Chapter Eighteen
Julien
The universe had a sense of humor.
I had known this, theoretically, for several weeks now. Ever since a woman with wild dark hair and an unshakeable belief in cosmic destiny had walked into my presentation and announced that I was her soulmate.
But tonight, watching Athena’s father reveal himself as a billionaire shipping magnate, watching her mother casually mention her three doctorates while I sprayed wine across my mother’s horrified face—tonight, I understood it on a visceral level.
The universe wasn’t just humorous.
It was hilarious.
And I was done fighting it.
We left the restaurant in a blur of awkward goodbyes and my parents’ shell-shocked silence. Vivian hugged Athena’s parents with genuine warmth, whispered something in my ear about “letting go,” and disappeared into the night with a knowing smile.
The drive back to my apartment was quiet.
Not uncomfortably quiet. Not the tense silence that had characterized so much of our time together.
Just... quiet.
Athena sat in the passenger seat, her hand resting on the center console, her fingers occasionally tapping out some rhythm only she could hear. The streetlights cast moving shadows across her face, the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the soft fullness of her lips.
My wife.
The thought didn’t send me into a spiral of panic anymore.
It just... was.
A fact. Like gravity. Like the precise number of chambers in the human heart.
Athena was my wife.
And I was done pretending I didn’t want her to be.
“Julien?” Her voice was soft. Uncertain. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure? Because you’ve been very quiet and usually when you’re quiet, it means you’re either planning something very precise or having an existential crisis, and I can’t always tell which.”
“I’m not having a crisis.”
“Oh. Good. That’s good. Because I know tonight was a lot and my parents can be intense when they’re defending me, and I’m sorry if they embarrassed you or made things worse with your parents.”
“They didn’t embarrass me.”
She blinked. “They didn’t?”
“No.” I pulled into my building’s parking garage, finding my assigned spot with the muscle memory of someone who had parked there a thousand times. “They were magnificent.”
“Magnificent?”
I turned off the engine.
Turned to look at her.
“Your father,” I said carefully, “is a billionaire who dresses like a hippie and talks about vision quests. Your mother holds three doctorates yet practices energy healing. They’re brilliant, accomplished, successful people who have chosen to live authentically instead of performing for society’s approval. ”
“Yes?”
“And my parents,” I continued, “are miserable, judgmental people who’ve spent their entire lives caring more about appearances than substance. More about status than connection. More about being right than being happy.”
Athena’s eyes were wide.
“Your parents humiliated mine tonight,” I said. “And they deserved every second of it.”
“Oh.”
“And I’m done.” My words came out steady. Certain. “I’m done fighting this. Fighting you. Fighting the universe or destiny or whatever cosmic force brought you into my life.”
“You are?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
She smiled then, that brilliant, unguarded smile that made something in my chest crack open.
“So what does that mean?” she asked softly.
I unbuckled my seatbelt.
Leaned across the center console.
Cupped her face in my hands.
“It means,” I said, my voice low, “that I’m going to take my wife upstairs and stop pretending I don’t want her.”
Her breath caught.
“Oh.”
“Is that acceptable to you?”
“That’s...” She laughed, breathless and delighted. “That’s very acceptable. That’s extremely acceptable. That’s—”
I kissed her.
Not to shut her up this time.
Just because I wanted to.
Because I was done denying myself this. Done pretending that precision and control were more important than the feeling of her lips against mine, the soft sound she made in the back of her throat, the way her fingers tangled in my hair.
When I pulled back, she was flushed and breathless.
“Upstairs,” I said. “Now.”
We barely made it through the door.
I had my keys out, my hand steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system, my movements precise as I unlocked the deadbolt and the handle lock and pushed the door open.
And then Athena was pressed against me, her arms around my neck, her body warm and soft and right against mine.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” she whispered against my mouth. “Since the moment I saw you.”
“I know.”
“The universe told me—”
“I know.”
“—that you were mine, and I was yours, and—”
I kissed her again, harder that time, backing her into the apartment and kicking the door shut behind us. My hands found her waist, slid up her sides, felt the curve of her ribs beneath the soft fabric of her dress.
This is happening. This is actually happening. I’m going to have sex with my wife. The thought should have terrified me. Should have sent me spiraling into analysis and planning and careful consideration of consequences. Instead, it just made me harder.
