Chapter 84
Evelyn's POV
The Mercedes purred through Manhattan's late-night streets, each passing streetlight casting fleeting shadows across Julian's tense profile. I watched him from the passenger seat, cataloging the rigid set of his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the way his jaw worked like he was grinding his teeth to powder.
He was fighting himself. Every instinct told him to pull over, to shake sense into me, to demand answers. But he kept driving, kept that iron control locked tight.
I let my head loll against the headrest, allowed my body to sway with the car's movements. The performance had to be consistent—at least for now.
"We're going to the hospital," Julian said finally, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. "I don't care what you say—"
"No hospitals." I turned my head to look at him, let my voice come out softer than usual. "I didn't drink much. Maybe half a sip before I caught the taste. I just need to go home and rest for a while."
His hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles went white. "You don't know how much he put in there. Even a small amount can be dangerous."
"I know my limits." I reached over, let my hand rest on his thigh, felt the muscle tense beneath my palm. "Take me home, Julian. Please."
He didn't respond, but the car accelerated. Within minutes we were pulling up outside my building. He killed the engine and came around to my side, pulling open the door with controlled precision.
I swung my legs out, then deliberately swayed as I tried to stand. "I don't think I can walk."
His eyes narrowed, studying my face with that sharp intelligence that missed nothing. But he didn't call me out. Instead, he swept me up into his arms without a word.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressed my face against his throat, and felt his pulse hammering beneath my lips. The elevator ride was silent, charged with tension. When we reached my door, I fumbled with my keys—deliberately clumsy—and he took them from me, unlocked the door one-handed.
He carried me straight to the bedroom, laid me down on the bed with careful restraint. When he straightened, putting distance between us, I reached for him.
"Don't go."
He caught my wrists, held them away from his body. "You need to rest. Sleep this off."
"I don't want to rest." I looked up at him, saw the desire and restraint warring in his expression. "I want you to stay with me."
"Evelyn—" His voice was strained. "You're not thinking clearly."
"I'm thinking perfectly clearly." I pulled against his grip, not to break free but to draw him closer. "Come here. I need to tell you something."
He hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in until his ear was near my lips.
"I knew something was wrong before I even drank it," I breathed against his ear.
He went completely still.
For a long moment he didn't move. Then something shifted in his eyes—something dark and hungry and almost feral. His hand came up to grip my jaw, tilted my face up to his.
And then he was kissing me.
Not gentle. Not careful. Consuming. His mouth claimed mine with a desperation that felt like drowning, like he'd been holding back too long and finally snapped. His other hand tangled in my hair, holding me in place as he kissed me deeper, harder, until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His eyes were storm-dark, pupils blown wide.
"You knew," he said roughly. "You knew and you drank it anyway."
"Yes."
"You manipulated this entire situation."
"Yes."
His grip tightened in my hair. "You put yourself in danger just to make me—"
"Yes." I held his gaze steadily. "Are you angry?"
He stared at me for a long moment, jaw clenched. Then he kissed me again—deep and consuming, but his hands remained carefully still. He kissed me until I was breathless, until heat flooded through my body, until I was trembling with need. But he didn't move beyond that. Didn't touch me the way I wanted. Just kissed me with controlled intensity that felt like both promise and punishment.
My whole body was burning. I couldn't take it anymore.
I broke the kiss, my hands fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. My fingers shook as I worked them open, desperate to feel his skin against mine. He watched me with those dark eyes, letting me undress him but not helping, not moving.
When I finally got his shirt open and pushed it off his shoulders, I reached for his belt. His hand shot out, caught my wrist, stopped me.
"Wait," he said roughly.
"The condoms," I breathed, my voice unsteady. "They're in the nightstand. Left drawer. From last time. No one else—"
His grip loosened. Something shifted in his expression—relief, possession, hunger all mixed together.
Then his hands were on me.
He pulled me against him, his mouth finding the pulse point on my neck. He sucked hard enough to leave a mark, then soothed it with his tongue. His hands slid up my ribcage, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts with maddening lightness. When I arched into his touch, seeking more, he pulled back slightly—deliberately withholding what I wanted.
"Julian—"
"Shh." His mouth moved to my collarbone, tracing it with his tongue while his hands finally cupped my breasts. His thumbs circled my nipples through the lace of my bra, and I gasped. He took his time, teasing them into hard peaks before finally pulling the fabric down and taking one into his mouth.
The wet heat made me cry out. He sucked hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive tip while his hand kneaded my other breast. Then he switched sides, giving equal attention, taking his time like he had all night to worship every inch of me.
His free hand slid down my stomach, fingers tracing patterns on my skin that made my muscles jump. When he reached the waistband of my underwear, he paused, his fingers playing with the elastic but not moving lower.
"Please—" I couldn't keep the desperation out of my voice.
He released my nipple with a soft pop, looked up at me with those dark eyes. "Please what?"
"Touch me."
"I am touching you." His fingers dipped just beneath the elastic, not nearly low enough.
"You know what I mean."
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. Then his hand slid lower, cupping me through the soaked fabric. He groaned when he felt how wet I was.
"Fuck, Evelyn." His fingers pressed against me through the barrier, finding my clit through the drenched lace. "You're soaking."
I whimpered, my hips rolling against his hand. He circled slowly, applying just enough pressure to drive me insane but not enough to give me what I needed.
Finally—finally—he hooked his fingers in the elastic and pulled my underwear down my legs. His hand returned, and this time there was nothing between us. His fingers slid through my wetness, and he made a sound low in his throat.
"So fucking wet," he murmured, his fingers circling my clit with maddening precision. "Is this all for me?"
"Yes—" The word came out strangled.