Chapter 89 Playing Her Role
Sierra stepped out of the black cab, the glow of London’s streetlamps slicing through the predawn mist. The city hummed with life, but she felt its pulse like a distant rhythm, her own heartbeat louder in her ears. Her destination was a sleek, glass-clad penthouse in Mayfair, its façade reflecting the pale light like a blade honed to perfection. Julian’s world. A world she was being forced to navigate with a scalpel’s precision.
She adjusted the strap of her clutch and smoothed her Dolce & Gabbana bodycon dress. The fabric clung to her curves, a deliberate choice. Tonight, she wasn’t Sierra Quinn the strategist. She was the girlfriend, the muse, the woman who’d answered his call without hesitation. The Scot’s warning echoed in her mind: You do not confront him. You do not mention this meeting… to anyone.
The door opened before she could knock. Julian stood there, dressed in silk pajamas that probably cost more than the monthly lease on her apartment in Manhattan. His gaze flicked over her, slow and appreciative, and he smiled that smile, the one that made her stomach twist, even now.
“Change of heart, then?” he murmured, stepping aside to let her in.
She let the door close behind her with a soft click. “You’d be surprised what a lonely woman can talk herself into,” she said, her voice low, teasing.
Julian’s laughter was warm and rich as he led her into the living area. The flat was a study in modern luxury, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows, a minimalist open kitchen, and a living room that opened onto a private terrace. On the coffee table, The Prince sat open to a page she couldn’t read from where she stood.
He turned to her, his fingers brushing her chin. “You came all this way. I’d hate for it to be a disappointment.”
“Not yet,” she purred, leaning into his touch before pulling away. “I need a drink.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Sherry? Cognac?”
“Something stronger.”
Julian’s grin widened as he strode to the bar, and she took the moment to study him. He moved with that same old-world elegance, but there was something coiled in his posture, a tension she hadn’t noticed before. The Scot’s words surfaced again: The man I work for is everywhere.
When Julian returned, he pressed a glass of whiskey into her hand, his fingers lingering on hers. “What changed your mind?” he asked, settling beside her on the couch. “Your message earlier? I was wounded.”
She sipped the whiskey, letting the burn steady her. “I suddenly felt very, very randy,” she purred, using a British word she was pretty certain she’d never used before.
His eyes darkened. “Is that so?”
She set the glass down and stood, turning toward him. The fabric of her dress clung to the curves of her body as though it had been painted on. “You asked for honesty,” she whispered.
She watched Julian’s eyes, hungry and predatory as they took her in. Stay calm. Stay in control, she told herself.
She slowly began to ease the form-fitting garment up her thighs. She moved her hips back and forth to a rhythm that was only in her own head as the hem reached them and her actions became agonizingly slower even as her pulse quickened.
“You’re not wearing anything under that dress,” Julian observed.
“They seemed a bit cumbersome during the cab ride?” she teased, pressing her fingers to the soft triangle between her legs, closing her eyes, and letting out a long sigh.
His chuckle was low, approving, as her fingers left her own flesh to pull down the elastic waistband of his silk pajama bottoms. His erection instantly sprang free.
She lifted her skirt higher, allowing the hem to bunch above her hips, and mounted him. His erection filled her in one smooth thrust, and for a moment, the tension in her shoulders eased. This was something she could handle.
Julian’s hands gripped her waist as she moved, her rhythm deliberate, almost defiant. She met his gaze, watching the hunger grow in his eyes, and let herself pretend, just for a moment, that she didn’t have a plan or a mission to fulfill. She let herself pretend she wasn’t playing a dangerous game among men who could destroy her with a single phone call.
“Sierra,” he groaned, his hands tightening.
She rode him harder, the release building in her veins like wildfire. When the climax hit, it was volcanic, her cries echoing off the glass walls. Her release drove him wild. In an instant, she found herself on the sofa with her face pressed into one of the cushions. She brutally drew her hips up toward him and drove his erection into her. His thrusts were deep and hard, and his slaps on her buttocks were a sharp contrast to his usual finesse. He suddenly lost himself in the primal rhythm of a mating animal.
As the pleasure peaked, something shifted. Julian’s breath grew ragged, his thrusts erratic, and when he leaned over her, his hand gripping her shoulder, she felt the change.
She turned her head, just enough to see his eyes.
What she saw there made her blood freeze.
Not rage. Not passion.
Evil.
Pure, untempered evil.
The predatory gleam she’d dismissed as confidence was something darker, cold and more calculating. It wasn’t just about power or control. The man thrusting into her wasn’t the charming investor, the lover, or the seducer she’d first gone with to Milan. He was a force of destruction, and she was letting him bury himself inside her.
Julian didn’t notice her stillness, too lost in his own release. But as he came, his expression twisted into something feral, a sneer curling his lips as if he’d just claimed more than her body.
When he collapsed beside her, spent and smug, Sierra forced a breath, a smile. “Wow,” she murmured, rolling onto her side to face him.
He kissed her temple. “You’ll stay the night then?”
“Wouldn’t dream of leaving,” she replied, though her mind was already racing. The Scot’s plan suddenly felt like a noose tightening. How could she continue this act, this fling, when every touch felt like a betrayal? When every glance revealed the monster beneath the charmer?
Julian’s fingers traced her collarbone, his voice a lazy purr. “You’re different tonight.”
She let her head fall back, feigning postcoital drowsiness. “This expansion isn’t quite as easy in execution as it is on paper.”
He chuckled, leading her to his bed. He slipped the dress over her head and guided her between the sheets. Though his fingers caressed her skin, stopping to tease her nipples, his energy had been spent. It was only moments before sleep claimed him.
She lay awake, however, the weight of the photograph from the Scot burning into her mind.
Kingman Ridge Estates. The ranch. Ryder.
And the demonic glint in Julian’s eyes.
Somewhere in the silence between heartbeats, she resolved that the game was a far greater challenge than she had imagined. Somehow, she’d have to outplay a man who thrived on winning.
And that would be the greatest test of the strength she’d inherited from Sage Ranch.