-Reed.
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"You feel like when technicolor first arrived
Like something that I've never seen
Losing gravity and sense of time
Like both things that I'll never need
I've just been losing composure."
The lyrics floated in the air like incense, wrapping around us in the dim hush of the room. My phone rested on the nightstand, screen still glowing faintly as the song played on. We were tangled in sheets, in limbs, in something I didn't have the vocabulary to name without sounding ridiculous. We missed an entire day of this fraudulent consulting fantasy we called work. I should've felt guilty. I didn't. Not even a flicker of it.
Ever since he walked into my life like a velvet-wrapped curse, things had been... soft. Unsettlingly soft. Like I'd fallen into a hot bath and forgotten I was drowning.
Lucien asked me to hit shuffle again, he liked that game. Said it exposed something about me. Said my playlist was "unhinged but tastefully so." I obliged, and as usual, it landed on something way too aligned with my mental state. Like the algorithm was conspiring.
"Tell me a secret," he murmured, lips brushing the slope of my shoulder. His voice melted into my skin like candle wax. He was curled into me, his face nestled in the hollow between my neck and collarbone, where the heat of our bodies hadn't quite dissipated.
I hesitated for dramatic effect.
"I considered working in editing adult films for a living."
He lifted his head just enough to let out a bark of laughter, then buried it back into my skin. "You mean porn? Why are you being polite about it?"
"Not polite," I said, casting a lazy glance toward the clothes abandoned like battlefield casualties across the floor. "There's nothing polite about what we did a few hours ago. But I feel like calling it porn is too... abrasive. It deserves better PR."
"You're adorable," he muttered, planting a featherlight kiss on my shoulder. His lips lingered for a second too long, like they weren't ready to let go.
"You know," I began, voice thinning with the kind of honesty I usually choke on, "I'll give you an even better secret."
His body tensed slightly, attentive.
"I think you're way out of my league." I swallowed. "You're beautiful in a way I didn't think would ever orbit near someone like me. Your hair—god, your hair—is ridiculous. Your smile looks like it was handpicked by a divine focus group. And sometimes you look at me and everything else just... stops. Time, sound, thought. And your body?" I laughed under my breath, a little embarrassed. "Don't get me started on your body."
He shifted. Then, quieter than before, as if confession was holy currency, he whispered, "Let me tell you a secret." He pressed a palm against my chest like he could feel the tremors under my ribs.
"I've always been told I look good," he said. "But it's never felt like this. Not the way you said it. And I hate that you think I'm out of your league." He leaned in, forehead brushing mine. "You don't realize how handsome you are, Reed."
I snorted, about to cut him off, but he kept going.
"I mean it. Your hair is maddeningly soft, your eyes—shit, your eyes—they undo me." He paused, gaze sweeping over me like it physically hurt to hold in. "They're the color of thunder before it breaks. Dark grey, but not dull—alive, shifting. Like if I stare too long, they'll pull me under. Sometimes, I swear I catch silver in them, when you're amused, or about to say something that'll ruin me."
His fingers trailed lazily down my chest, fingertips brushing over skin like he was reading scripture. "And your body?" His voice lowered, reverent now. "You have no idea, do you?" He dragged a single finger along my ribcage, slow, savoring. "You're lean, sure—but everything about you is tight. Intentional. The kind of fit that doesn't beg for attention but owns it anyway. Defined in a way that says you move, not pose. You're not carved marble, you're built tension. And it drives me fucking insane."
He leaned in, voice barely a whisper now. "I never thought I'd say that about a guy, to be honest. But with you? I can't look away."
I rolled my eyes, heat crawling up my neck. "I didn't say all that to fish for compliments. You don't have to feed me poetic bullshit."
He groaned. "Here we go. Your shitty tongue and all your defense mechanisms." Then, with the grace of a lion stretching over its prey, he climbed on top of me, grinning. "Even your bullshit is mesmerizing." He began kissing my face—forehead, cheeks, the bridge of my nose, every patch of skin like it held some kind of sacred script.
"Reed," he murmured between kisses, "there isn't a single thing about you that isn't lovely."
I didn't say anything after that. Because what the hell do you say to that?
So I just pulled him closer—hands pressed against the nape of his neck—and let the silence say thank you in a language we both understood.
Eventually, he shifted—resting his weight beside me instead of on me, pulling me in like gravity worked differently around us. My head found its way to his chest, arms still wrapped tightly around his waist, as if I could anchor him there by sheer will. His heart beat steady under my ear, and for a minute, everything was quiet.
"Lucien, you should take me on a date," I said softly.
My words broke the stillness like a whisper to glass.
But he didn't move. Not an inch. Instead, his head tilted down slowly, those maddeningly observant eyes meeting mine like he was measuring the sincerity in my breath.
"I should, yes," he said, tone soft, almost reverent. "I promise you."
I frowned, tightening my hold just a little. "No. I don't want you to promise me, I want you to actually do it. Take me on a date. A real one."
A laugh escaped him—low, indulgent. "Okay. Demanding Reed has logged in. Duly noted. I will take you on a date. What do you want to do?"
"No," I shot back, "you should plan it."
