**Chapter 9: Nesting**

The scent of sawdust and fresh paint clings to the air, sharp and clean, but it’s the sound that stops me in the hallway. A rhythmic scrape. The low hum of a power sander winding down. Then silence.

I push the door open and my breath catches.

Lucas is on his knees in the center of the nursery, a long wooden panel clamped to his lap, sandpaper in hand. He’s wearing a linen shirt the color of crushed bone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms corded with tension. Paint splatters dot his shoulders like accidental constellations. His jaw is set, that familiar, impenetrable mask of concentration in place, but his hands… his hands are moving with a tenderness that shouldn’t belong to a man who signs million-dollar blueprints with a single, cold stroke.

He looks up as I cross the threshold. The sandpaper drops. Those dark eyes lock onto mine, and for a fraction of a second, the steel in his posture fractures. Something raw flashes through them. Something like awe.

“You’re early,” he says, voice rough.

“I wanted to surprise you,” I reply, stepping inside. The floor is bare plywood right now, but we’ve brought in a thick memory-foam mattress to lie on while we work. It looks absurdly out of place, but I don’t care. My gaze sweeps the room. The walls are painted a soft, muted sage. Not clinical white. Not sterile grey. A living color. He chose it himself. I know because I told him, weeks ago, while lying in bed, half-asleep, that I hated the idea of a nursery that felt like a hospital room. I told him I wanted something that felt like a secret. Like a sanctuary.

He didn’t say anything then. He just pressed his lips to my temple and held me until my breathing evened out.

Now, he’s built the sanctuary.

I cross the room in three steps. He doesn’t stand. Instead, he reaches for me, fingers closing around my wrist, pulling me down to him. The scent of him—sandalwood, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of sawdust—wraps around me. I crouch between his knees, my hands finding the damp cotton of his shirt. He’s warm. Vibrating with quiet energy.

“Show me,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move to let me go. His thumbs stroke my pulse point. “The crib’s assembled. I reinforced the joints. Triple-locked slats. It’ll outlast us both.” His voice is steady, architectural, but there’s a tremor underneath. “The dresser is second. Shelves are up. I wired the monitor system myself. No blind spots. No vulnerabilities.”

He says vulnerabilities like they’re physical threats. Like something could actually breach what he’s building.

I run my fingers along his jawline. The stubble catches against my skin. “You painted the walls yourself?”

“I hired someone for the ceiling,” he admits, a ghost of a smile touching his mouth. “But I wanted the walls. I wanted to get under my skin while I did it.”

My chest aches. It’s such a small thing. A wall. Paint and rollers and tedious hours of careful strokes. But it’s everything. This man, who moves through the world like a blade wrapped in silk, who keeps his emotions caged and his boundaries fortified with steel, is kneeling on a plywood floor, sanding wood for a child he hasn’t met yet, painting a room to keep the world out.

He catches my hand and presses it flat against his chest. My palm rests over his heartbeat. It’s racing.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs.

“I’m memorizing,” I correct him softly. “This version of you. It’s dangerous.”

His gaze drops to my mouth. The cold architect is gone. In his place is something darker. Something hungry. Something that belongs entirely to me. “Let it be.”

He leans in, slow, giving me every chance to pull away. I don’t. I tilt my head up and meet him halfway. The kiss starts soft, a question and an answer all at once. His mouth is warm, his lips moving against mine with deliberate care. But I know him. I know the spark beneath the surface. The second my tongue brushes his, the dam breaks.

His hands slide to my waist, pulling me flush against him. The wood panel slips from his lap. The sander clatters to the floor. I’m pressed back against the half-painted wall, my knees bracketing his hips, and he’s hard already. So hard. I can feel him through the thin fabric of his jeans, a thick, insistent weight that makes my breath hitch.

“Lucas,” I breathe against his mouth.

