something worth the mess.
Or maybe I was just too tired to care.