"Oh come on," he whined theatrically, "help a man out. I'm rusty."
I grinned, but didn't let up. "Fine. I want the full cliché. The movies. I want to hold hands in the dark, make fun of the trailers. Then I want to walk aimlessly and eat something terrible from a street cart. The greasier the better."
He sighed in mock defeat, but there was a sparkle in his eye. "Your wish is my command."
I arched an eyebrow. "That's my line. Right, your highness?"
That got him. He laughed through his nose, and in one quick move, he slid out of my grip. Not out of reach, though—he turned and straddled me, palms bracketing my neck, his thumbs grazing along my jaw.
"You're so annoying, Reed." He said, grinning.
He didn't squeeze. Not really. It was playful—teasing dominance with featherlight hands. But the feel of his fingers resting there, with the potential of pressure, sent something electric darting down my spine.
And I looked him dead in the eyes.
"Do it."
His brows drew together. "Huh?"
"Do it, Lucien."
For a second, I saw the tension ripple through him like wind through tall grass. A second later, his voice dropped. "Fuck, Reed."
I didn't flinch. I leaned into it.
"Lucien," I whispered, heat crawling up my throat. "Tighter."
His fingers obeyed. Pressure, precise and controlled, coiled around my neck like trust dressed as danger. His face changed—something possessive clouding the brown of his eyes.
And then his mouth was on mine. No warning. No slow burn. Just hunger in velvet and teeth and breath, and the fire we'd both been pretending not to feel erupted.
I think I forgot where I was. I think I liked it.
He didn't need the command.
We were already there—skin on skin, heat pulsing between us like a second heartbeat. His hands still curved around my neck, fingers pressing with just enough weight to make my breath catch. Not suffocating. Just possessive. Just enough to remind me that he could do anything to me—and I wanted him to.
Then he kissed me again, and it was nothing like before.
It was raw. A little frantic. The kind of kiss that frays composure at the edges and sets everything else on fire. His lips were bruising, demanding, and I gave in willingly—parting my mouth, tilting my head, letting him taste all of me. He moaned into it, low and guttural, hips grinding down into mine with intent. I gasped. My body arched up like instinct.
He was hard against me, and I could feel the urgency now, how close we both were to losing whatever thread of control we had left. His hand slid from my throat down my chest, pausing briefly like he was committing me to memory by touch alone.
"You're so warm," I whispered.
"You do that to me," he said, voice tight. "I can't explain it."
"Then don't explain." I dragged my hand down the ridges of his back. "Just fuck me."
His eyes locked on mine—hungry, reverent. "I need a—"
"Already there." I reached out, found the condom where we'd dropped it earlier on the edge of the bed. He took it from me with a quick, grateful look, tore it open with his teeth, and rolled it on in near silence. His hands weren't steady anymore. Good. Neither were mine.
Then he came back over me, slower now. Like he didn't want to rush this, no matter how badly we both were burning.
His fingers curled around my thighs, guiding them apart as he settled between them, eyes still watching my face for any sign, any change, any stop. There wasn't one.
"Lucien," I murmured. "Now."
He nodded, swallowed, and pushed in—slow, careful, deeper, deeper still.
I hissed, exhaled, dug my nails into his biceps.
The stretch burned at first. But it was grounding, real. A reminder that he was here, inside me, and nothing else outside this room mattered.
He paused when he was fully seated, forehead resting against mine, both of us panting. I could feel his heart pounding through every point where our bodies touched.
"Okay?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"Move," I said, voice hoarse. "Please."
And when he did, everything blurred.
The rhythm started slow—measured, reverent. Like he was trying to savor me, to write his name in every motion. But it didn't stay slow for long. The need built, and soon we were moving like gravity wasn't enough to hold us down. Our bodies met with force and heat and noise, my breath stuttering, his name breaking past my lips again and again.
He fucked me like he'd been waiting his whole life to. Like he didn't know if he'd get the chance again.
"God, Reed," he gasped, one hand gripping my thigh, the other bracing beside my head. "You feel—fuck—so good."
I pulled him down for another kiss, teeth clashing, tongues frantic. "Don't stop."
"Not a chance."
It wasn't just sex. It was everything. Every argument. Every look. Every second of denial we'd both tried to fake. It all broke here—sweat, breath, friction. Him inside me, me holding onto him like if I let go, I'd lose something too big to name.
When I came, the world went white-hot and shaking and endless.
He wasn't far behind—grinding into me, burying his face in my neck as he came with a low, guttural sound I felt more than heard. It made me shiver all over again.
After, he collapsed half on top of me, breath wrecked, heart still hammering like it had just survived something.
We didn't speak for a minute.
Just laid there, tangled in the sheets and each other, sweat cooling on skin that hadn't finished trembling.
Then—
"You think we can go again?" he asked, voice rough, like gravel dipped in honey.
I grinned, chest still rising and falling too fast. "Hell yeah we can."
I reached back toward the nightstand.
"Let me grab another condom."
And just like that, all the decadence came to a screeching halt.
We were back at the office. Lucien and I were handling a new consulting proposal for some wide-eyed startup founder who genuinely believed a fake prince and a failed film major could revolutionize his business model. Adorable.
