Chapter 77 77
Lucas stepped into the master bathroom after dinner, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
The house had finally gone still—Mave tucked in by Eleanor with extra stories to make up for the earlier tension, Blair retreating to the east wing to give everyone (mostly him) space.
The dining-room kiss still lingered on his lips like a brand he couldn’t scrub off.
He stripped off the polo and khakis, tossing them into the hamper. The mirror fogged slightly from the steam he turned on full blast—hot enough to scald, the way he liked it when his head was too loud.
He stepped under the rainfall showerhead.
Water pounded his shoulders, rivulets racing down his chest, his abs, lower.
And then it hit him.
The memory.
Blair’s bare skin slamming against him that morning—wet, warm, completely unguarded.
The exact second the towel slipped. The way her soft, full breasts pressed flush to his chest, nipples hardening instantly from the shock of air and contact.
The perfect, heavy weight of them molding to him, sliding slightly as she lost balance. Her gasp against his throat. Her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck to steady herself. The slick glide of her stomach against his. Her thigh brushing the inside of his as she tried to find footing.
He’d felt it then—immediate, violent arousal—but he’d shoved it down, locked it behind anger and accusations.
Now, alone under the spray, there was no one to accuse. No one to blame.
His cock hardened fast—thicker, heavier than it had been in years. Painfully so. The kind of erection that throbbed with every heartbeat, veins standing out, head flushed dark and slick even before he touched it.
He braced one forearm against the tile, head bowed under the water.
“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, lost in the roar of the shower.
He hadn’t been this hard in… God, he couldn’t even remember. Not with Olivia. Not with anyone since Blair left five years ago.
The memory alone was enough to make him leak—pre-cum mixing with the hot water streaming down his length.
Lucas stepped out of the bathroom, towel wrapped low around his hips, skin still steaming from the scalding shower.
His cock was still half-hard—thick, heavy, refusing to fully soften even after he’d come so hard the tiles had rattled
. The memory of Blair’s breasts pressing against him that morning kept looping in his head like a broken reel.
He dragged a hand through his wet hair, exhaling roughly, trying to shake it off.
Then he saw her.
Blair stood at the far end of the bedroom—back to him—completely naked.
Moonlight slanted through the half-open curtains, painting silver stripes across her bare skin.
Her hair was loose , damp waves falling down her back. She was bent slightly forward, hands braced on the dresser, ass arched just enough to catch the light.
And there—bold, black, ink was sprawled across the perfect curve of her right ass.
FUCK ME BROOKS
The letters were huge, cursive but aggressive, impossible to miss. The ink looked fresh, raised slightly, like it had been done yesterday.
Lucas’s breath stopped.
His cock surged—rock-hard in an instant, towel tenting painfully, the head throbbing against the terrycloth. He could feel every vein pulse, pre-cum already beading at the tip again.
She turned slowly.
Kneeled.
Right there on the rug in front of the bed.
Her knees hit the floor with a soft thud. She looked up at him through dark lashes, lips parted, eyes glassy and needy.
“Fuck me, Daddy,” she whispered, voice husky, trembling with want. “I promise to be a good girl.”
She spread her thighs wider, hands sliding up her own body to cup her breasts—lifting them, offering them like she had that morning—then down again, fingers trailing over her stomach, lower, parting herself just enough for him to see how wet she already was.
Lucas’s hands flexed at his sides.
Every muscle in his body locked.
His heart slammed against his ribs so hard it hurt.
He took one step forward—then another—cock straining, towel slipping lower with each movement.
She crawled toward him—slowly—ass swaying, that obscene tattoo flexing with every shift of her hips.
“Please, Daddy,” she breathed again, reaching for the towel, fingers brushing the edge. “Use me. I’ve been so bad… punish me.”
Lucas’s vision tunneled.
He reached down—ready to grab her hair, yank her up, slam her against the dresser, bury himself so deep she forgot her own name—
Then he blinked.
Hard.
The room snapped back into focus.
Blair wasn’t there.
No tattoo.
No kneeling.
No spread thighs.
No husky “Daddy.”
The bedroom was empty.
Just the rumpled bed, the open bathroom door leaking steam.
His cock was still painfully hard—throbbing, leaking—but now he was alone, standing in the middle of the room like an idiot, towel barely clinging to his hips.
He let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh that sounded more like a groan.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face.
It had been a hallucination.
A vivid, filthy, full-color fantasy his own brain had conjured up because he couldn’t stop replaying the feel of her naked body crashing into his that morning.
He looked down at himself—still rock-hard, veins standing out, head flushed dark and slick—and cursed again.
He hadn’t been this turned on in years.
Not since her.
And now his own mind was torturing him with visions of her begging on her knees, tattoo screaming his name across her ass.
Lucas turned, stalked back into the bathroom, and cranked the shower to ice-cold.
He stood under the freezing spray until his teeth chattered and his erection finally gave up.
But even as the water numbed his skin, one thought kept circling:
She’s under the same roof.
She’s sleeping ten feet away in the east wing.
And I’m losing my goddamn mind.
He shut off the water, wrapped the towel tighter, and stared at his reflection in the fogged mirror—eyes dark, jaw clenched, looking like a man who’d just lost a war he didn’t know he was fighting.
Then he whispered to the empty bathroom, voice rough:
“Get it together, Brooks.