Page 52 of Lennox Lane

"Lane, fuck, Lane⁠—"

He buried himself one last time and released hot and deep. His forehead fell to her shoulder, and his teeth grazed her spine as he emptied himself into her with a groan that sounded like surrender.

They collapsed together, tangled and sweating. She lay there with her heart hammering against her ribs, feeling him pulse inside her as the aftershocks rippled through them both.

When she could breathe again, and the room stopped spinning, she turned her head to look at him. He was already watching her with that goofy, boyish grin on his face—the one that made him look ten years younger and twice as dangerous.

"Cut them off," she said, her voice hoarse. "All those women. The rotation. The options. Whatever you call it."

His smile softened, became something real. "Yes, ma'am."

"I'm not going back to wearing a condom with you," she continued as she narrowed her eyes while her lips twitched. "So if you're fucking anybody else, we're gonna have a problem."

"Already handled," he said, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Wasn't anybody else anyway. Hasn't been for a while."

She snorted, not quite believing him, but wanting to. "You have ten minutes to shower before I go to the food bank."

Lennox blinked. "You mean we?"

"You donated a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars to my nonprofit," she said, sliding out of bed and stretching, feeling deliciously used, thoroughly claimed. "I wasn’t expecting you to be a part of the daily operations."

He sat up, looking genuinely delighted. "I'm coming with you, Lavender."

"You trying to prove you're not just a controlling asshole with a bank account?" She arched a brow, already heading toward the bathroom. "If so, you don’t have to prove it in a hairnet, Jackson.”

“Lavender, I want to see and help because it’s something you love, and should you ever need my help, I want you to feel comfortable calling me. So go get dressed, baby, and come see me in ten."

She felt his eyes on her as she walked away. She felt the weight of his gaze like a hand between her shoulder blades. And when she glanced back from the doorway, he was still grinning—that same goofy, dangerous, devastating grin. She thought, despite all the reasons she had to run, that maybe, just maybe, she was in trouble in the best possible way.

"Nine minutes," she called. "And counting."

"Yes, ma'am," he said again, and she hated how much she loved the sound of it.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE L IN LANE IS FOR SOFT LANDINGS

Lennox had seen Lane run a boardroom. He’d borne witness to her cutting down promoters, executives, influencers, publicists, and one very brave attorney who had tried to explain contract language to her like she didn’t know what indemnification meant. He had watched her manage Nova’s rising career with the precision of a surgeon and the protective instincts of a woman who knew exactly how ugly the entertainment industry could get when no one was watching.

But watching Lane step into The Full Plate Project was different. This wasn’t business. This was a woman healing her community one meal at a time. This was church and not the kind with pews and ushers and somebody’s auntie humming three notes too loud during altar call. This was church in the way the place seemed to rise around her when she walked in. The building itself felt like it knew her. Like the walls recognized the woman who had fought to keep them standing. Like every shelf, every stockroom, every stainless-steel prep table, every folding chair, every handwritten sign pointed back to something Lane had survived and refused to let devour anyone else.

The Full Plate Project sat on a busy corner in the heart of Stonebridge. It was close enough to the bus line for elders and working parents. Close enough for growing teenagers and tired working people to reach without three transfers and a prayer. The building was weathered brick that’s too stubborn to fail—bright murals along one side and a deep green awning over the front doors. Someone had painted vegetables, flowers, open hands, and a table long enough for a whole neighborhood to sit down together.

Lennox parked along the side entrance.

Lane had been quiet for most of the ride.

Not angry quiet. Not fully. More like she had retreated into the part of herself that prepared to lead. Her hair was still lavender perfection, though softer from sleep. Her makeup gone and her face bare and gorgeous in a way that made his chest and pants feel unreasonably tight. She wore jeans, a cropped hoodie with The Full Plate Project logo, hoop earrings, and sneakers. No orange sequins. No club lights. No armor that sparkled.

Somehow, she looked even more gorgeous.

“This is where I tell you to behave,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

Lennox turned off the engine. “I always behave.”

Lane looked at him.

He nodded. “Okay. I understand why that seems like a lie.”