Chapter9 Walls Have Ears
Chloe
I swallowed hard, body betraying me as I arched just a fraction into his touch. His hand slid up under my shirt, palm flat against my ribs, inching toward the curve of my breast.
God, I wanted this—wanted him—but the scar on my left waist burned in my mind like a warning. That jagged crescent from the crash, ugly and raw, a reminder of everything broken in me. If he saw it...
"Julian..." My voice wavered as his fingers hooked the waistband of my shorts, tugging lightly. He was over me now, body pinning mine to the mattress, amber eyes dark and hungry in the dim light.
His mouth crashed down on mine, kiss deep and demanding, tongue teasing until I was gasping. One hand worked the tie of my shorts loose, the other cupped my face, thumb stroking my cheek like I was something precious.
I kissed him back, hands fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. This was crazy—literally insane—but it felt right, like we'd been building to this since the moment we signed those papers.
His hand slipped lower, brushing the edge of my hip, so close to the scar I froze. Panic spiked, sharp and cold. I grabbed his wrist, breath hitching. "Wait—"
He paused, eyes searching mine, mistaking the tremble in my voice for something else. A low growl escaped him, and he flipped us so I was on top, straddling his hips.
"Tell me to stop, Chloe, and I will." But his hands gripped my thighs, pulling me down against him, and damn, the friction made my head spin.
I didn't want him to stop. Not really. But the scar...
"Just... slow." It was all I could manage, leaning down to kiss him again, buying time.
His fingers dug into my skin, guiding my hips in a slow grind that had me biting back a moan. He was hard beneath me, and the way he looked up at me—like I was the only thing in his world—chipped away at my fear.
One hand slid up my back, the other ventured toward my waist, thumb grazing the hem of my shirt again. Closer. Too close.
Then—
bang.
The sound exploded from the wall, sharp and violent, like furniture crashing. We both froze.
Ethan's room.
The thin wall vibrated with it, followed by heavy footsteps pacing back and forth. Thud. Thud. Each step deliberate, echoing through the paper-thin barrier.
Knock knock knock.
Three hard raps against the wall, right by our heads. Ethan's fist, no doubt. A clear-as-day warning: I hear you. Every damn thing.
My face flamed, mortification crashing over me like ice water. Oh my god, he heard. The kissing, the heavy breathing—shit, probably everything.
Julian's body tensed beneath me, jaw clenching so tight I saw the muscle twitch. His eyes flicked to the wall, then back to me, frustration burning in them. He didn't move, didn't let go, but the moment was shattered.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, finally easing me off him. We lay there side by side, staring at the ceiling, the air still humming with unfinished heat.
Ethan's pacing stopped, but the silence felt worse—heavy, accusing.
I pulled the sheet up to my chin, cheeks burning. "He... he didn't mean—"
"I know." Julian's voice was rough, edged with barely leashed anger. His arm stayed around my waist, but it was loose now, restrained. "This place is a goddamn sieve."
We didn't speak after that. The tension coiled tighter, his breathing ragged against my ear, my own heart refusing to slow.
Every shift of the mattress felt amplified, like it would broadcast through the wall. I wanted to apologize, but the words stuck. Instead, I lay there, body aching with what-ifs, mind replaying the almost-touch on my skin.
Sleep didn't come easy. Julian's hand flexed against me now and then, a silent promise of later. And damn if that didn't keep me wide awake.
---
By midnight, the apartment was dead quiet. Ethan's light was off, but I knew he wasn't asleep any more than we were. Julian's fist was clenched against my hip, his body rigid like a coiled spring.
"You okay?" I whispered, turning my head just enough to catch his profile in the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
He exhaled sharply, rolling to face me. His eyes gleamed in the dark, still smoldering. "No." The word was blunt, laced with frustration. He propped up on one elbow, gaze dropping to my lips. "But I'll live."
I bit my lip, heat flooding back despite everything. "We could... try to be quiet."
His laugh was low, bitter. "In this shoebox? With your brother next door playing watchdog?"
He traced my jaw with his thumb, gentle but insistent. "Tempting. But not tonight."
The rejection stung less than the want in his voice.
I nodded, shifting closer anyway, my back to his chest. His arm banded around me, pulling me flush, but he didn't push further.
"New York tomorrow," he said after a beat, voice muffled in my hair. "Early flight."
"Be safe." My hand covered his on my stomach, fingers linking. "I'll nail the interview."
"You will." His lips brushed my shoulder, a soft kiss that sent shivers down my spine. "And when I get back..." He trailed off, but the implication hung heavy—we finish this. No interruptions.
I swallowed, pulse quickening at the promise. "Yeah."
He pressed one last kiss to my neck before settling, but I felt his tension, the way his breathing didn't even out for ages. Me neither.
The wall between us and Ethan felt like a mile-wide chasm that night, blocking more than sound. By the time dawn crept in, I was exhausted but wired, mind spinning with the interview, the scar, and the man holding me like he'd never let go.
Julian
Ethan's hostility hung in the air like a physical thing, a wall between me and what I wanted. I lay in Chloe's narrow bed, listening to her breathing even out beside me, but sleep wouldn't come.
My fingers still remembered the feel of her—the warmth of her skin, the smooth expanse of her waist, and then that raised line beneath my palm.
I opened my eyes in the darkness, staring at nothing.
The memory hit me like shattered glass—a year ago, that night. I had been drunk, barely coherent, but my body remembered everything.
She had trembled beneath me, and my hand traced her waist, fingertips catching on that scar. My brain had been a fog of alcohol and need, but the shape burned itself into my tactile memory—a crescent moon, carved into her left side.
I sat up slowly, careful not to wake her, and stared at the wall separating us from Ethan's room.
It couldn't be. That night, that woman had weighed two hundred pounds... but the shape I remembered, the texture, the precise location on the left waist—
Christ.
If it was her...
If the woman from that night was Chloe...
My pulse hammered. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to think through the implications.
The dollar bill.
I lay back down, arm draped over my forehead, mind racing.
The scar was proof, but I needed to be certain before I said anything. If I was wrong, I'd destroy whatever fragile trust we were building.
If she was the woman I'd been searching for all year, the one who left me that crumpled dollar...
I turned my head to look at her sleeping form, the curve of her shoulder rising and falling with each breath. My wife. The woman I married thinking she was a stranger, only to discover she might be the one person who'd haunted me since that night?
God.
Tomorrow I would fly to New York, but this wouldn't wait. I needed to know for certain.
Because if Chloe was that girl...
I was never letting her go.