He groans, low and rough, his fingers tangling in my hair. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he growls, lips sliding down my jaw to my throat. “Sitting here, waiting for you. Watching the light hit your face. Knowing we’re building this. Knowing you’re carrying my child.”

He bites down, gently, on the curve of my shoulder. A mark. A claim. My back archs instinctively. The nursery feels suddenly too small, charged with the kind of tension that only exists between us. The quiet domesticity is still there, humming in the background, but it’s been infected by something older. Something primal.

He stands, lifting me with him like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist, my hands gripping his shoulders. He carries me to the mattress, lays me down with a reverence that contradicts the fire in his eyes. He strips his shirt off in one fluid motion, tosses it aside, and then his belt. The metallic click echoes in the quiet room. He pushes his jeans down, kicking them off, and there he is.

His dick is already hard, thick and heavy, resting against his stomach. Veined. Proud. I reach out, fingers tracing the length, feeling the heat radiating off him. He shudders, his hips jerking forward slightly.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick. “So fucking beautiful. For me. For us.”

He rolls a condom on with practiced efficiency, but his hands are trembling. Not from nerves. From restraint. From the sheer force of wanting me right here, in the room we’re making for our baby. He lines himself up, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. I’m already wet. Dripping for him. Always dripping for him.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands, voice dropping to a possessive growl. “Tell me you want my cock inside you. Tell me you want me to fuck you in the room we’re building.”

“Yes,” I gasp, hips rolling up to meet him. “Yes, Lucas. Please. I want your dick. I want you to fill me up. I want to feel you deep inside me. Right here. Right now.”

He doesn’t make me wait. He thrusts forward in one smooth, devastating stroke. The stretch is perfect. Intimate. My head falls back as he bottoms out, his balls slapping against my ass, his thighs bracketing my hips. He’s so hard, so deep, and the friction makes me cry out. He stills for a moment, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine.

“God, Hannah,” he whispers. “You’re so wet. So perfect for me.”

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deliberate. He’s savoring it. Savoring me. Every inch of him dragging through my slick heat, pulling out until just the tip stays inside, then sliding back in until he’s buried to the hilt. The mattress shifts beneath us. The scent of paint and woodsmoke mixes with the heavy, musky smell of sex. I wrap my arms around his neck, my nails digging into his shoulders. He groans against my mouth, swallowing my moans.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes against my lips. “Every time. Every single time. Like you were made to take me. Like you were made to carry my life.”

He picks up the pace. The thrusts become deeper, harder. His cock drags over my most sensitive nerve endings with every stroke. I’m so wet it’s obscene. My cunt clenches around him, milking him, begging for more. He grunts, his control fraying. I can feel it in the way his hips snap forward, in the way his fingers dig into my hips, leaving bruises that will bloom like bruises on my skin tomorrow.

“Look at me,” he commands.

I force my eyes open. His are dark, pupils blown wide, stripped of every pretense. The cold architect is gone. In his place is a man utterly undone. Possessive. Vulnerable. Devoted.

“I’m close,” I gasp. “Lucas, I’m so close.”

“Come for me,” he growls, his pace becoming relentless. “Cum on my dick. Let me feel you squeeze me. I want to hear you. I want to feel you fall apart inside me.”

He hits a spot deep inside me, and my vision whites out. My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, violent and sweet. I cry out, my back arching, my cunt clamping down around his cock in rhythmic pulses. He groans, his own control shattering. He thrusts harder, faster, his balls drawing up tight against his body.

“Fuck—Hannah—” he chokes out, his hips stuttering. He buries himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing as he spills his cum deep inside the condom. He holds me there, trembling, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged against my skin.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our breathing. The quiet hum of the house settling outside. The scent of sex and paint hanging in the air. My heart is hammering against my ribs. His is the same.

He slowly pulls out, the condom slipping free with a soft sound. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he rolls onto his side, pulling me against him. My head rests over his heart. His arms wrap around me, secure and unyielding.

