Page 141 of Ensnared

Iwonder if he knows how irresistible he is like this, servicing me so sweetly.Lucien’sdesire to please is so natural to him, so wound up in his perfect, innate goodness,Idoubt it occurs to him to do it for any other reason than to be kind.

Andtherein lies the full sting of myLucienproblem.HowcanIbe distant and unfeeling toward someone so deserving?Howmuch longer canIresist delivering him the pain and control andlovehe craves, whenIso badly crave the deliverance also?

Buthow canIsay yes, when the last tattered shreds of my honor hang on my resistance?

“Imade you dinner,” he finishes in a rush, avoiding my eyes. “You, um, you should take a break.”

Thepainful tempest inside of me decides to batter at my heart, like it might knock it right out of my chest. “Youmade me dinner,”Irepeat softly.

Thepink in his cheeks spreads to his ears, and he glances at me.Ourgazes tangle, and whatever he sees in mine makes him suck in a shivery breath.

Casually,Icross my legs, hiding my now-insistent interest.Hisparted lips are a sin unto themselves.

“Imade it forJaykobtoo,” he mutters defensively. “It’sno big deal.”

Tearingmy gaze away is more difficult thanI’dlike, butItake in the meal he made me.Healthy, the wayIlike it, simple poached pheasant, a side of grilled vegetables, and...

“Kimchi,”Ibreathe.

Ilean forward, taking the tray from him.Stunned,Itake a bite and need to stifle a groan.ThefermentedKoreanstaple is sour, spicy, and tangy, and it brings with it a rush of homesickness so strongI’malmost dizzy with it.It’sridiculous, in a way, becauseIamhome.Butit’s nostalgia of a different kind—for a time, and certain moments, and peopleIhaven’t seen in far, far too long.

Itaste it slowly, rolling the flavors and feelings over my tongue beforeIswallow.Tomy surprise, tears prick the back of my eyes.

“Isit okay?”Lucienasks, shifting, after the silence stretches longer than manners call for. “I’venever made it before, butEdenfound the recipe in one of the pantry cupboards and we made it together.We—Imean, she thought you might like it.”

Mybreath leaves me heavily, caught on the chest-twisting picture ofEdenandLucienworking together in the kitchen to make something so sweet and personal just to make me happy.JustbecauseImight like it.

Eden’sbrilliant, sharp eyes caress my mind.Hersumptuous hair.Herquick wit and kind concern.

Theglorious effortlessness of her submission.

Iset the tray onto the desk, needing some distance from their heartless, thoughtful gift.

Damnher.Anddamn him.Iam not a selfless man—they shouldn’t torment me like this.

Theyshould take one another and run far, far away.

Reachingout,IcatchLucien’swrist, pulling him over to me.Hefollows easily, that awkward tension in him falling away as soon asItake charge, as it always does.Lucienstands over me, but through that one touch, he’s at my mercy.

Thepower of it, the heady awareness thatIcan do anythingIwant to him, seeps into me.Hewould let me.Hewould let me take him to his knees and fuck his pretty mouth untilIcame down his throat and he would say nothing butthank you.Icould pull him into my lap and justholdhim, for hours, and he would stay there happily.

Orhe would have, beforeEden.

Now,I’mnot so sure.Heindulged my foolish, selfish, impulsive request not to fuck her, andIam both mortified and darkly satisfied that he did.Buthis patience with me has to be wearing thin, and as much as the psychologist in me tells me it’s for the best, thatIshould continue backing away, the man in me wants to claim him now.Iwant to claim them both, to demand their affection and tangle the three of us into such a knot that none of us could ever be unsnarled.Iwant to undo my hard work, unswear my vows, and abandon my resolution to leave them unbroken.

Butthat trulywouldbe foolish, not to mention selfish beyond all belief.

Hisskin is warm under my chilled fingers, andIstroke the vulnerable flesh at his wrist.Thepulse there kisses my fingers with swift little presses.

“Thankyou both,Lucien.”

Iwatch his throat bob.Unableto help myself,Ilink our fingers together and squeeze gently.Aftera moment, he squeezes back, a dazed expression crossing his face.Heleans against the desk, as though needing the support.

“Iused to make kimchi with my parents,”Iventure in a mild voice, thoughIknowI’minviting him in whenIshould be pushing him out. “Itwas my mother’s recipe, and it was important to her that we all contributed.Shesaid it was like holding our culture in our hands.Sheleft a lot behind when she came here, but she’d joke that some things were sacred.Itdidn’t matter if we were having bibimbap or caviar, we’d almost always have kimchi as well—and it had to be kimchi that we made ourselves, by hand, together.”

Lucien’smouth curves on one side, just a little, teasing me with a dimple.Thatchill he’s been keeping between us melts like sugar on my tongue. “Idon’t know howIfeel about caviar and kimchi.”

“Youdon’t know what you’re missing,Ipromise you.”

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