Coming Home by Lydia Michaels

clothes from hangers on the doors. And it was time for bed.
    Her feet slipped beneath the soft covers, and she pulled the sheets to her chest. Reaching out, she shut off the light and stared at the ceiling. Home. This was home.
    It was a very intangible moment. She was satisfied, yet something was missing. Her mind knew what it was, of course, but had done a wonderful job of not thinking beyond her independence that day. And at night, when the world slept, that was the easiest time to get wrapped up in regrets and swept away by depressing thoughts.
    Her conscience fought to hold on to the peace steering her all day, but memories were slowly pulling her down. Sighing into the dark, she stared blindly out the window.
    Where is he right now? Who’s he with? What’s he doing?
    She shut the door on such questions and tried thinking about work. Nick was working tomorrow, and he always made her days a bit more entertaining. Nick was young—her age—and funny.
    Her eyelids grew heavy, and the slow echo of traffic in the distance soothed her like waves rushing by. Her battle to keep her memories at bay failed the more tired she became.
    With a sigh of acceptance, she gave over to the random thoughts playing in her head and found herself back in Lucian’s limo after having dinner with Shamus several weeks ago.
    “Did you enjoy yourself?” Lucian asked, his fingers making gentle whorls over her stocking-clad knee.
    “I always enjoy Jamie,” she said.
    He grunted, a sound of approval with little censure. “You didn’t eat much.”
    “I had enough.”
    As Dugan drove, the city slowly rolled by, a tapestry of moonlit blues and shadowed buildings. Her eyes drew away from the window at the sound of the partition going up. She glanced at Lucian. The side of his mouth kicked up, intent clear in his eyes. “Pull up your skirt.”
    Evelyn laughed silently. As soon as the partition was completely up, she lifted her hips and shimmied her skirt upward, bunching the thin material around her torso. Her stockings were black with zigzag designs sewn in and a blunt strip of lace at the top. She wore no garters. Her pale purple panties showed in a narrow triangle at the apex of her thighs.
    Lucian turned his back to the door and eyed her. His elbow rested on the back of the seat as his fingers slowly swirled like a clock gear cranking. The slight telltale motions letting her know gears were turning in his mind. She waited.
    “Are you wet?”
    His words were like the kick of a marble running between them, knocking over little points, rolling up her flesh and plunking into a basket that set her arousal in motion, successfully plumping her sex and causing her channel to contract. “Yes.”
    “I want a blow job.” She shifted and he stilled her with a flick of his fingers in the dim air. “I want your hands folded behind your back.”
    Nodding, she slid to the floor. Her arms stretched behind her, fingers latching at her back. Lucian made no move to assist her or pull himself out. Leaning forward, she nuzzled his knee with her nose. His lungs drew in an audible breath.
    Seeing he didn’t plan to help her, she carefully eased up and nudged his suit jacket out of the way. Her lips pulled at his pants until her teeth found his zipper. Carefully, she lowered the catch.
    His thighs shifted, the soft leather seating crinkling under his weight. The gentle tug over her hair as he dragged his palm down the side of her face was welcome. His nonverbal praise filled her belly with warm honey. Turning her gaze on him, she smiled.
    “You’re so beautiful, Evelyn,” he whispered, voice thick with affection.
    His touch disappeared as the echo of his fingers deftly unlatching his belt filled the car. His cock filled his strong fingers, and he pumped slowly. The head was smooth and dark as his fingers gripped his shaft tightly.
    She leaned forward and kissed the tip, a dewy pearl of precum anointing her lips. With a final glance at him she bent to her