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Patréon.com/emperordragon Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on novel(ꜰ)ire.net
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Lydia handed her tiny dog over to the groomers with the kind of ease that screamed she'd done this dozens of times before. Then, instead of choosing one of the many empty seats, she sank into the chair right next to me. Close enough that her perfume—something floral, sharp, and warm all at once—cut through the scent of wet fur and soap in the air.
"Fancy seeing you here," she said, crossing her legs, voice carrying that lilt she used when she wanted someone's full attention. "You and I keep running into each other in the strangest places."
I kept my gaze forward. "Coincidence. That's all."
She leaned in slightly, smile daring. "You don't sound thrilled. Most guys would kill for this much of my time."
"Most guys don't know better," I muttered, trying to sound firmer than I felt. "This is a bad idea, Lydia."
Her eyes gleamed, like she'd been waiting for me to say it. "Oh, come on. You make it sound like I'm plotting a scandal. It's not that serious. We're just having a little fun."
I turned to meet her gaze, steady. "No. It doesn't work like that with me."
For a moment, she held my stare. Then, with a little shrug, she leaned back, as if she could drop the flirtation at will. The silence stretched long enough that I thought maybe that was the end of it.
But then she spoke again, casual, her tone almost light. "So, what's his name? The dog you brought in."
"Cute. Bet he's got you wrapped around his paw already."
The way she said it had an edge of teasing, but her smile this time was softer, less sharp. And somehow, we slid from there into an easy rhythm—bantering about dogs, school, even Coach's ridiculous gym routines. She slipped in a few sly comments, a double meaning here, a lingering glance there, but it wasn't the act she put on in the hallways.
She wasn't hiding behind the "dumb popular girl" mask. With me, she was clever, cutting, and genuinely funny. I caught myself laughing more than once, and every time I did, I realized how dangerous this was becoming. Because underneath the caution and the warnings I'd given myself, the pull toward her was real.
When the lull came—one of those quiet pauses where words weren't necessary—I looked at her. She looked back. Neither of us blinked.
"You're right," I heard myself say. "It's just two people having fun."
Her smile was slow, almost victorious, but her eyes burned with the same unspoken hunger I felt. Without a word, we stood, discreet, careful not to draw attention. She led the way, heels clicking softly against the tile floor, toward the bathroom at the back of the groomer's.
The tension had finally snapped.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind us, and before I could even take a breath, Lucas's mouth was on mine. It was desperate, hungry, the kind of kiss that made every thought scatter like glass on tile. I pressed back just as fiercely, my hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, refusing to let the heat between us die for even a second.
He didn't just kiss—he guided. With a steadying hand at the small of my back, he led me toward the stalls, never once breaking the rhythm. We slipped inside, the lock clicking behind us, sealing us away in our little stolen world.
I couldn't believe how intense it was. I've kissed boys before, played games with Jackson, teased others just for the thrill of it—but this? This was fire. It wasn't a performance, wasn't something I staged for control or attention. It was real, raw, and terrifyingly good. Every touch set me alight, every brush of his hand drew me deeper into something I couldn't name, only feel.
My body answered his instinctively, like we'd been made to fit together this way. It was almost animalistic—the heat, the need, the way neither of us seemed able to stop. My breath came in sharp little gasps against his lips, my nails curled against his shoulders as if holding on was the only way to survive the storm he'd pulled me into.
My back brushed the stall, but I hardly noticed. What filled my senses were his hands—firm, searching, careful where they lingered. I felt heat spark each time his touch found a new place, my skin alive under the path of his fingertips. I let my own hands wander in turn, exploring the lines of his shoulders, the shape of his chest, the way his body answered my touch.
My breath caught as his hands finally reached the place I'd been unconsciously aching for. The sudden focus of his touch sent a shiver rushing through me, my body answering before I could think. My fingers tightened against him, clutching at his shoulders as if to steady myself, but my response betrayed the swell of heat that carried me deeper into him.
And then it hit me—the dizzying rush, the trembling, the helpless surrender to the moment. I didn't think, didn't care, I just let it sweep me away. For the first time in forever, I wasn't in control, and shockingly… I didn't want to be.
Even after the waves passed, I couldn't stop. My lips found his again and again, softer now, lingering, as if I could keep the glow burning just by staying connected. My whole body felt like it was humming, alive in a way I hadn't known I was missing.
When we finally pulled apart, my hair was a little wild, my pulse still racing. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as we slipped back into the waiting area, and I almost laughed. I was glowing, unmistakably, as if I'd swallowed the sun.
I took my seat beside him, crossing one leg over the other, calm and composed on the outside. But inside? I was still trembling with satisfaction, still replaying the fire of his touch. And the strangest part of all—I couldn't wait for it to happen again.