Chapter 184
Elara
My hand was trembling so badly I almost dropped my phone. The weight of what he'd just given me was crushing, terrifying. This wasn't just a gesture. This was complete and total vulnerability, the kind that could ruin him if I chose to use it.
"Julian, I can't—this is too much—"
He moved closer still, and before I could step back, he reached up and gently cupped my face in his hands. His palms were warm against my skin, and I could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, could see the desperate hope and fear warring in his eyes.
"I know I don't deserve you," he continued, his thumbs brushing across my cheeks in slow, deliberate strokes that made my skin tingle. "I know I've hurt you. But I'm begging you—"
He didn't finish the sentence. His forehead touched mine, and I felt the warmth of his breath ghost across my lips. We were so close I could see the individual lashes framing his eyes, could count the faint lines of exhaustion at their corners, could feel the heat radiating from his body.
My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. I should step back. Should maintain the boundaries I'd set. Should remember all the reasons why this was dangerous.
But I didn't move.
His lips brushed against mine, feather-light, testing. The contact lasted barely a second before he pulled back just enough to search my face, looking for permission, for any sign that I wanted him to stop.
I didn't tell him to stop.
He made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a sigh, and then he was kissing me properly. His mouth pressed against mine with a hunger that made my knees weak, but there was tenderness there too, a careful restraint that told me he was holding himself back. His lips were warm and slightly chapped, moving against mine with an urgency that spoke of weeks of wanting, of denial, of desperate need.
I stood frozen for a heartbeat, my mind blank with shock and sensation. Then my body made the decision my brain couldn't, and I found my hands fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even as I rose slightly on my toes to better reach him.
He responded immediately. One of his hands slid from my face into my hair, his fingers tangling in the strands as he angled my head to deepen the kiss. The other hand dropped to my waist, pulling me against him with enough force that I could feel the rapid beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt.
His tongue traced the seam of my lips, a silent question, and when I parted them on a gasp, he took immediate advantage. The kiss turned deeper, more demanding, and I tasted coffee and something else, something uniquely him that made my head spin.
I didn't really know what I was doing. My experience with kissing was limited, clumsy, nothing compared to the practiced way he was taking me apart. But he didn't seem to care about my inexperience. If anything, the tentative way I responded seemed to drive him harder. When I hesitantly touched my tongue to his, he made another of those low sounds and tightened his grip on my waist.
His hand in my hair flexed, tugging gently, and the slight sting made me gasp against his mouth. He took advantage of my parted lips to kiss me harder, his tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that made heat pool low in my belly. I could feel the careful control in every movement, could sense how much he was holding back, and that restraint was somehow more overwhelming than if he'd just taken what he wanted.
My fingers unclenched from his shirt and moved up to his shoulders, but the moment I made contact, he flinched. I felt him stiffen, felt the sharp intake of breath against my mouth, and reality came crashing back.
His wounds. I'd forgotten about his wounds.
I started to pull away, but his hand tightened in my hair, keeping me close. "Don't," he said against my lips, his voice ragged. "Don't stop."
"But you're hurt—"
"I don't care." He kissed me again, harder this time, almost desperate. "I don't care about the pain. I care about this. About you."
His words should have been romantic, but all I could think about was the blood seeping through his bandages, the way he'd flinched when I touched his shoulders, the exhaustion I could feel in the slight tremor of his body.
"Julian—" I tried to pull back again, but he followed me, his lips chasing mine.
"Please," he breathed against my mouth. "I've waited so long. Wanted you for so long. Just—please don't make me stop."
There was something raw in his voice, something that sounded almost like pain but wasn't physical. I felt it in the way his hand was shaking in my hair, in the desperate pressure of his mouth against mine, in the way he was kissing me like I might disappear if he let go.
How long had it been since we'd kissed? Really kissed, like this? Weeks. Maybe longer. And before that, every kiss had been tainted by lies and manipulation and the shadow of Sloane between us. But this—this felt different. This felt real in a way nothing else had.
I let myself kiss him back, really kiss him, matching his urgency with my own. My hands moved more carefully this time, sliding up to the sides of his neck where I wouldn't hurt him, and I felt his pulse hammering under my fingertips. His skin was hot, almost feverish, and when I pressed my fingers against his throat, he groaned into my mouth.
The sound did something to me. Made something low in my belly clench with an unfamiliar heat. I'd heard Julian make sounds during sex, but this was different. This wasn't calculated or controlled. This was pure need, unfiltered and honest.
His hand left my waist to cup the back of my head, and suddenly I was surrounded by him, held between his palms like something precious. The kiss slowed, becoming less frantic but somehow more intense. His tongue slid against mine in long, slow strokes that made my toes curl in my shoes. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the taste of me, like he wanted to drown in this moment and never come up for air.
I didn't know what to do with my hands. They hovered uncertainly at his neck, afraid to move lower, afraid to hurt him but wanting—needing—to touch more of him. He must have sensed my hesitation because he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, "It's okay. Touch me. I want you to touch me."
His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable, and the sound of it made heat flood through my body. I slid my hands forward, tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of stubble under my palms. He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to my palm, and the tender gesture made my eyes sting with unexpected tears.
When we finally broke apart, both of us were breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together. His hands were still on me—one cupping my face, the other at my waist—and I could feel the fine tremor running through them.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for not pushing me away."
"This doesn't mean—" I started.
"I know," he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "I know this doesn't fix things. I know you're not ready to forgive me, not ready to be with me. But you let me kiss you, and right now, that's enough. That's more than I deserve."
His words should have made me feel better, should have reassured me that he understood the limits. But instead, they just made the confusion worse, made the tangle of emotions in my chest pull tighter.
What had I just done? What had I just allowed to happen?
I stepped back, needing space, needing air, needing to think without his presence clouding my judgment. He let me go immediately, his hands dropping to his sides, and I could see the effort it took him not to reach for me again.
"I should go," I said, my voice unsteady. "It's late, and I need to—I need to think."
He nodded. "Let me have Atlas drive you home."