Page 32 of The Viper
I clutched at his T-shirt, wanting it gone. He’d changed since the set, but not into anything safer—black tee stretched tight across his chest, jeans that clung to the kind of body that made women weep. I’d thought he was handsome before. But up close,he was devastating. A machine of muscle and focus, smelling faintly of salt and smoke and something sharp, like cedar or war.
And he wasn’t tentative about it—about me.
He kissed like he meant to own the moment, and maybe he did.
I gasped when his mouth left mine only to find the edge of my jaw, my neck, the dip below my ear. Every touch left me burning, every exhale a warning.
He murmured against my skin, “You sure you want this?”
I almost laughed. “You’re asking now?”
He pulled back enough for me to see the hint of a smile, the kind that said he knew exactly how bad an idea this was—and that he didn’t care either.
“I don’t do maybes, Lexi.”
“Good,” I breathed. “Neither do I.”
And then we were kissing again, harder this time—no hesitation, no polite space left between us. He guided me backward until my hip brushed the edge of the vanity, the mirror trembling slightly from the impact. The faint scent of steam and soap wrapped around us, turning the air thick and heavy.
His body pressed into mine, solid and immovable, the kind of strength that didn’t belong to my world. Hollywood men faked power for a living. They hit marks and flexed under studio lights, all performance and polish. Lucas was something else entirely. Unstaged. Unscripted. Built from grit and muscle and a life that didn’t require applause.
I could feel every inch of him—hard lines beneath his clothes, heat bleeding through fabric, his breath rough against my cheek. My hands found his chest, tracing the shape of his shoulders, the sinew, the heartbeat pounding steady beneath my palms.
He wasn’t careful. He was deliberate.
Each movement was precise, the way a soldier would move—efficient, commanding, but somehow still reverent.
The counter pressed into the small of my back. The marble was cool against my skin. He was all heat and motion, and I wanted to drown in the contrast.
When his mouth trailed down to my throat, I let my head fall back, the mirror behind us catching the blur of motion—the mess of blonde hair, the shine of sweat, the flash of desire that looked nothing like the controlled, camera-ready version of me.
This wasn’t performance.
This was hunger.
And for once, I didn’t have to pretend.
I’d dated actors. Models. A director once, stupidly. They all knew how to perform intimacy. Lucas didn’t. He was just there, heat and instinct and restraint barely holding.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing, and I wrapped my long legs around his waist, my hands digging into his hair. The growl that came from deep in his chest sent a thrill straight through me.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his mouth tracing the edge of my throat. “You taste?—”
He didn’t finish. Maybe he didn’t need to. I felt what he meant in the way he pressed closer, the way his hips aligned with mine, the delicious friction of denim against skin.
My head fell back, breathless. “You keep doing that, and I’m never letting you leave.”
“Not part of the job description,” he said roughly, nipping at my shoulder.
“Then quit,” I whispered.
That earned a low laugh, one that vibrated against my chest. “You’d be trouble either way.”
I slid my hands under his shirt, my fingertips brushing the ridges of his abdomen. “And you’d like it.”
He caught my wrist, his grip firm but not cruel. “Don’t test me, Lexi.”
I smiled up at him. “You started it.”
