Chapter Two
~ Julian ~
I watched the door close behind the security guards, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The young man—Connor, he'd said his name was—lay beside me, his eyes fluttering as he fought to stay conscious.
I'd just lied to hotel security, risked my reputation, and potentially entangled myself in something illegal. All for a complete stranger who'd broken into my room.
I should have been furious. Instead, I found myself staring at his flushed face, wondering what the hell I'd gotten myself into.
"They're gone," I said, more to myself than to him. I needed to take control of this situation immediately.
I threw back the covers, intending to call Michael, my executive assistant, to handle this mess. My longtime security chief could arrange for medical assistance and get this young man somewhere safe without involving the authorities.
Whatever drug was in his system needed to be addressed by professionals, not a CEO with a conference call scheduled for 7 AM.
"You need medical attention," I told him, reaching for my phone. "I'll call someone who can—"
My words died in my throat as Connor moved with unexpected speed, pushing himself up and crawling onto my lap with surprising determination. His movements were uncoordinated, but purposeful, like a drunk man focused on one clear objective.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Helping you," he murmured, his words slightly slurred as he pressed his warm body against my chest. "I promise I'll be responsible for you."
Responsible for me?
The absurdity of the statement might have made me laugh under different circumstances. I was Julian Montgomery, CEO of Montgomery Industries. I employed thousands of people. I didn't need this drugged college kid to be "responsible" for me.
"You're not thinking clearly," I said, trying to keep my voice firm but gentle. "You've been drugged."
"I know," he said, his glazed eyes fixing on mine with surprising intensity. "But I'm still going to take care of you."
His trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons of my pajama top, managing to undo the top two before I caught his wrists.
"Stop this," I ordered, though without the authority I typically wielded in boardrooms. Something about his earnest determination was disarming.
He looked down at my hands gripping his wrists, then back up at me. His pupils were dilated, nearly swallowing the gray-blue of his irises. His skin radiated an unnatural warmth. Whatever his mother had given him had dismantled his inhibitions completely.
"You're alone," he said, as if it were a profound observation. "I'm alone too, but we don't have to be."
His words struck a chord somewhere deep inside me, somewhere I'd locked away three years ago after the accident. I tightened my grip on his wrists, intending to push him away, to end this inappropriate situation.
But then he leaned forward and pressed his lips against my neck, and my body betrayed me.
I felt it immediately—a stirring, a tightening, a rush of blood to an area that had been dormant since metal and glass had reshaped my spine and my life. My breath caught sharply as the sensation registered in my brain.
An erection. I was getting hard.
It was impossible. The doctors had explained in clinical detail why this particular function was likely lost to me forever. Three years of nothing, not even a twitch, had confirmed their diagnosis.
I'd made my peace with it, focused on other aspects of my life, and even convinced myself it didn't matter. Yet here it was—undeniable, pressing against the thin fabric of my pajama bottoms as Connor shifted his weight on my lap.
I froze, my mind racing to process this seemingly impossible development. Connor must have felt the change because he paused his assault on my neck, pulling back slightly to look at me with a slow, drugged smile.
"See?" he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "I can help you."
I shifted my weight, trying to conceal my growing erection while my analytical mind scrambled for explanations. Psychosomatic response? Delayed nerve regeneration? Some fluke of biology that three years of specialists had missed?
"You don't understand," I said, my voice uncharacteristically unsteady. "This isn't... I don't usually..."
But how could I explain to this stranger that he'd just triggered something I'd thought was permanently lost? That the warm weight of his body on mine had somehow awakened a part of me I'd mourned and buried?
Connor took advantage of my momentary confusion, freeing his wrists from my slackened grip to continue unbuttoning my shirt. His fingers brushed against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. Every touch amplified the rogue response of my body.
"Stop," I said, but the word lacked conviction. "You're in no condition to consent to anything."
"Want to," he mumbled, leaning forward again so that his breath tickled my ear. "Want you."
