Anri POV
Lucien was still asleep when I slipped out of bed that morning. His arm had been heavy across my waist all night, and I only managed to wriggle free when he turned onto his side, murmuring something low and incoherent in his sleep.
I smiled to myself.
He looked so peaceful when he slept. Less guarded. His lashes curled just slightly, the barest shadow of a dimple tugging at one side of his mouth—even in dreams.
I pulled one of his white long-sleeve shirts over my head before padding into the kitchen. It hung past mid-thigh, soft and oversized, the collar dipping slightly off my shoulder. I wasn't wearing anything underneath.
I didn't plan to make it a moment.
But it became one.
The morning sun poured through the skylight. I tied my hair into a loose bun, left my face bare—my cheeks still pink from last night's heat, my lips still flushed. There were still faint marks on my neck. My thighs.
Every night since we got here in Switzerland had been like that.
Like we were trying to make up for every minute we'd been apart. Every touch we hadn't gotten to give.
We'd explore during the day—ride trains, sip wine by the lake, get lost in cobbled alleys—and by the time we came back, there was no pretending. No small talk. No waiting.
He would kiss me like he was starved. And I would let him.
Because I was starving, too.
This morning, though, I just wanted to do something small. Something quiet. Something nice. So I stood by the stove, flipping pancakes like I hadn't been ruined against the villa's glass wall twelve hours ago.
I was humming—barely—when I felt it.
That familiar shift in the air.
A breath. A sound. The smallest creak of a floorboard.
I didn't turn around.
But I knew.
Lucien.
He was awake.
And watching me.
The heat of him closed in seconds later. His body brushed mine from behind, warm and heavy, arms wrapping around my waist like muscle memory. His chest bare, skin radiating leftover sleep.
I let out a soft gasp as he pressed in close, his breath warm against my neck.
"You're cooking," he murmured, voice rough with morning.
"Mhm."
"In my shirt."
"Is that a problem?" I tilted my head.
I knew exactly what I looked like right now, why he's reacting that way.
My body curved just right beneath the cling of his white shirt. The hem barely covered my thighs.
I flipped a pancake, slow and unbothered.
Lucien's hand slid lower. Down my hip. Around my waist. He was breathing harder now, like he was trying to keep it together. But his palm slipped down again—fingertips teasing the edge of the shirt that barely covered my ass.
His voice dropped.
"Naughty girl. Why are you not wearing anything underneath?"
I smiled.
Didn't answer.
Lucien growled softly. "You're going to kill me."
I leaned back slightly, just enough for my hips to press against him. "You're dramatic."
Steam curled upward from the stovetop.
One hand still on the pan, I reached for the next pancake to flip. My other stayed pressed lightly against Lucien's chest, attempting—not very seriously—to keep a sliver of space between us.
Not that he let me.
His touch was everywhere now. Warm palms roaming over the swell of my hips, thumbs hooking under the hem of his shirt that I'd stolen, lifting it just enough to tease the bare skin beneath. He wasn't in a rush—not yet.
It was that slow, lazy kind of hunger. The kind that simmered.
The kind that made me ache.
"Smells good," he murmured against the shell of my ear. But I knew he wasn't talking about the pancakes.
"You're distracting me," I said, even as my thighs pressed together.
He chuckled, low and breathy, like he could feel the heat rising off me. "You're making it very hard to behave."
"You? Behave?"
Lucien slid his hands along my waist, fingers splaying over my stomach as he pulled me closer into his front. I gasped as I felt him, already hard and thick against my back.
"Don't burn breakfast," he whispered, kissing the base of my neck.
I barely managed to slide the pancake onto the plate.
His hands crept higher, cupping my breasts through the thin fabric. His thumbs circled slowly, teasing through the soft cotton until my back arched into him.
"Luce—"
His hand dipped lower, fingers brushing the inside of my thighs.
"You're soaked," he muttered.
I let out a shaky breath, hips pressing into his palm. "We're in the kitchen."
"And?"
His mouth found my shoulder. Then lower. He nudged the shirt off one side, lips dragging over my skin, hot and hungry. My grip tightened on the spatula.
"Lucien," I hissed.
"I haven't even started."
His hand reached over and turned off the stove with a sharp click. Then he gently but firmly took the spatula from my hand, placing it aside.
"No more distractions."
He turned me around, slow and deliberate, until I was facing him. My breath caught.
God, he was beautiful.
Messy hair. Sleep-heavy eyes. Bare torso, all lean lines and quiet strength, like he'd been carved from stone but somehow still managed to look soft with the morning light hitting him.
A slight dimple tugged at his cheek, faint but lethal, as he stepped closer—barefoot, warm, fully awake now, even if I was the one who'd been up first.
"Look at you," he murmured, voice low and still a little rough from sleep. "Wearing my shirt. Cooking breakfast. Acting like you're not the sexiest thing I've ever seen."
I bit my lip, pulse tripping.
Lucien didn't wait for a reply. His gaze raked over me slowly, stopping at my thighs—bare and glistening slightly from the steam of the stove—and then again at the way his white shirt just barely covered my hips.
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. His fingers brushed the hem of the shirt, teasing it up slightly before smoothing his palms over the tops of my thighs.
"Let me taste you," he whispered.
His mouth didn't go to mine right away.
Instead, Lucien dragged his lips down my jaw, over the curve of my neck, then lower—slowly, deliberately—until he reached my collarbone. His breath was hot, teasing, sending shivers through me as his hands slid up my thighs under the hem of his shirt.
"Lucien—" I gasped.
"Hmm?" His lips moved against my skin. "I'm just saying good morning."