“Do you ever think about it?” I ask softly, tracing the line of his collarbone. “The future? Not the blueprints. Not the security systems. Just… us.”

He’s quiet for a long time. I can feel the shift in his breathing. The way his fingers still against my back. When he finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.

“All the time.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “I think about teaching him to walk. About teaching her to ride a bike. About the day they bring home a report card and I have to decide whether to be proud or terrified. I think about you, in the kitchen, making coffee at 2 a.m. Because of sleepless nights. Because of worries. Because of love.”

His hand slides down to rest over my lower stomach. His palm is warm. Heavy. Reverent.

“I think about how I’ll protect them,” he continues, the words tight. “How I’ll make sure the world never gets to touch you. Never get to touch her. I’ll build walls higher. I’ll hire more men. I’ll learn how to fight with my bare hands if I have to. I’ll never let anything take you from me. Never.”

The rawness in his voice cracks something open in my chest. I turn in his arms, looking up at him. His expression is stripped bare. No masks. No architecture. Just a man who loves too deeply and fears losing what matters most.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. “Neither is the baby. We’re yours. We’ve always been yours.”

His eyes close. A single beat of silence. Then he opens them, and that familiar, possessive glint returns. But it’s softer now. Tempered. “Good.” He leans in, kissing me slow and deep, tasting like salt and surrender. “Because I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever.”

He shifts, rolling me onto my back again. His cock is already hardening, thickening against my thigh. I gasp, looking down at it. “Lucas…”

“Not finished,” he murmurs, a dark smile touching his mouth. “Not even close.”

He lines himself up again, sliding inside me with a slow, deliberate thrust. I’m still sensitive, still trembling from the first climax, but my body responds instantly. My cunt clenches around him, welcoming him back. He groans, his head falling back.

“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “So fucking tight. So wet for me.”

He moves slower this time. Intentional. Worshipful. Each thrust drags over my swollen clit, each withdrawal pulls me back to the edge. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. He bites my shoulder, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to mark. Enough to claim.

“Cum for me again,” he whispers against my ear. “Let me feel you. Let me know you’re mine.”

I’m close. So close. His cock is a relentless rhythm, pounding through me, filling me, claiming me. I cry out as the second orgasm rips through me, violent and bright. My body bows off the mattress, my cunt squeezing his cock in rapid, desperate pulses. He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, his hips stuttering as he spills his cum deep inside the condom. He holds me there, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his breath hot against my neck.

When he finally stills, he collapses beside me, pulling me against his chest. His heart is pounding. My fingers trace the sweat-slicked skin of his ribs. The room is quiet again. The paint is drying. The crib is waiting. The shelves are empty, but they’ll be full. Soon.

He reaches for the phone on the floor. Screens light up. He glances at it, and his expression shifts. The tenderness doesn’t vanish, but it sharpens. Becomes something else. Something darker.

He taps the screen, bringing it to my view. A security feed. The driveway. The gate. A man in a dark coat standing at the edge of the property. Not moving. Just watching.

Lucas’s arm tightens around me. His voice is quiet. Controlled. But underneath it, the steel is back.

“He’s not coming in,” Lucas says softly. “Not today. But he’ll be back. And when he does…” He presses his lips to my hair. “…he’ll learn exactly what happens when he looks at you the way he did.”

His hand slides down to rest over my stomach. His thumb strokes slow, deliberate circles.

“We’re ready,” he murmurs. “But the world isn’t. And I won’t let it break us.”

I look up at him. At the man who builds nurseries and security systems with the same meticulous care. Who kisses me like a prayer and holds me like a vow. Who loves me with a ferocity that terrifies and saves me in equal measure.

I press my palm over his hand. “Then we’ll be ready,” I whisper. “Together.”

He doesn’t smile. But his eyes do. And for the first time, I see the truth beneath the cold exterior.

He’s not just protecting us.

He’s already ours. And he’ll burn the world down before he lets anything take us back.