His hands slid inside my open shirt, palms flat against my chest. Despite the fact that I maintained my upper body strength with religious dedication, I felt vulnerable under his touch.
Exposed in ways that had nothing to do with skin.
"Connor," I tried again, grasping for my usual authority. "You need to rest. You've been drugged."
He pulled back to look at me and something in his expression gave me pause. Behind the drug-induced haze, there was a raw desperation in his eyes—a need that went beyond physical desire.
"Don't send me away," he whispered, his voice breaking slightly. "Please. They'll find me."
The reminder of his situation—of the men looking for him, of his own mother's betrayal—hit me like a bucket of cold water. This wasn't just about an unexpected physical reaction or an attractive young man in my bed. This was about someone in genuine danger who had nowhere else to turn.
I took a deep breath, trying to think clearly despite the confusing signals my body was sending. Connor's hands continued their exploration of my chest, his touch alternating between tentative and boldly possessive.
"I won't send you away," I promised, catching his hands again to still their movement. "But this isn't right. Not while you're drugged."
He frowned, leaning forward until our foreheads nearly touched. "But you want me," he insisted, his gaze dropping pointedly to the evidence of my arousal. "And I want you."
The simplicity of his drugged logic was almost charming. As if want was all that mattered. As if the world wasn't infinitely more complicated than desire.
"That's not the point," I said, struggling to maintain my composure as he shifted his weight again, sending another jolt of pleasure through my unexpectedly responsive body.
"Then what is the point?" he asked, his lips forming a pout that shouldn't have been as appealing as it was.
I had no good answer for that. Not when my body was betraying years of medical certainty. Not when this stranger's touch was rewriting what I thought was possible.
"Just... wait," I managed to say. "Until the drugs wear off. Until we can talk properly."
Connor studied my face for a long moment, his expression surprisingly lucid given his state. Then he smiled—a slow, determined smile that sent a shiver down my spine.
"I'm going to make you feel good," he promised, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And you can't stop me."
The challenge in his words was clear, and something inside me—something I thought had died along with my ability to walk—stirred in response.
Connor's lips found my neck before I could formulate a response, his mouth hot and insistent against my skin. I hadn't been touched like this in years—hadn't felt this surge of heat through my body since before the accident.
Every rational thought told me to push him away, to be the responsible one since he clearly couldn't be.
Instead, I found myself tilting my head slightly, giving him better access as his kisses trailed down to my collarbone, each one sending shockwaves through nerve endings I thought had gone dormant.
"You don't know what you're doing," I whispered hoarsely, barely recognizing my own voice—stripped of its usual composure, raw with a need I'd forgotten how to express.
"I think I do," he murmured against my skin, his breath warm and moist. "I think I'm making you feel good."
His confidence was staggering for someone so clearly under the influence.
I raised my hands to his shoulders, intending to create distance between us.
But once my palms made contact with the solid warmth of him, they refused to push.
Instead, they lingered there, feeling the subtle shift of muscle beneath his shirt as he moved.
"Connor," I tried again, attempting to inject authority into my tone. "You're drugged. This isn't—"
"Shh," he interrupted, pressing a finger against my lips. The casual intimacy of the gesture shocked me into silence. "I know I'm drugged, but I also know what I want."
His eyes, though hazed with whatever his mother had given him, held something that cut through my defenses—a raw vulnerability that seemed at odds with his bold actions. There was loneliness there, and a kind of desperate hope that I recognized all too well.
I knew I should end this. Call Michael. Get medical help for Connor. Handle the situation with the clinical efficiency I applied to every other aspect of my life. That would be the rational choice. The responsible choice.
But rationality seemed to be failing me as Connor's hands explored my chest with increasing boldness, pushing my already unbuttoned pajama shirt aside to expose more skin to his touch.
"You're beautiful," he said, the words slurring slightly as his fingers traced patterns across my chest.
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. No one had called me beautiful since the accident. Powerful, yes. Successful, certainly. But beautiful? That word belonged to my past life, before metal and glass had rewritten my future.