Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The restaurant glows amber, candlelight flickering across Julian's face. He cuts into his steak with surgical precision while I twirl curry-soaked chicken on my fork.
"So." I lean forward. "Piano, boxing, and writing thrillers. What else are you hiding?"
His mouth quirks. "I bake a mean tres leches cake."
"Liar."
"My mom taught me." He takes a sip of red wine. "She worked double shifts when I was a kid. Waitressing, cleaning houses. I had to learn to cook or we'd starve."
I picture him—ten years old, standing on a chair to reach the rangehood. My chest tightens.
"She sounds amazing."
"She is." His eyes soften. "Strongest person I know."
The diamond studs in his ears catch the light. His silver rings clink against the wine glass. Everything about him is understated elegance—the fitted charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled to expose that gorgeous tattoo winding up his forearm.
"Your dad?"
"Gone before I could walk." No bitterness. Just fact. "Left us when I was one."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugs. "His loss."
I smile. "Definitely his loss."
Julian's gaze holds mine, dark and penetrating. Those ridiculous lashes—long enough to make any woman jealous—frame eyes that seem to see straight through me.
"What?" I ask.
"You're staring."
"You're beautiful."
He laughs, low and rich. "You're the beautiful one."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Stop."
"Never." His foot brushes mine under the table.
My breath catches.
"So boxing," I say quickly. "How'd that happen?"
"Survival." He leans back. "I grew up in a rough neighborhood. Hung with a rough crowd for a while, but I never quite fit. Too soft. Too into music. Got my ass kicked for playing piano instead of breaking into cars."
"Assholes."
"Yeah." His smile turns wry, that dimple appearing in his cheek again.
"My mom was terrified I'd end up dead in an alley somewhere.
So she scraped together money she didn't have and put me in this boxing gym downtown.
Old school place—punching bags held together with duct tape, blood stains on the canvas.
" He pauses, lost in the memory. "Best thing she ever did for me.
Taught me how to stand up for myself, how to channel everything I was feeling into something productive. "
I imagine teenage Julian—lean, quiet, learning to throw punches between piano lessons. The contradiction of it thrills me.
"Do you still box?"
"Couple times a week," he says, his fingers drumming lightly against his wine glass. "Usually early mornings before gigs, or late at night when I can't sleep. There's a gym not far from my place—nothing fancy, but it does the job. Keeps me centered, you know?"
"I'd like to see that."
His eyes darken. "Would you."
The air between us crackles.
"Julian." My voice drops. "Are we moving too fast?"
He sets down his fork, reaches across the table. His hand wraps around mine—warm, strong.
"I've been waiting my whole life for you, Liza." His thumb strokes my knuckles. "This doesn't feel fast. It feels right."
My heart stumbles.
I take a shaky breath, suddenly feeling exposed under the weight of his gaze. "I've never had this before," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. I pause, trying to find the right words for what I'm feeling. "No one's ever really looked at me the way you do, Julian. Not like this."
"How do I look at you?"
"Like I'm something precious."
His grip tightens. "You are."
The brownstone's quiet hum wraps around us as Julian leads me to the piano. His hand hasn't left the small of my back since we walked through the door.
"Play something for me,” I ask.
He settles onto the bench, fingers hovering over ivory keys. "Any requests?"
"Something you've never played for anyone else."
His gaze locks on mine—intense, vulnerable. Then his hands descend.
The melody unfolds like a story. Haunting. Achingly beautiful. Minor chords bleed into major, creating something between melancholy and hope. Each note reverberates through my chest.
I can't breathe.
"What is it?" I whisper.
"Doesn't have a name yet." His eyes never leave the keys. "Been working on it since the night we met."
My pulse skips. "Since the robbery?"
"Since I saw you reach for that Coke."
The music swells, building toward something inevitable. I move closer, drawn by invisible threads. The bench seems to dip as I sit beside him, our thighs pressed together—more touch than space between us.
His playing falters. Just for a beat.
"Keep going," I murmur.
But his concentration's shattered. The final chord hangs in the air as he turns, eyes darkened, breathing uneven. The hand that was dancing across keys slides to my knee instead, fingers tracing upward with slow, deliberate intent.
Heat pools low in my stomach.
I place my hand over his, my fingers curling around his wrist as I guide it higher along my thigh. The heat of his palm burns through the fabric of my thin dress, each inch of movement sending sparks racing up my spine.
His breath catches—sharp and ragged—and I feel the slight tremor in his hand as he registers what I'm asking for, what I'm offering.
Our foreheads press together. His breath shakes.
"I can't think straight when you're this close to me," he whispers, his voice rough and low, vibrating against my skin. "Haven't been able to since that first night."
I kiss him—slow at first, savoring the taste of wine still on his lips. Then consuming. My fingers thread into his hair, tugging until he groans against my mouth. The piano vibrates beneath us as we shift, urgent and graceless.
His hands map my body like he's memorizing every curve. I arch into him, needing more, needing everything.
"Liza." My name sounds like a prayer.
"Bedroom," I breathe against his neck.
He stands in one fluid movement, pulling me with him. We stumble down the hallway—a tangle of reaching hands and desperate kisses. My back hits his bedroom doorframe. He pins me there, one hand cradling my head while the other grips my waist.
