Chapter 23 Julian
JULIAN
The weight of Malik’s hands on my hips is the only thing keeping me grounded as I rock against him, slow and deliberate, like we have all the time in the world.
His fingers press into my skin, possessive and sure, guiding the rhythm of my body as I move over him.
The heat between us is unbearable in the best way, his chest rises and falls beneath my palms, sweat-slick and warm, the steady thump of his heartbeat against my skin.
I drag my nails lightly down his torso just to watch his muscles tense, just to hear the low, ragged sound he makes in response.
I feel him everywhere, inside me, around me, filling the spaces I’ve spent years trying to keep empty.
Every thrust is deliberate, every shift of my hips a promise.
The way he stretches me, the way his dick fits perfectly, it’s too much and not enough all at once.
I want to drown in him, in this, in the way his breath comes faster when my ass clenches around him, when I take him deeper just to see his control unravel.
I love you.
The words are there, thick in my throat, but I don’t say them.
Not yet. Instead, I show him, rolling my hips in a way that makes his breath hitch, his fingers tightening on my waist hard enough to bruise.
His eyes are dark, locked onto mine, and I know he sees it, the way my body speaks when my voice won’t.
The way I tremble when he shifts beneath me, when he thrusts up just right, when he murmurs my name like a prayer.
I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. “Tell me,” I whisper, because I need to hear it, because I need to know he feels it too.
His answer is a groan, a hand sliding up my spine to grip my neck, pulling just enough to make my back arch. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough, wrecked, just for me.
“Julian.”
That’s all it takes, one more roll of my hips, one more deep, dragging thrust, and the pressure inside me snaps like a wire pulled too tight.
My release crashes over me in waves, sharp and sweet, my body clenching around him as if trying to keep him there forever.
He swells inside me, his rhythm stutters before he groans low and deep, as he follows me over the edge.
His dick pulses, hot and thick, filling me in a way that makes my breath catch all over again.
Even in this, we’re in sync, our bodies moving together, our pleasure tangled, our gasps mingling in the humid air between us.
I collapse onto his chest, my limbs heavy, my skin slick with sweat.
Malik’s arms wrap around me instantly, strong and sure, pulling me close as if he’s afraid I might slip away.
His lips find the curve of my shoulder, then the shell of my ear, and the words spill out of him like a vow, soft and reverent.
“I love you. I love you,” he says it again and again, his voice rough with spent desire, each syllable vibrating against my skin.
The truth of it evident in the way his hands tremble against my back, in the way his heartbeat hammers beneath my cheek.
I don’t answer with words. Instead, I press my lips to the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and warmth, and let my body speak for me.
My fingers trace idle patterns along his side, my legs tangling with his as if we could melt into one another.
The weight of him beneath me, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath evens out as exhaustion pulls at us both, it’s all so right.
Tonight, I let go completely, my mind quiet, my body sated, my heart full in a way I never thought possible.
As I drift, surrounded by the heat of him, the scent of us still lingering in the air, I realize this is what peace feels like. Not the absence of noise, but the presence of him.
The knocking starts before the sun does.
A sharp, insistent rapping at the door that cuts through the pre-dawn stillness like a blade, followed by voices bleeding through the thick wood, Renee’s commanding alto, Eli’s strained tenor climbing with panic, and Cyaire’s deeper, steadier tone underneath it all, trying to calm the storm.
Malik stiffens beneath me, every muscle in his body going taut, his hands stilling on my hips where they’d been tracing lazy circles in the aftermath of our fourth round. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat, my body still wrapped around his. No. Not yet. Not like this.
The knocking doesn’t stop. If anything, it grows more urgent, more desperate. Neither do the voices, which are climbing in volume and intensity, seeping through the heavy door like water through cracks.
“Malik! Julian! Open the damn door! We need to talk now!”
That’s Renee, her voice carrying the kind of authority that doesn’t accept refusal. There’s something in her tone that makes my stomach drop, not anger, but something worse. Fear. Professional, calculated fear.