It had been months since we started doing this. The money laundering that turned into half-legitimate business. At this point, it was second nature. Boring, even. Which was depressing in its own existential way.
"Mail," Margo announced, appearing like a final boss in heels, dropping a brown box in front of me with the kind of aggression only forged in decades of repressed rage and color-coded spreadsheets. Then she vanished again like a magician mid-union break. Classic Margo... always entering like thunder, always exiting like fog.
Lucien was two seats away from me, index finger resting on the corner of his mouth like he was in a European noir film. Staring at his laptop screen with manufactured intensity, hoping I'd take the hint and shut up.
I picked up the package, checked for any fragile stickers. Nope. I lobbed it toward him like a slow, underhanded dodgeball. It landed on the desk right in front of him with a satisfying thud.
He didn't flinch.
Not even a twitch. Not a single breath out of place. His hair, as always, remained untouched by gravity, wind, or consequence.
I gawked at him. "Are you serious?"
He turned to me slowly, expression carved from marble, brows raised, finger still casually perched against his lower lip. The only thing missing was a faint smirk and a background score of violins.
"What is that?" he asked, nodding at the box. Still looking at me like I was the most chaotic pest he'd ever learned to tolerate.
"It says 'hand it to a responsible adult.'" I pointed at the label. "You're three years older than me, so I figured—"
"Don't you ever fear getting killed?" he asked, voice dry as hell.
"By you?"
"Well, yeah…"
"Not really, no."
He sighed, long and dramatic, like I'd just asked him to file taxes during an opera. "Oh my god."
Then he tore the box open with the kind of unceremonious brutality that made it personal. Like he was trying to communicate something. Probably intimidation. Unfortunately for him, I run on low signal and zero reception.
Inside were a handful of elegant envelopes, a sleek black watch, and two Venetian masks—one gold, one bone-white. Very phantom gala with secrets and sins.
"What is that?" I asked, leaning over.
"One of your clients," he said, flipping open an envelope with the disinterest of a jaded aristocrat, "is inviting us to their launch event." His tone screamed burn this invite and salt the ashes.
I gasped. "We should totally go!"
"It's not my scene."
"Oh, come on," I whined. "How are you so unbothered? You didn't even blink when I threw that at you. Are you some kind of mafia prince or something?"
He looked up at me flatly. "Pretty much, yeah."
"Jesus." I laughed. "You'd need something way bigger than a cardboard box to make you flinch."
"Try a boulder."
"Noted. I'll start rolling one your way."
That earned me a real laugh—short, sharp, and unguarded. He swept the envelopes to one side, returning to whatever fake spreadsheet or encrypted message was glowing on his screen. Back to work. Back to the illusion.
And still, somehow, his laughter echoed in my ears longer than it should have.
I couldn't sit still, I wanted to go to that party.
I watched him return to his screen like nothing happened. Like the whole elegant masked invitation to a shadowy event wasn't currently sitting on his desk screaming plot device.
I gave it thirty seconds. Maybe thirty-five. Just enough silence to pretend I was letting it go.
Then— "So… about that party."
Lucien didn't look up. "No."
"You didn't even let me finish the sentence."
"You didn't need to. The sentence was going to end with 'we should go,' and the answer is still no."
I swung around in my chair to face him fully, dramatic and determined. "Lucien. Come on. When am I ever invited to things that don't involve tax fraud or awkward elevator silences? This is a masked gala. There will be music. Champagne. Probably questionable business deals. I want to experience that at least once."
"Reed."
"I'll wear the gold one," I said, picking up the flashier of the two masks and holding it to my face. "It brings out the color in my trauma."
Lucien dragged a hand down his face like he was aging a decade per syllable. "Why are you like this?"
"Because," I said, dropping the mask and standing. "This is my first invitation to something remotely Gatsby-adjacent. And I want to go. Whether you're coming or not."
That made him pause. Finally, his gaze lifted to meet mine—calculated and a little dark, like he was trying to see if I meant it.
"You'd actually go without me?"
"Yes."
He closed his laptop halfway. "Fine."
I blinked. "Fine?"
"If you shut up about the party for the next ten minutes," he said slowly, "I'll take you on that date you asked for."
I squinted at him. "You're bartering me a date in exchange for silence?"
"Yes. That's the currency I'm offering."
"No. Absolutely not." I crossed my arms. "Those are two separate things. The masked party and the date are unrelated. You don't get to cancel out my social debut with romantic bribery."
He groaned. "Why are you so difficult?"
"Because you like me that way."
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might rescue him. "You're going to drag me to this thing whether I say yes or not, aren't you?"
"Oh, I'm already picking out my outfit in my head."
"And if I don't come with you?"
"I'll go alone. Wear something dramatic. Make a scene. People will assume I'm a spurned lover or a mysterious power player. Maybe both."
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "You are so—"
"Delightful?" I offered.
"Unpredictable."
"Same thing."
He sighed and sat up straighter. "Fine. I'll go. But if I end up having to fight someone in a marble bathroom or untangle a political assassination plot, I'm blaming you."
"Oh please," I grinned, "you'd love that."
He didn't deny it.