"You sure?" His voice is wrecked.
I answer by pulling him inside, kicking the door shut behind us.
I step into Julian’s room and stop without meaning to, my breath catching in that quiet, traitorous way it does when something feels too intimate too fast.
The walls are deep blue—confident—not the kind of color you choose by accident.
They seem to close around me gently, like a held secret.
The bed sits at the center of everything, perfectly made but undeniably lived-in, its clean lines softened by patterned pillows that feel almost indulgent.
This is not a guest room. This is not a place meant to impress. This is him.
Light spills in through tall windows dressed in heavy blue curtains. I imagine him here.
I feel exposed standing here, like I’ve stepped into his inner world without armor. This room isn’t messy or chaotic—it’s composed, intentional, steady. And somehow that unsettles me more than disorder ever could. It tells me Julian knows who he is. It tells me he’s rooted.
I glance at him, leaning casually against the doorway, watching me take it all in. He isn’t showing off. He’s introducing me to a small slice of his life.
And the realization lands softly but decisively in my chest: This room has held his solitude, his nights, his unguarded self. And now he’s letting me in.
My pulse quickens with the dangerous thrill of being invited somewhere I might never want to leave.
I turn slowly, deliberately, and let myself look at him—really look at him.
He stands there in the doorway, under the amber glow from the lamp on his dresser, one shoulder resting against the frame with an ease that is impossibly sexy.
His dark eyes hold mine with a quiet intensity that makes my breath catch somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
God, he's beautiful.
Not in the obvious way that makes you do a double-take on the street, though he could do that, too. It's deeper than that. It's in the way he holds himself, in the intense way he looks at me—those dark, soulful, intense eyes of his. I can't quite name it, but I feel it everywhere.
He hasn't moved, hasn't said a word, but there's a pull to him that makes the air between us feel charged with possibility.
I close the distance between us with measured steps, my heart thundering so loudly I'm certain he can hear it.
Each footfall feels weighted with intention, with want, with something I'm not quite ready to name.
The space between us shrinks—three feet, two feet, inches—and I watch his chest rise and fall when I reach him.
When I'm finally close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, he moves.
His hands come up to frame my face with a gentleness that contradicts the hunger I see flickering in those dark eyes.
His hands are warm against my cheeks, fingers threading back into my hair, and I hear the sharp intake of his breath—ragged, unsteady, like he's been holding it this whole time and only now remembered he needs oxygen.
Then his mouth is on mine, and everything else falls away.
His hands move to the hem of my dress, tugging upward with an urgency that makes my skin catch fire.
When I lift my arms for him, he pulls the fabric over my head, and it falls somewhere behind us—forgotten, irrelevant.
My fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, clumsy in my haste, and he helps me, shrugging it off while I work at his belt.
We're frantic now, graceless and desperate. His jeans hit the floor. My bra unclasps. Skin meets skin, and I gasp at the contact—electric, overwhelming, perfect.
By the time we reach the bed, we're both down to our undies and socks. I smile at the sight of us, and kneel down. I look up at him, and his expression is so vulnerable. I want to bring him pleasure, and I do—I peel off his silky briefs and take him in my mouth. I’ve done this before, but never enjoyed it so much.
He moans as I take him deeper, and as his breathing gets away from him, he grabs a fistful of my hair and gently tugs.
“You… need to stop…” he breathes, his words ragged.
I pull away. “But I want to—“
He closes his eyes. “I want to fuck you so bad…” He pulls me up with hands that are firm but soft, dominant without being rough.
Then he shoves me on the bed.
My back hits the mattress, and he hovers above me, eyes searching mine for permission I've already given a thousand times over.
"You're so fucking beautiful," he breathes against my skin, his voice rough with want, those dark eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. "Every inch of you."
He reaches for his bedside table, and grabs a condom.
In the blink of an eye, his mouth is on me—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck, across my collarbone, between my breasts.
Every touch makes me more aroused. My fingers thread through his soft hair, tugging gently as he explores lower, worshipping every inch of my body like he's committing it to memory.
I've been with men before—more than I care to count—but this is different.
This isn't just attraction or chemistry or physical need.
This is something deeper, something that feels inevitable, like we were always meant to find each other in that convenience store, like fate conspired to bring us together through violence and fear so we could land here, in this moment, tangled up in each other.
"Julian," I whisper, arching into him. "Please."
He moves back and slides my pink polka-dot panties off as I eagerly help him—so freaking turned on, I can’t stand it.
He settles himself between my thighs, and when he finally enters me, I cry out—overwhelmed by sensation, by emotion, by the sheer rightness of it. The pressure—that need, that want—is gone. I have him now.
He moves with deliberate rhythm, watching my face, following my lead, responding to what makes me gasp and moan—the man knows what he’s doing—my pleasure is everything to him.
I'm lost in him. Completely. The tension builds faster than I expect, coiling tight in my core until it snaps, and I shatter beneath him with a broken cry. He follows seconds later, groaning my name as he collapses against me.
We lie there, breathless and tangled, and then we're both laughing—surprised, and a little embarrassed by how quickly we fell apart.
"That was—"
"Yeah," I breathe, grinning up at him. "It really was."