31. Jules
CHAPTER 31
Jules
“I need something that heats up gradually but lasts all night,” I say, my voice a soft, teasing whisper, laced with just enough allure to make him pause.
Brian looks at me, arching a brow. “All night? You sure you’re ready for that?”
I let out a playful sigh, meeting his gaze with a hint of mischief. “Oh, I’m ready. Mama’s got needs.”
His breath catches, the mask of control slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of interest as he leans in closer. “I’m pretty sure we’ve got something that can meet your… demands.”
I nod slowly, letting a coy smile tug at my lips as his gaze locks on to mine. “And it’s got to be,” I draw out the words, savoring every second, “big.”
“Big?” He rubs his chin, pretending to consider it. “How big?”
I hold my hands about yay far apart, watching his eyes widen, curiosity piqued.
“You think you can handle that, Ms. Spenser? ”
“I believe you mean Mrs. Bishop, and I can definitely handle it,” I purr. “As long as it’s packed with power, responds to every touch, and, no matter how intense things get, just won’t quit.”
My fingers linger on a sparkly one—the latest model, an upgrade of the last one I had, except this one comes with a blazing-fast processor, a stunning 4K display, and an ultra-responsive touchpad.
Brian’s voice growls low against my ear. “Would the two of you like a room?”
I trace the sleek lines, already imagining the damage I could do with this baby, banging out my Pulitzer-worthy yet completely imaginary blog. “Put me in a room with this powerhouse, and I’ll be there all night.”
Just then, the salesman appears, all eager and chipper. “That’s an excellent choice. The Quantum Elite Pro just launched.”
My fingers pull back, my love for the machine warring with a good, strong dose of practicality. “How much is it?” I ask.
“Don’t answer that,” Brian says, cutting the salesman off as he slides his card across the counter. “We’ll take it.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“And I can’t let you mope around the house like you lost your favorite stuffed animal,” he says, adding, “And throw in the latest digital notebook, the newest flagship phone, and anything else that’ll make a geek girl’s heart swoon.”
The salesman’s eyes light up with enthusiasm. “How about a glittery laptop case and some holographic I Love Coffee stickers? ”
By this point I’m beaming like a kid about to slurp straight from Willy Wonka’s chocolate moat.
Brian looks down at me as I blink up at him in wonder. Who is this guy?
He grins. “Sold.”
After a few more shops and my stubborn refusal to let Brian buy me anything beyond a cappuccino, we finally head home.
Well, his home.
Not mine.
Temporary , I remind myself.
I practically have to arm-wrestle Brian to let me carry any of the bags. In the end, he relents—barely—allowing me to carry just the laptop.
It’s the first extravagant gift I’ve ever received, and I swear, I couldn’t worship it more if Jessica Pressler herself handed it to me.
We get home, and I barely make it through the door before I tear into the box, excitement bubbling up inside me like I’m unwrapping the best gift ever.
“Like Christmas?” Brian asks.
“More like ten Christmases, birthdays, and Korean New Year’s all rolled up in one,” I reply, my grin widening as I finally get the laptop out and plug it in.
“Korean New Year’s.” Brian’s voice softens. “ Seollal .”
“You remember?”
He pockets a hand, his gaze drifting into the past. “I remember your halmeoni hiding treats around the house like Easter eggs. And you, tearing through the place, hunting down peach pops like a contestant on Survivor .”
I laugh softly, surprised by a memory buried so deep it takes both of us to dig it out. “As much as I hate to admit it, they were my favorite.”
He looks at me, his deep blue eyes locking onto mine. “Why do you think I left them alone and focused on the almond cookies?”
I tilt my head, puzzled. “I thought you liked them.”
He shakes his head, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve never really cared for almonds, Jules. I’m more of a chocolate chip kind of guy.”
A frown creases my brow, confusion knotting in my chest. “But you ate them.”
His gaze softens, a trace of something bittersweet in his eyes. “If I didn’t, your halmeoni might not have invited me back. And I wanted to come back.”
I move cautiously toward him until I’m knotted in intoxicating heat and the scent of dark spice and cedar. “Why?” I whisper.
“You know why.”
My breath catches, and my heart freezes in my chest. Because I do know.
And yet, I don’t.
I’ve loved this man for so many years, in so many ways—furious, terrified, pure—that anything less than love feels like a lie.
But I don’t understand how he’s managed to be both a storm and a ghost, tearing through my life one minute, then vanishing without a trace the next.
All I know is when he’s gone, his absence clings to me like the chill of winter—invisible and suffocating, all at once.
And Angi? Can I really brush aside that once upon a time, they were practically inseparable?
His fingers trace the curve of my jaw, and everything inside me just...stops. Then, he brushes the line of my lips, and goose bumps race across my skin, every rational thought dissolving into electricity pulsing between us.
My lips part, and when his thumb presses in, impulse takes over—I lick, then gently suck. The low, guttural moan that rumbles from his chest is raw, primal. Blue eyes darken, like a storm gathering over the sea, the heat in them so intense it has him trembling.
“Jesus,” he breathes, his voice rough, thick with lust. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
His lips touch mine, and what starts as a soft, gentle brush quickly tidal waves into a crush of lips and tongues, sweeping me under, swallowing me whole, until I can’t breathe.
Years of simmering emotions, of tension building, building, building, until we slam into the breaking point, boiling over and spilling out of control.
My belly clenches as his thick cock presses against me, leaving me breathless and desperate, clawing at his shirt. And dammit!
Why the hell are there so many buttons?
I swear, from here on out, this man is legally obligated to wear only T-shirts. And considering the way they cling to him like a second skin, it’s sort of a crime not to. Win-win .
Argh!
Where the hell is that damn hunting knife?
The heat between us reaches a fever pitch, but then—his phone rings.
And rings.
And rings.
His jaw clenches, and he checks it. “Shit.”
He pulls back, our breaths still mingling, panting hard. His forehead presses against mine.
It’s as if the whole world is holding its breath as the moment slowly slips away.
He sighs, heavy enough to snuff out any last remaining embers between us. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”
And then, he’s gone.