Chapter 172
Julian: POV
I steadied her against me, feeling the full weight of her body sag into my arms.
Her head lolled to the side, consciousness flickering like a candle in the wind, and I tightened my grip, one arm supporting her back while the other hooked beneath her knees.
The cut on her throat was shallow but bleeding, and I could see the beginning of bruises forming on her wrists—evidence of a struggle that made my blood boil.
"Elena," I said quietly, starting toward the car.
"Stay with me."
She made a small sound, something between a whimper and a sigh, and then I felt it—the soft press of her face against my neck.
At first, I thought it was just the drug making her lose control of her movements, but then she did it again, deliberately nuzzling into the hollow beneath my jaw, her nose brushing against my skin in a way that sent heat straight through me.
Fuck.
I kept walking, my jaw clenched so tight it ached, but she didn't stop.
Her breath came in shallow pants against my throat, warm and uneven, and then I felt her lips—just the barest graze—against the edge of my collarbone.
My steps faltered for half a second before I forced myself to keep moving.
By the time I reached the car, her hands had found their way to my shoulders, then higher, her fingers sliding up to curl around the back of my neck.
She was clinging to me now, her body pressing closer, and I could feel every soft curve of her even through our clothes.
"Elena, stop," I said, but my voice came out rough, unconvincing.
I fumbled with the passenger door, yanking it open with one hand while keeping her secure with the other.
"I know you're drugged. I'm taking you to the hospital."
She made another sound—softer this time, almost pleading—and her fingers tightened in my hair.
When I tried to lower her into the seat, she resisted, her arms locking around my neck.
"Don't," she whispered, the word slurred but desperate.
"Don't leave."
"I'm not leaving," I told her, forcing myself to pull her hands free.
I buckled her in, trying not to look at the way her dress had ridden up her thighs, the way her chest rose and fell with each unsteady breath.
"Just hold on."
I slammed the door and rounded the car, my hands shaking as I gripped the wheel.
Every instinct I had was screaming at me to drive straight to the nearest hospital, to hand her over to professionals and walk away before I did something I couldn't take back.
But the moment I pulled onto the road, she leaned toward me, her hand landing on my thigh.
I hit the brakes so hard the car jerked to a stop, and I turned to look at her, my chest heaving.
"Elena—"
"Hot," she breathed, her fingers curling into the fabric of my pants.
"So hot."
I grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand, but the damage was done.
My body was already responding, heat pooling low in my gut, and when I looked at her—really looked at her—I saw the flush spreading across her skin, the way her thighs pressed together, the glassy need in her eyes.
I knew it wasn't smart to keep driving down the main road, so I turned onto a secluded side street nearby.
---
The lot was empty, shadowed by trees and the skeleton of an abandoned building.
I killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, staring at the steering wheel, my mind a fucking battlefield.
This is wrong. You know it's wrong.
But then she moved, her hand finding my arm, her nails digging in just enough to make me look at her.
And when I did—when I saw the way she was trembling, the way her lips parted around shallow breaths—whatever was left of my control shattered.
I reached over and reclined her seat, the mechanism clicking softly in the quiet.
She didn't protest.
If anything, she sank deeper, her legs falling open slightly, and I had to close my eyes and count to three just to keep from losing it completely.
When I opened them again, she was watching me, her gaze unfocused but burning.
I climbed over the center console, settling into the space above her, my body caging hers against the seat.
"You're going to regret this," I said, my voice low and rough.
"Do you understand? When this drug wears off, you're going to hate me for this."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she reached up and started pulling at the buttons of my shirt, her movements clumsy but determined.
"Fuck," I muttered, catching her hands.
I pinned them above her head with one of mine, leaning down until our faces were inches apart.
"Don't say I didn't warn you."
And then I kissed her.
It was rough, desperate.
My free hand slid down her side, feeling the curve of her waist, the soft give of her hip, and she arched into me, a broken sound escaping her throat.
"Julian," she gasped against my mouth, and hearing my name on her lips—even drugged, even incoherent—made something in my chest crack wide open.
I released her wrists and she immediately went for my shirt again, this time managing to get the first few buttons undone before I caught her hands again.
"Slow down," I said, but she wasn't listening.
She was pulling at the fabric, trying to get it off, and when she couldn't, she leaned up and pressed her mouth to my throat instead.
"Hot," she whispered against my skin, her tongue flicking out to taste me.
"Need—need you to—"
I groaned, my hands sliding to her thighs, pushing her dress higher.