Chapter 11
Elara
The text came that Sunday afternoon while I was staring at a spreadsheet that had long since blurred into grey lines. It was just three hours after he’d left my place.
My first instinct was to type a refusal. I was tired, I had a mountain of work to sort before Monday morning, and I had a lingering emotional hangover from our confrontation. I typed yes simply because I didn’t want to wake up with him in my house anymore.
I wore a black bodycon dress and heels that would probably hurt my feet in a few hours but made my legs look incredible.
Julian sent a car. We drove an hour to a trendy warehouse district that housed multimillion-dollar conversions.
Inside was, predictably, stunning. It was a vast space with concrete floors and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a man-made pond, decorated with modern art and vintage furniture.
Music pulsed through the air. It was packed.
I saw Quinn, Julian’s assistant, first—talking with a group of people by a makeshift bar made of a slab of marble resting on two sawhorses.
He was laughing, a beer in hand, looking nothing like the subdued man in a suit I'd seen at the office.
He spotted me and his smile widened. He nudged the woman next to him and pointed.
She turned, and her face lit up in recognition.
“Elara! Oh my god, you came!”
It was Chloe, a graphic designer who’d shown up at our apartment six months ago with a six-pack and a broken heart. She was a childhood friend of Julian’s. I’d spent the night up with them eating pizza and introducing them to the Porky’s movies.
One by one, people came over to greet me.
Mateo, the cinematographer; Lena, the lawyer; and Ben, the chef who’d taught me how to properly sear a scallop during a Super Bowl party.
A slow realization crept over me, stealing my breath.
I knew most of his friends by name. Julian had been quietly integrating me into his life for years, and I hadn’t even noticed.
“Where is he?” I asked Quinn, leaning past the crowd. “Hiding?”
Before he could answer, a hand slid around my waist, splaying across my belly. The people around us looked startled, except for Quinn. Then lips pressed to my neck.
“You look good, princess,” Julian murmured against my throat. “Real good. I’m definitely peeling this off you tonight.”
He smelled too good—clean, expensive, with the faintest hint of woodsy cologne.
“Quinn,” Julian said, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear, “did you offer her a drink?”
“I’m good. I don't want anything,” I interjected. “I have to work. You’ve got three-hundred-forty minutes, at most.”
He pulled me back into him, my head fitting perfectly under his chin. “You’re a manipulative bastard.”
“Fine.” He chuckled, the sound vibrating through me. His hands slid from my stomach to my hips, holding me tight. “Just dance with me.”
He spun me to face him. We moved together, hips rolling in a slow grind that matched the thundering bass. Brent Faiyaz sang " If we make love tonight, will it change us for the rest of our lives?"
Julian’s forehead dipped to mine, eyes locked on my mouth. He was so blatant and hungry that I changed my mind about going home early. Then his mouth crashed down on mine. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. I kissed him back with equal ferocity, my fingers tangling in his hair.
He broke the kiss. “We’re leaving.”
He didn’t wait for an agreement. He grabbed my hand, weaving us through the crowd. Outside, a fine misting rain was beginning to fall. Julian didn’t pause. He pulled me into it, backing me against the rough brick wall of the building.
“This,” he said, rainwater catching on his eyelashes, “is where you belong. With me.”
The rain soaked through my thin dress, plastering it to my skin. “Let’s go to our apartment,” he said.
He called it our apartment, but it was the top three floors of a converted factory. He’d told me he was housesitting for a friend for free when I’d asked about the price. Sneaky ass. The door had barely shut behind us when he pinned me against it.
“Tell me you want me,” he demanded.
“I want you,” I whispered.
The last of his restraint snapped. He pushed me against the door hard enough to make the wood groan. He growled low and crashed his mouth down on mine, his tongue claiming me like I was the last thing he’d ever taste. I clung to him, like if I let go, I might shatter.
“Fuck, I’ve missed you. You can’t leave me again,” he whispered, his hands sliding down to grip my ass.
He lifted my leg, guiding it around his waist. He rolled his hips against mine, and the thin fabric of my dress couldn’t hide the heat.
I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders as he marked my throat with his teeth.
His hands moved fast, unbuttoning his jeans and discarding my panties. Cool air brushed my skin, but his touch was fire. When his fingers slid through my folds, I whimpered.
“Fuck,” he groaned. “You’re so wet for me.”
He positioned himself and pushed in inch by inch, splitting me open. My walls stretched around him. He felt so good—thick, deep, perfect. When he bottomed out, I couldn’t breathe. He began to thrust, every hit bouncing me against the door.
“Cum for me, Elara,” he growled, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing in tight, relentless circles. “I need you to cum before I do.”
I shattered. My body convulsed, walls pulsing around him as my orgasm ripped through me. He jerked, groaned, and followed me over the edge.
Then he pulled out, slow, and caught the mess sliding down my thigh with his fingers. Brought them to my lips like it was a communion.
“Taste us,” he said, voice scraped raw.
I opened my mouth and sucked his fingers clean, staring him down.
I smirked. “Round two?”
“You’re gonna kill me,” he said.
“Then die well.”
His laugh was deep as he pulled me toward the bedroom before I could answer.