Page 97 of Lured By Shadows

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For the past couple of days, I couldn’t get Culver off my mind. We’d started messaging each other, which added a nice touch to my days, but it still didn’t feel like enough. I couldn’t shake the fear that he wouldn’t come back around, that I’d already become an afterthought now that he’d gotten a taste of me.

Well… not much of a taste.

He hadn’t even seen my bare breasts and had already made me orgasm. God, I was going to lose my mind.

Luckily, he was picking me up today, and I’d finally get to see how he acted around me. Would he be indifferent? If he was, that meant he was stepping away from whatever this thing between us was. That would be a terrible outcome, but I had to brace myself for it anyway.

A knock finally sounded against the door, my stomach clenching so sharply I sat up straight, my breath catching.

I opened it.

There he was. Culver Scarbrough in the flesh, dressed like Victorian elegance had collided with modern couture, and decided he should be the model. Dark green and black framed his body in sharp lines, drawing attention straight to his impossible eyes. His hair was brushed back neatly but still tousled at the ends, like perfection had been intentionally disturbed.

“Hello, my lovely lamb,” he hummed, his voice calm and measured, though the wicked smirk reminded me exactly who I was dealing with.

I blinked a few times, gathering myself. “Hey, Culver. Let me grab my bag, and we can head out.” I tried to sound nonchalant, though I doubted it came across that way.

He nodded, almost approving, before speaking again. “How is your neck feeling? Any better?”

I froze, my hand tightening around my bag as my heart rate spiked at the mention. Oh God, did he really have to bring it up right now? Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I quickly cleared my throat, turning away so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes.

“It’s fine…”

Why now, of all times? He’d had plenty of chances to ask in our messages, but he’d kept everything polite, almost innocent. It didn’t make sense… except that it did, because it was Culver Scarbrough, and he thrived on teasing me.

With a realization, I lifted my gaze back to his green eyes. “How’s your erection feeling?” I narrowed my eyes at him, doubling down. That’s right, he hadn’t even gotten to finish that day. Well, not with me around.

His smirk widened, a quiet chuckle slipping out.

I stepped closer, clutching my bag with a proud little smile of my own. Without warning, he moved forward, forcing me to take a step back in surprise. I didn’t get far before his arm looped around my waist, pulling me flush against him.

The hard planes of his chest pressed into my soft curves, the electricity of him seeping through the thin fabric of my shirt. His cock, thick and rigid, jutted against my belly through his trousers. I could feel the taut muscles of his abdomen flexing as he held me still, his body a wall of restrained hunger.

Culver was hard… again. How? I had no idea, but he was.

“Oh, he is doing just fine.”

My free hand slid up to his chest, feeling the solid strength beneath the fabric as I inhaled his intoxicating scent, my lungs greedy for it. My body warmed instantly, and it was all because of him. I coughed lightly, turning my head away as I felt him react beneath me. “I guess you love being blue-balled, huh?”

Culver only chuckled again, effortlessly plucking the bag from my hand. He released me, and I barely caught myself as my knees threatened to give out. I steadied just in time for his free hand to catch mine, our fingers threading together like they’d been made to fit.

“I promise you have never left me blue-balled, Ira.”

His words lingered, pulling me back through the few heated moments we’d shared. There hadn’t been many, but he seemed to think otherwise.

He tugged me forward, and I followed without resistance, even though I knew I probably should’ve made it harder for him after everything he’d been putting me through.

He spun me lightly beside the car as he slid my bag into the back seat with unhurried precision. “Hurry up, Grandpa. I have a date to get to.” I gave his hand a smug squeeze, and he turned to me with a wild, flickering expression.

He inhaled sharply, controlled but far from subtle. His pupils tightened, as if he were deciding whether to be annoyed, amused, or jealous.

“Right,” he said, the word sounding almost bitter on his tongue. “My sister. Best not keep her waiting.” His voice dipped lower, resignation threading through it in a way that still managed to sound unfairly attractive. “She is far too impatient for that.”

I giggled at the hint of jealousy, though it faded quickly as he slipped back into the composed, unflappable version of himself.

His fingers laced with mine as if it were nothing, as if it were already a habit we’d fallen into. And the small, quiet gesture felt more intimate than any kiss because no one had ever made something as simple as holding hands feel like a promise.