Chapter 95
Elara
It wasn't gentle. His mouth claimed mine with a hunger that felt like desperation. One hand tangled in my hair, angling my head back. The other pulled me flush against him.
I froze for half a second. Then my hands fisted in his sweater and I kissed him back.
Wrong. This is wrong.
But I'd been so cold for so long. And he was warm. And I hated how much I wanted this.
He walked me backward until my legs hit the couch. I sat down hard and he followed, caging me in with his arms on either side of my shoulders.
"Tell me to stop." His breathing was ragged. "Elara. Tell me to stop."
I looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide. His hair fell across his forehead. I'd never seen him look so undone.
"I should," I whispered.
"But you won't."
"No."
Something flickered in his eyes. Relief. Triumph. Something darker.
He kissed me again. Slower this time. His tongue traced my lower lip and I opened for him. The kiss deepened and I felt myself sinking into it, into him, into this terrible wonderful mistake.
His hands moved to the hem of my turtleneck. He paused. "Can I?"
I nodded.
He pulled it off. Dropped it on the floor. His eyes tracked over me—the simple black bra, the shadows of old bruises on my ribs, the sharpness of my collarbones.
"You're too thin," he said quietly. Almost to himself.
I reached for his sweater. "You talk too much."
He let me pull it over his head. My hands found the hard planes of his chest. Muscle and warmth and proof that this was real, not another fevered dream.
He kissed my neck. My collarbone. The hollow of my throat. Each touch felt like a brand.
"I think about you," he said against my skin. "All the fucking time. When I'm in meetings. When I'm with—" He stopped himself.
"With her?"
His hands stilled. "Yes."
The admission hurt. But I'd asked for honesty.
"Why?" My voice came out raw. "Why me?"
He pulled back to look at me. Really look at me. "Because you're the only one who looks at me like I'm not a god. You see exactly what I am. And you still—"
"Still what?"
"Still let me touch you."
My throat tightened. "Maybe I'm just as broken as you are."
"Maybe." He kissed me again. Softer. "Or maybe we're exactly what we deserve."
He stood and held out his hand. I took it.
He led me to the bedroom. The bed was unmade—unusual for him. A book lay open on the nightstand. Evidence of his humanity.
He turned to face me. "We can stop. Right now. You can leave and I'll still help you with Anna."
I searched his face for the lie. Found none.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No." The word came out fierce. "I want you to stay. I want—" His hands flexed at his sides. "I want you. So much it's driving me insane."
The rawness in his voice broke something in me.
I stepped forward. Reached for his belt.
His breath hitched. "Elara—"
"Don't." I met his eyes. "Don't think. Not tonight."
He caught my hands. Brought them to his mouth and kissed my knuckles. Then he finished what I'd started, unbuckling his belt with quick movements.
I undid my jeans. Let them fall.
We stood facing each other in the dim light. His eyes traced over me like he was memorizing every line, every curve, every scar.
"You're beautiful," he said.
I almost laughed. "I'm a mess."
"You're beautiful." He closed the distance between us. "And you're mine. Even if it's just for tonight. You're mine."
The possessiveness should have scared me. Instead, it sent heat pooling low in my belly.
"Then take what's yours," I whispered.
He lowered me onto the bed. His weight settled over me and I felt small beneath him. Protected. Trapped. Both at once.
He kissed me until I couldn't breathe. His hands explored—my waist, my breasts, the curve of my hip. Every touch deliberate. Like he was claiming territory.
I arched into him. My hands found his shoulders, his back, the hard muscle beneath skin.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said against my neck.
"You always hurt me."
He pulled back. Met my eyes. "I know." Something that might have been regret flickered across his face. "I know I do."
Then he kissed me again and I stopped thinking.
His hand slid between my legs. I gasped.
"So wet already," he murmured. "Is this for me?"
I couldn't form words. Just nodded.
He touched me with the same careful precision he'd used on my wounds. Learning what made me gasp, what made me arch, what made my fingers dig into his shoulders.
"Julian—" His name came out pleading.
"I know. I've got you."
He brought me to the edge. Held me there. Pulled back just before I could fall.
"Please—"
"Say it." His voice was rough. "Say you want me."
"I want you." The admission felt like surrender. "Please. I need—"
He kissed me. Hard. Then he positioned himself and pushed inside.
I cried out. Not from pain—he'd prepared me well. From the overwhelming fullness of it. The intimacy. The wrongness and rightness all tangled together.
He stilled. "Okay?"
I nodded. Wrapped my legs around his waist.
He started to move. Slow at first. Each thrust deliberate. But his control was fraying. I could feel it in the tension of his muscles, the ragged edge of his breathing.
"Elara." My name sounded like a prayer. Like a curse. "God. You feel—"
I pulled him down into a kiss. Let him swallow my moans as he moved faster, harder, until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.
The pleasure built. Higher and higher. His hand found mine and he pinned it to the mattress, fingers laced together.
"Look at me," he said. "I want to see you."
I met his eyes. Dark and wild and utterly focused on me.
"That's it. Let go. Let me—"
I shattered. The orgasm hit like a wave and I clung to him as it pulled me under. Distantly I heard him groan. Felt him follow me over the edge.
Afterwards, we lay tangled together. His arm was heavy across my waist. My head rested on his chest. I could hear his heartbeat slowing.
Neither of us spoke.
What was there to say? That we'd crossed a line we could never uncross? That this changed everything? That we'd just made the worst mistake of our lives?
Or maybe the best.
I didn't know anymore.
"Stay the night," he said quietly.
Not a question. But not quite a command either.
I should have said no. Should have gathered my clothes and left before I could sink any deeper into this mess.
Instead, I closed my eyes. "Okay."
His arm tightened around me.
I lay there in the dark, listening to him breathe, and thought: "Two lifetimes. I've been hurt by this man across two lifetimes."
So why did I still reach for him?
Why did his warmth still feel like home?
I had no answer.
Only the slow, steady beat of his heart beneath my ear.