Lucas : A Preston Brothers Novel (Book 1)(13)

Dad freezes at the top of the stairs. “Did he just say what I think he said?”

I nod. “I don’t know where he got it from.”

Surprisingly, Dad grins. “So, do you?”

“Do I what?” I ask, bouncing on my toes, anxious to leave.

“Do you and Laney have sex?” he asks, arms crossed, waiting for my response.

“I have a girlfriend!”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Logan says, stepping out of his room.

I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means,” he says, eyes narrowed.

Leo climbs the stairs, deciding to join in. “What’s going on?”

“Luke and Laney are having sex,” Dad says with a chuckle.

I sigh. “This is how rumors get started.”

“They’re not having sex,” Leo mumbles, removing his t-shirt as he walks past me and moves to the bathroom.

“How do you know?” Logan asks, raising his chin.

Leo steps inside the bathroom and turns to face us all, one hand on the door, ready to close it. “Because Laney’s smart and beautiful and way too good for Luke.”

“What the hell is so wrong with me?” I whine.

“SEX!” Lachlan shouts.



I tried to get her off my mind, but the only thing I could think about was Laney.

One last year with Laney.

Sure, I’d see her on holidays, and I’d make sure to come home on weekends whenever possible, but it’s not the same. I’d be gone, living a life where she wouldn’t be around to call me out on my screw ups, and she’d move on and live every day without me. Fuck the fact that I wouldn’t be able to crawl into her bed whenever I felt the need to be close to her, but I’m positive she’d fill those nights with date after date, guy after guy. All of them not me. That thought alone has my stomach doing somersaults and my heart beating wildly. I almost thump at my chest, mad and frustrated with myself, because I have one year. Just one year to make her want me the way I want her. She listened to me talk about girls, about my awkward-as-fuck fumbly first time, and she never mentioned anything. Not a damn word. And now I’m mad. At her. Because she should’ve said something, right?

Without thinking, I slip on my running shoes and head out. I have zero knowledge of the time. It was seven when I put Lachy to bed, but who the hell knows how long I’ve been in my apartment, pacing back and forth, trying to push thoughts of her out of my mind.

I’d felt closer to her today. Closer than I’ve ever felt. And not just physically. I feel like there’s a giant clock hanging over me, counting down the days, hours, minutes, seconds until… I can’t even process what happens when the final second ticks over.

Before I know it, I’m at a crossroads. A literal crossroads. I’ve spent day after day here—the only part of my routine run where I stop. I look left. Look right. Not for the cars, but for guidance. Right brings me past Laney’s work, toward the school, and a couple more rights take me home.

Left?

Left brings me to her.

With two fingers on my pulse, I attempt to count the beats, but the numbers are blurred, my concentration drowning in thoughts and images of her.

She looked good today.

She smelled even better…

Fuck, I almost lost my mind.

I’m still losing my mind.

I take the 468 steps to her door.



I knock once.

Twice.

On the third time, I begin to panic, because seriously? What the fuck am I doing here? I turn to leave, but the door opens and my panic triples.

“How dumb am I? I tried calling you,” she says, and I face her.

She’s looking right at me, her hair damp and loose, cascading around her shoulders.

I blink.

“Your phone, right?”

She’s not wearing pants.

Jesus shit.

She’s wearing on oversized shirt—her dad’s work one—and nothing else. Well, maybe something but I can’t see it, and so I let my imagination take me away.

“Luke?” She waves a hand in my face. “Are you here for your phone?”

When I don’t respond (too busy imagining what’s beneath the clothes—or cloth… or whatever the singular for clothes is), she says, “How long have you been knocking? I was in the shower.”

Goddammit. Now I have naked Laney in the shower in my head.

“Luke!”

Of all the things I can say, I choose to tell her, “My name’s on your shirt.”

“What?” she asks, looking down at her chest. Then she glances up, her eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Preston Construction,” I say because apparently she needs help reading. “My name.”

She shakes her head. “It’s not your name.”

“Is so.”

“Is not.”

“Is so.”

She spins on her heels and walks farther into her room, leaving the door open for me to follow. Which I do. Because did I mention she’s not wearing pants! Girl’s got legs for days and doesn’t even know it—this I learned the summer we were fifteen, and she showed up at my house in a bikini top and cut offs and kept asking why I was walking behind her, looking down at her shoes. I wasn’t looking at her shoes. Obviously.