I walked her backward through the living room, past the chaotically rearranged furniture, past the unalphabetized bookshelves, into the bedroom where she had been sleeping for the past week while I took the couch like some kind of Victorian gentleman.
No more.
She fell back onto the bed with a soft laugh, her dark hair spreading across my white pillowcase, her dress riding up to reveal the smooth length of her thighs.
Beautiful. She is so incredibly fucking beautiful.
I stood there for a moment, just looking at her. Cataloging details the way I would catalog symptoms before a diagnosis: the flush on her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way her pupils were dilated with arousal, the slight parting of her lips.
“Julien?” Her voice was uncertain. “Are you okay?”
“I’m memorizing you.”
“Oh.” she smiled. “That’s very you.”
“It is.”
I pulled off my tie, the silk one I had worn to dinner, now slightly askew from her fingers, and dropped it on the floor.
Athena’s eyes widened.
“You just... dropped your tie on the floor.”
“Yes.”
“You, Julien Darcy, dropped clothing on the floor instead of hanging it up immediately.”
“I’m aware.”
“The universe is definitely shifting.”
I unbuttoned my shirt, shrugged it off, and let it fall next to the tie.
“The universe,” I said, climbing onto the bed and bracing myself above her, “can do whatever the hell it wants. I’m done fighting it.”
I kissed her neck, feeling her pulse racing beneath my lips. Kissed the hollow of her throat. The curve of her collarbone. The swell of her breast above the neckline of her dress. She arched beneath me, her hands sliding up my bare chest, her touch sending electricity through my nervous system.
“Julien—”
“Shh.”
“But I need to tell you—”
“Later.” I found the zipper at the back of her dress and pulled it down with steady hands. “You can tell me later.”
“It’s important—”
“Athena.” I pulled back and looked into her eyes.
“I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since Vegas, possibly since the moment you walked into my presentation and smiled at me like I was the answer to every question you had ever asked.
Right now, I need you to stop talking so I can show you exactly how much. ”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“You love me?”
“Yes.”
“You’re in love with me?”
“Desperately.”
“Oh.” She smiled through the tears. “I love you too. I’ve loved you since—”
I kissed her.
She laughed against my mouth, and I swallowed the sound, tasted her joy and her certainty and her absolute faith that this, us, was exactly what was supposed to happen.
The dress came off easily. She wasn’t wearing a bra—of course she wasn’t—and the sight of her bare breasts made my brain short-circuit momentarily.
Perfect. She’s perfect.
I had seen thousands of bodies in my career. Had operated on hearts, lungs, major vessels, even brains with steady hands and clinical detachment.
But this was different. This was Athena, and she was looking at me with such trust, such openness, such complete lack of self-consciousness that something in my chest cracked open even further.
I kissed her breasts and heard her gasp.
I took her nipple into my mouth, and she arched against me, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
“Julien—oh!”
I moved to her other breast, gave it the same attention, cataloged every sound she made, every movement, every sign of pleasure.
This is what I’ve been missing.
This is what I’ve been fighting.
This beautiful, chaotic, perfect woman.
My hand slid down her stomach, over the curve of her hip, and found the edge of her underwear. Simple cotton, not the lace I might have expected, which somehow made it even more endearing.
I hooked my fingers under the waistband and pulled her panties down slowly, giving her time to object. She didn’t. She just lifted her hips to help, her breath coming faster now, her eyes dark with want. And then she was naked beneath me. Completely bare. Vulnerable and trusting and mine.
I kissed her again, deep and thorough, while my hand slid between her thighs.
Wet.
She’s so wet.
The clinical part of my brain noted the physiological response. Increased blood flow to the genital region, vaginal lubrication indicating arousal, while the rest of me just felt a surge of pure masculine satisfaction.
I did this. I made her this wet.
I stroked her gently, explored her folds with careful fingers, found the small bundle of nerves at the apex and circled it with precise pressure. She gasped, her hips jerking against my hand.
“Is this okay?” I asked against her mouth.
“Yes—God—yes!”
I increased the pressure slightly, adjusted the angle based on her response, and applied the same methodical approach I used in surgery: observe, assess, adjust.
Her breathing became ragged. Her hands clutched my shoulders, and when I slid one finger inside her, she made a sound that went straight to my cock.
Tight. She’s so tight.