Page 55 of Lucky's Trouble

“Why?” I ask, but he pins me with a look that says, ‘Stand up, or I’ll make you stand up,’ and I climb off to position myself between his outstretched legs.

He pulls my tight cotton shorts down to my ankles, and I kick them away, leaving me in a tiny thong. Again, he ignores my near nudity and instead grips my waist to turn me around so I’m facing away from him.

This time, I don’t have to wonder what his intentions are. He braces my hips with his strong hands, and I feel his soft lips and the tickle of his facial hair reverently move along my back, where I’m bruised and sore, kissing every inch.

I don’t recognize this feeling burning in my chest, but it’s overwhelming, and I don’t know what to do with myself. I want to cry, laugh, kiss, fuck, and scream all at the same time. But what I want most is for it to never go away, which frightens me.

Turning me back around, he gazes up at me, looking absolutely feral with his scruffy beard, dried blood splattered on his cheeks, and hungry eyes. “Tell me what you want.”

There’s no doubt in my mind that if this was as far as I wanted to go tonight, he wouldn’t say shit about it. He’d put my clothes back on, tuck me into his bed, and walk away.

But that’s not what I want at all, so I gather up all my confidence and say, “Fuck me, Lucky.”

“You sure?”

“Very.”

“You need to understand what that means.”

“I know what it means.”

His hands trail up and down my sides. “Oh yeah? Tell me.”

My face flames. “Myla told me you have certain tastes when it comes to sex.”

“Certain tastes?” His tone is amused.

I shift my weight, building the courage to spell it out. “She told me you’re freaky, okay?”

He throws his head back in a loud, booming laugh, embarrassing me even more. I shouldn’t have said anything, but it struck me he might think I’m too broken or damaged or whatever to satisfy him the way one of the women from the club can.

I step out of his hold, but before I can get away, all humor falls away, and he grips me by the back of my thighs, pulling me close and encouraging me to straddle him once again.

“That’s not what I fuckin’ meant. Not at all.” He rests a hand at the base of my throat. It should terrify me, all things considered, but his hold is possessive, not cruel. “I’ve made it clear that I want you to be mine. Not for a week or a month or a goddamn year—I intend for this to be a forever-type thing. But you’ve made it clear you’re not ready for that, and while I can respect that, I don’t like it.”

“Luck—”

“Not done.” His hand moves to my chest, his giant palm covering my heart. “When—not if—but when I fuck you, any respect I have for your wishes is off the table. The second my cock slides into this pussy”—his hand goes lower, his fingers teasing the edge of my panties, sending a jolt of desire through my core—“I’m not letting you go.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“The fuck I don’t. I can’t tell you I’ll be good at this whole relationship thing—never done it before—but I can tell you with all certainty that I mean every fuckin’ word. You’ll be mine—even when I come home covered in blood, even when you’re my one phone call from the county jail, even when I forget to text back or call, and even when you want to spend time with me, but I got club shit to take care of.”

“Don’t oversell yourself,” I snark, the lust fog clearing from my head.

“Haven’t gotten to the good part,” he says. “Because you’ll also be mine when I do everything in my power to make your dreams come true, when I force you to recognize your power and harness that shit, when I make you my equal partner, when I put a ring on your finger, and even when I fill your belly with my babies.”

The damn fog returns. My whole life, I watched as Mom took a backseat to her wants, dreams, and even her needs until she couldn’t change the brand of laundry detergent she used without consulting Dad. She lost all ability to make decisions for herself completely.

When I left home, I promised myself that would never be me. That no one would dictate my life the way Dad did hers. Then, without even realizing it, I allowed it to happen with Neal. I wonder if that’s how it was for her, too. Was it such a slow process that she didn’t see it happening until it was too late, like me?

What Lucky’s proposing is the exact opposite of that, even though he’s skipping about forty thousand steps between what he wants and where we’re at, which is where I get hung up. It seems highly unlikely that out of all the women he’s met and all the women he’s been with, he’s never met one he at least wanted to date?

I’d be flattered if this were a fairytale, but it’s not; it’s my life. I’d be an idiot not to give him the chance to prove me wrong, though, because he’s right, there is something between us that I can’t explain, and despite the bad timing, I can’t walk away.

“Fuck me, Lucky,” I repeat with more confidence this time.

“You sure about this?”

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