Chapter 32 Dirty
Julian: POV
The penthouse was dark when I walked in.
I'd left the hospital twenty minutes ago, Victoria's words still echoing in my head—words about Elena's past, about things I'd tried to forget. My tie hung loose around my neck, my shirt wrinkled.
"I want a divorce."
Elena's declaration kept replaying on a loop, and each time it felt like someone was driving a spike through my chest.
I dropped my keys on the console table, the metal clattering too loud in the silence. The apartment smelled like her—that vanilla and something floral scent that had seeped into every corner over the past three years.
Three years of this cold arrangement. Three years of telling myself I didn't care.
Then why the fuck does it hurt so much?
I moved through the living room, expecting emptiness. Expecting her to have left already, packed up and disappeared like she'd threatened.
But she was there.
Elena was curled up on the leather sofa, her body drawn into a tight ball, her face buried in her knees. The moonlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows painted her in silver, making her look small. Fragile. Lost.
My chest tightened.
Her shoulders were shaking—just slightly, like she'd been crying and was trying to hold it together. Her hair was a mess of brown waves, and she was still wearing that cream sweater from earlier, now wrinkled and twisted around her body.
She looked like she'd been waiting for something. Or someone.
For me?
The thought made something in my gut twist.
I stood there for a long moment, just watching her breathe. The way her ribs expanded and contracted in uneven rhythms. The way her fingers clutched at her own arms, like she was trying to hold herself together.
Fuck. What have I done to her?
Before I could think better of it, I crossed the room. My shoes were silent on the marble floor as I approached the sofa, stopping right in front of her.
She didn't move. Didn't acknowledge my presence.
Either she was asleep, or she was ignoring me. I wasn't sure which was worse.
You should leave her alone. Let her rest. You've done enough damage for one day.
But I couldn't.
My hands moved on their own, sliding under her knees and behind her back. I lifted her up, cradling her against my chest. She was lighter than I remembered—when had she gotten this thin?
"Elena," I murmured, adjusting my grip.
Her head lolled against my shoulder, and I heard her make a small sound.
I carried her toward the bedroom, her body warm and pliant in my arms. It felt right, holding her like this. Like she belonged here.
She's your wife, you idiot. Of course she belongs here.
I was halfway down the hallway when she stirred.
"Put me down."
Her voice was hoarse, thick with sleep and tears. I looked down to find her amber eyes staring up at me—hollow, exhausted, but awake.
"We're almost there," I said quietly.
"I said put me down." She started pushing at my chest, her hands weak but insistent. "Julian, I don't want—"
"Elena, stop fighting—"
"Let me go!" Her voice rose, panicked now. She twisted in my arms, trying to break free.
I tightened my grip to keep her from falling. "Calm down—"
"No!" She was pushing harder now, her eyes wide with something that looked like fear. "I don't want you to touch me. I don't want—"
I silenced her the only way I knew how.
My mouth crashed down on hers, swallowing whatever words were about to spill out. She made a muffled sound of protest, her hands still pushing at my shoulders.
But I didn't stop.
I kissed her slowly this time. My lips moved against hers, coaxing rather than demanding. My tongue swept along the seam of her mouth, asking for entry instead of taking it.
And after a moment—just one breathless moment—I felt her resistance start to crumble.
Her lips softened beneath mine. Her hands stopped pushing and started clutching instead, fisting in my shirt like she needed something to hold onto.
There she is.
I deepened the kiss, my tongue sliding past her lips to taste her properly.
She was sweet—always so fucking sweet despite everything. Her mouth opened for me, letting me in, and I felt something in my chest loosen.
My arms shifted, holding her more securely as I explored every inch of her mouth.
She made a small sound—not quite a moan, but close—and I swallowed it, my body responding instantly. Heat pooled low in my gut as her tongue tentatively met mine, dancing, tasting.
Fuck. This. This is what I need.
I tilted my head, changing the angle, my hand sliding up to tangle in her hair. She gasped against my mouth, and I took advantage, my tongue stroking deeper, claiming every inch.
Then I felt her teeth.
Pain shot through my tongue as she bit down—not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make me jerk back.
"What the fuck—" I started.
"You're dirty," she whispered, her eyes locked on mine. "You came from her. From Victoria. And now you're touching me. You're so fucking dirty, Julian."
The word hit me like a slap.
Dirty.
Rage exploded in my chest—hot, immediate, irrational.
She's calling me dirty? After everything she did?
"What did you just say?" My voice came out low. Dangerous.
"I said you're dirty." Her voice was shaking but defiant. "You reek of her perfume. You spent the night with her, and now you come here and touch me like—"
"Shut up." I set her down abruptly, my hands gripping her shoulders. We were ri "Shut the fuck up, Elena."
"Why?" Her eyes were blazing despite the tears. "Because it's true? Because you can't stand hearing—"
I shoved her back against the bedroom door, my body pressing against hers, caging her in.
"You want to talk about dirty?" My voice was harsh, cruel. "You have no fucking right. Not after what you did."
I leaned down, my mouth finding hers again. But this time, there was nothing gentle about it.
I kissed her hard, brutal, my teeth catching her bottom lip and pulling. She gasped, and I used the opening to thrust my tongue back into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her.
When I finally pulled back for air, I moved to her jaw. Then her neck. My mouth traced a burning path down her throat, sucking hard enough to leave marks.
She tried to push me away, but I grabbed her wrists, pinning them against the door above her head.
"What—what are you doing—" she gasped.
"Reminding you," I growled against her collarbone, my teeth scraping the delicate skin there, "that you have no right to call me dirty."
My free hand found the collar of her sweater. And pulled.
The fabric tore with a satisfying rip, and I heard her sharp intake of breath. Her bra was exposed now—simple white cotton that somehow looked more erotic than any lingerie.
"Julian!" She struggled against my grip. "Stop—you can't just—"
"Can't I?" I let go of her wrists, my hands moving to her shoulders, shoving the torn sweater down her arms. "You want to call me dirty again, Elena? You want to judge me?"
I yanked the sweater off completely, tossing it aside. My mouth found her shoulder, biting down.