She walks to her desk, hidden beneath the staircase leading to the rest of the house. “I think it’s dead,” she says, her back turned. I stand behind her, look over her shoulder, sniff her. God, she smells good. Her shoulders straighten, but she doesn’t turn around. “Did you just sniff me?”

I ignore her question, move closer to her. Just an inch. My chest is touching her back, her bare legs skimming mine. And I ask her something that’s been infiltrating my mind all damn day. “How far do you go on these dates?”

“What?” she breathes out. Her breaths are rapid, matching the rise and fall of her chest. Boobs. “Are you still going on about this?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” I tell her truthfully.

She’s struggling to breathe now.

So am I.

She turns slowly. Oh, so slowly. I don’t budge. Not a bit. Her dark eyes meet mine through her glasses. “Do you want to charge your phone?” she asks, her voice barely audible.

“Yes,” I say, but neither of us makes a move to do so.

She stares.

I stare back.

Six seconds.

Eight heartbeats.

Her throat moves when she swallows. I zone in on the movement and lick my lips, wanting them there, kissing her, tasting her. “Do they touch you?” I murmur. Her gaze drops, and my hands are quick to move. One goes to her waist, the other to her chin. I make her look at me. “Do they?”

“Luke.”

“Where do they touch you?”

“Who?”

“Any of them. All of them.” Jealousy can make someone insane. I’m proof.

Her hands are on my chest. I like her hands on me. Anywhere. Keep touching me, Laney. She’s fighting against herself. I see it in her eyes. In her fists, balled against me. She wants to push, but she wants me closer. Choose to be closer, Laney.

She pushes. “I hate when you do this.”

“Do what?”

“Tease me.”

I almost laugh. Almost. She has no fucking idea. “You think I’m teasing you? You’re the one who answered the door without pants.”

“I knew it was you,” she whispers.

“Exactly.”

She shakes her head, her arms extended, palms an inch from my skin. There’s space between us. I don’t want space. I want her.

One year.

Tick. Tock.

She says, “You didn’t come here for your phone, did you?”

My lips twitch. Curve.

Hers do the same.

She leans back against her desk.

I lean into her.

Bye-bye, space.

I say, “I came here for you.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to kiss you, Lane. Because I want to wipe the memory of every other asshole who’s ever touched these lips.” I skim my thumb across her bottom lip, and her eyes drift shut. Her lips part. My thumb’s in her mouth now, against her tongue, her soft, wet tongue, and Jesus Christ, I’ve never been this fucking hard in my life and I’ve barely touched her.

My mouth waters.

My pulse pounds.

She sucks harder.

“Shit.”

She releases my thumb and her hand curves around my nape, pulling me to her. Her legs spread, welcoming me. My mouth’s on her neck, on her throat, right where I wanted to be. She arches her back, makes a sound that has my knees buckling, collapsing into her. She’s warm between her legs and she’s moving, searching, wanting. I finally, finally, go for the kiss. Her mouth’s open when I get there, her tongue warmer on my own than it felt on my thumb, and she’s grinding, grinding, moaning, moaning. And I’m falling, deep, deep, deep into her web, and swear, if she kisses every guy the way she’s kissing me I’m going to find every one of them and kill them dead.

I want to rip her shirt open, devour her breasts. Move lower so I can devour her some more. But I take my time. I reach up, undo one button. Another. My mouth doesn’t leave her. Her fingers are in my hair. Tugging. Pulling. She breaks the kiss. I miss her lips. Another button and I’m kissing her collarbone, listening to her make those sounds. Those damn sounds.

My body wants her.

My mind knows I have her.

Another button.

Then: “Luke, wait.”

I freeze. Blink hard. Keep my mouth on her. I try to stay focused on her. On here. On now. And not where I want us to be in ten minutes. Each and every one of her exhales hits me like a punch to the gut, bringing me back to reality. She says, “I’ve forgiven you for a lot before, and if this is some weird territorial thing because you realized I’ve been with other guys, then you need to leave. Now. Before we do something we’ll both regret and can’t take back.”