Chapter 61
Evelyn's POV
Julian carried me from the shower. His skin was warm against mine now, the cold shower forgotten. I could feel the tension in his muscles, the barely controlled restraint in the way he held me.
His cock was hard again, pressing against my thigh as he walked. The reminder of what was about to happen sent heat pooling between my legs.
He laid me on the bed with unexpected gentleness. Then he knelt on the mattress, one knee sinking into the soft surface. His body loomed over mine in a way that should have triggered every defensive instinct I possessed.
But instead of reaching for a weapon, I found myself studying him. The dim light from the bathroom cast shadows across his chest, highlighting the defined lines of muscle. The faint scars that marked him as someone who'd survived more than boardroom battles.
And lower. The thick length of his cock jutting from dark curls, flushed and ready.
His eyes swept over me with an intensity that felt almost tangible. They traced the curve of my throat, the hollow between my collarbones where my mother's cross rested, the slight rise and fall of my chest as my breathing quickened. Down to my breasts, my stomach, the apex of my thighs.
There was hunger in his gaze, yes. But also something else. A flicker of uncertainty that he tried to hide behind that predatory focus. A tension in his jaw that spoke of nerves he'd never admit to having.
I braced my hands against the mattress, pushing myself up slightly. The movement made his gaze snap to mine.
"You're stalling," I said, keeping my voice steady even as my heart hammered against my ribs.
"I'm appreciating the view."
But his voice had a roughness to it that belied the casual words. When I tilted my head, studying him with the same analytical precision he'd turned on me, I caught it. The way his fingers trembled slightly before he curled them into fists. The way his throat worked as he swallowed. The way his eyes darted away from mine for just a fraction of a second before he forced them back.
"Julian." I let his name hang in the air between us. "You're not—" I paused, watching his reaction carefully. "This isn't your first time, is it?"
The denial came too quickly. Too forcefully.
"Don't be ridiculous."
He leaned down, his mouth finding mine before I could press further. He kissed me with a desperation that felt like deflection. Like he was trying to drown out my question with the slide of his tongue against mine, the press of his teeth against my lower lip.
One hand came up to cup the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. The other slid down my spine, tracing the curve of my back with a touch that was both possessive and exploratory.
I should have pushed him away. Should have demanded an answer.
But something in the way he kissed me—hungry but hesitant, confident but not quite—made me let it go. If he was lying, it didn't matter. If he was a virgin trying to maintain the fiction of experience, that was his choice to make.
And in this moment, with his weight settling over me, his skin warm against mine, I found I didn't care about the truth as much as I cared about the connection. About the way he made me feel like something more than a weapon. Something more than a ghost.
He broke the kiss, trailing his mouth along my jaw, down the column of my throat. I felt his breath hot against my skin as he found the sensitive spot just below my ear.
His lips were soft there, gentle. But then his teeth grazed the delicate skin and I gasped, my back arching involuntarily off the mattress.
He made a low sound of satisfaction. His hand slid from my back to grip my hip, holding me in place as he continued his exploration. His mouth moved lower, finding my collarbone, the hollow of my throat, the upper curve of my breast.
"You taste like rain," he murmured against my skin.
The absurdity of the statement made me want to laugh. But the sound died in my throat when his tongue traced a slow, deliberate path across my sternum. When his fingers tightened on my hip hard enough to leave the ghost of bruises.
I brought my hand up, covering my eyes with the back of my wrist. Blocking out the sight of him above me. The intensity of his gaze. The vulnerability of being so completely exposed.
With my vision obscured, every other sensation amplified. The roughness of his palm against my skin. The wet heat of his mouth as he moved lower. The weight of him pressing me into the mattress. The sound of our breathing in the quiet room.
"Turn off the light," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I felt him go still above me.
"No."
The word was firm. Final.
When I moved my arm to look at him, his eyes were locked on mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"I'm afraid of the dark," he said.
I knew it was a lie. Knew it from the way his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. From the challenge in his gaze.
"Besides," he added, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "I want to see you. I want to see every expression, every reaction. I want to watch your face when I make you come on my cock."
The bluntness of it should have made me flinch. Should have triggered the instinct to retreat, to hide.
But instead it sent a wave of heat through me. Made my skin flush from my chest up to my cheeks. Made my pussy clench around nothing, already wet and ready for him.
I'd killed men without hesitation. Had faced death without fear. But this—being seen, being known, being wanted not despite my darkness but because of it—this terrified me in a way that bullets and blades never had.
He must have read something in my face, because his expression softened slightly. His hand moved from my hip to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing across my lower lip.
"Don't hide from me, Evelyn," he said.
There was something almost pleading in his voice. Something raw and unguarded that I'd never heard from him before.
"Not now. Not here."
So I didn't.