I felt his fingers brush the crease where my inner thigh met my hip—just barely. Featherlight. Like he wasn't in a rush. Like he wanted to memorize how my body reacted to him inch by inch.
My hands tightened in his hair.
"You're evil," I breathed.
He chuckled against my chest. "You started it."
I arched when his mouth finally found the swell of my breast—still covered by the soft cotton. He kissed me through the fabric, his tongue pressing heat against the sensitive peak underneath. His hands pushed the shirt higher, but not off.
He suckled gently through the shirt—enough to make me moan, then pulled back, watching my face with infuriating control.
"You look like you're about to break," he said, smirking. "So sensitive, baby."
His hand cupped my breast fully now, thumb stroking over the fabric before slipping underneath—skin to skin. His fingers brushed over my nipple, rolling it between them until I whimpered and bit my lip, clenching around nothing.
"Lucien..."
His other hand slid lower—down my bare stomach, fingers teasing just over the waistband of the shirt where it barely covered anything. I was soaked already, and we both knew it.
"So fucking wet already."
He dropped to his knees.
Right there. On the kitchen floor.
"Luce—" My voice broke.
His hands hooked under my thighs, spreading me open at the edge of the counter.
His breath ghosted over my core, even through the shirt. Then a single kiss—just through the fabric—right where I needed it.
"Beg."
I blinked. "W-what?"
"Beg me to take this off," he said, voice low and wrecked. "Beg me to eat you properly. Or I'll keep teasing you like this"
I whimpered. Because he meant it. I knew he did.
Lucien never moved unless I gave him permission. Unless I asked.
And I wanted this. God, I needed it.
So I said it.
"Please, Lucien," I whispered. "I need your mouth on me."
His expression shifted.
Something between reverence and hunger.
He stood in one fluid motion, then gently—almost too gently—tugged the hem of the shirt higher, bunching it around my waist. I was bare beneath it. Dripping. Open for him and only him.
I nearly choked on my breath.
His tounge was devastating—flat and deliberate, dragging upward from the base of my core to my clit, savoring every inch like he had all the time in the world. Then another, firmer this time, tongue curling slightly, and I felt my legs jerk around his shoulders.
My hand slapped the marble counter. The other tangled into his hair. I couldn't stop the sounds leaving my mouth—breathy, broken pleas between moans that only made him groan louder against me.
He groaned. Like I was doing something to him.
His hands were gripping my thighs now, holding them open, keeping me right where he wanted me as his mouth worked rhythmically—tongue swirling, flicking, pressing in ways that made my vision blur.
He pulled back for a second, mouth wet, eyes molten.
"So fucking sweet," he murmured, then dove back in.
He suckled lightly at first, then rougher—sucking my clit into his mouth before flattening his tongue again, building pressure just right, just there.
"Oh my God!"
I shattered. Fully. Utterly.
My back arched, legs trembling around him, every muscle tensing then giving way to wave after wave of raw, helpless pleasure. I cried out his name, half-chanting it, half-praying with it, riding his mouth like it was the only anchor I had.
He didn't stop.
Not until I tugged at his hair, breathless and overstimulated, collapsing into myself with a whimper and a high, wrecked laugh.
Lucien looked up at me, lips glistening, chest rising with uneven breaths.
Before I could fully recover, his mouth trailed upward—slow, relentless, the path of a man who wasn't finished yet.
I was still trembling when he stood, eyes glazed and wicked, his hands skimming up my thighs as he pressed himself between them.
I felt it—the thick, hot weight of him against my core—still hard, still straining against the fabric of his boxers.
"Luce..." I whispered, voice wrecked.
He leaned in. One hand slid up to my chest, cupping one breast through the shirt I was still wearing—his shirt—his thumb brushing across the nipple, firm and knowing.
"You're not done," he muttered against my neck. "Not even close."
Then his fingers tugged the shirt down from the top, exposing one breast. His mouth covered it in an instant—licking, sucking, biting gently. I gasped, arching into him as his other hand reached between us to free himself.
I felt it. His cock, thick and ready, rubbing against my entrance with maddening precision.
"Lucien—"
He lined himself up, eyes locked on mine as his thumb grazed my nipple again. His voice dropped. Then he pushed in.
Slow. Deep. Stretching me open inch by inch until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe—just feel.
"Ah!" I cried, gripping his shoulders.
"I know it feels good, baby." he whispered, jaw tight.
He pulled out, then thrust again—harder. Deeper. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the quiet villa kitchen.
My legs tightened around his waist.
His rhythm was punishing now. Hips snapping into me, mouth dragging across my chest, licking my nipple as he kept thrusting.
Lucien kissed me again—rough, tongue claiming my mouth as he picked up the pace. My back arched, pressed hard against the cool marble of the counter. My breasts bounced with every thrust, my moans spilling freely now, no use holding back.
"You're mine," he muttered against my mouth. "All of you."
"Yes—please—don't stop—"
I was close again. So close I could barely breathe.
He grunted, breath hot against my ear. "You want this?"
"Yes. Yes, please—"
And then I shattered again. My entire body tensed, clenching around him as the orgasm ripped through me, raw and overwhelming.
Lucien followed with a growl, hips slamming into me one final time as he came, thick and deep, pulsing inside me.
We stayed like that for a long moment—his forehead pressed to mine, both of us catching our breath.
Then he pulled back just enough to smirk, brushing his thumb over my kiss-swollen lip.
"Next time," he murmured, voice hoarse and low, "don't act like you're not my breakfast."
I blinked, dazed. "What?"
"You think I'd choose pancakes," he said, grinning now, "when I could have you?"
And that was how breakfast burned—again.