Malik exhales, sharp and frustrated, the sound vibrating through his chest and into mine before he gently lifts me off him.
I bite back a whimper as his dick slips free, still semi-hard from our earlier lovemaking, the loss of him immediate and physical, like a part of me has been torn away and left bleeding.
The cool air hits my skin where his warmth had been, and I shiver, suddenly exposed in more ways than one.
He doesn’t look back as he moves with quick, efficient grace, reaching for the black silk robe draped over the chair by the window.
His movements are controlled, deliberate, but I can see the tension in the line of his shoulders, the way his jaw has gone rigid.
He ties the robe loosely around his waist, the fabric falling just to his knees, before striding toward the door with the kind of purposeful stride that means he’s already shifting into damage control mode.
I don’t move. I can’t. My legs feel like water, my entire body still thrumming with the aftershocks of what we’d shared, the phantom pressure of his hands still burning on my skin.
The sheet is twisted around my waist, barely covering me, and I feel simultaneously too naked and not naked enough, caught between wanting to hide and wanting to stay exactly where I am, in this bed that still smells like us, like sex and sweat and something deeper.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen lighting up with notification after notification, the electronic chirping cutting through the silence like a swarm of angry wasps.
The sound is relentless, each buzz another nail in a coffin I hadn’t even realized was being built.
I reach for it with trembling fingers, my hand shaking so badly I almost drop it, already knowing with a sick certainty what I’ll find.
JULIAN REED CAUGHT IN ROMANTIC MOMENT WITH MALIK CARTER.
JAZZ PIANIST’S SECRET RELATIONSHIP EXPOSED.
IS JULIAN REED GAY? PHOTOS SURFACE OF HIM KISSING MALIK CARTER BACKSTAGE.
REALITY RECORDS STAR IN SECRET GAY AFFAIR.
The words blur together, black text on a white screen that might as well be a death certificate, my vision swimming as panic rises in my throat like bile.
I scroll through the headlines with numb fingers, each one a punch to the gut, each one making the walls of the suite feel like they’re closing in.
There’s a photo attached to one of the articles, grainy and taken from a distance, but unmistakable.
Me and Malik in the wings after his performance, his hands framing my face with infinite tenderness, my mouth on his like I was trying to breathe him in, to pull his soul into mine through the connection of our lips.
The angle is wrong, the lighting harsh, but it’s us.
Undeniably, irrefutably us. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My hands are trembling so badly I can barely hold the phone.
The notifications keep coming, a digital avalanche that shows no signs of stopping.
Missed calls from numbers I don’t recognize, text messages from industry contacts I haven’t spoken to in years, emails flooding in faster than I can count them.
A missed call from my parents. The whole machine of celebrity gossip has latched onto us, and it’s feeding.
The door to the suite opens with a sharp click, and voices spill in like a flood, Renee’s clipped, professional tone cutting through everything else, Eli’s frantic one pitched high with barely controlled hysteria, and Cyaire’s softer, worried cadence underneath it all, trying to be the voice of reason in what’s clearly become a crisis.
Malik’s voice joins the mix, low and controlled, but I can hear the edge in it, the barely leashed tension that means he’s fighting to stay calm.
I should get up. I should put on clothes, make myself presentable, walk out there and face whatever fresh hell is waiting for me. I should do something, anything, other than sit here like a deer caught in headlights.
Instead, I just sit there, naked and shaking, staring at the screen like it’s going to suddenly change, like the headlines will rearrange themselves into something less devastating. Like the photo will disappear and this will all turn out to be some kind of nightmare I can wake up from.
The notifications keep coming, and the voices keep getting louder, and the reality of what’s happening settles over me like a lead blanket.
Then Malik is back, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, his face carefully composed but his eyes stormy.
The robe hangs open at the chest, revealing a slice of smooth brown skin, and his hair is mussed from my fingers, but everything else about him reads as controlled, ready for battle. “We need to talk.”
I swallow hard, my throat feeling like sandpaper. “Yeah.”