Chapter 17
LYRA
The laughter of the kids is still echoing in my ears as we drive back to Manhattan. Julian has one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console. I want so much for him to lift his hand and place it on mine. I want so much to feel that rough warmth.
The space between us feels alive, crackling with an unnamed energy.
Neither one of us has said a word since we left the orphanage. My mind is too busy playing it all back, remembering how Julian was with those kids, how he gave them his total attention and care, and how strange and wonderful it was to see a man as terrifying as him be so sweet and gentle.
It’s a little after three, still plenty of time in the workday. But Julian turns east, toward Queens.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off.” It’s not a suggestion. “Good work today.”
It takes an enormous amount of effort to suppress the smile forming on my face from his compliment. Then again, I could’ve saved his life. At the very least, I’ve averted a catastrophe.
“Thanks.”
Soon we’re back in Queens. As much as I’m looking forward to the nap I desperately want to take when I get back to my place, part of me is already aching at the idea of parting from Julian.
But as soon as we turn onto 30th Avenue, that no-nonsense look of focus appears on his face. He slows the car.
“What’s—”
He holds up a finger, then nods ahead. I look and see it right away—a navy blue sedan parked across from my building. The engine is off, windows tinted. It’s nearly in the same spot as the watcher from before, parked at the curb in front of the hardware store.
No doubt the intent is the same.
His hand moves from the console to my thigh. But it’s not a sexual thing, it’s more steadying, like he wants to hold me in place to make sure nothing happens to me.
“Don’t stare.”
“Too late.”
“License plate. Read it to me.”
I squint. “New York plates. Uh, A, K, 7—”
“That’s enough.”
He accelerates, driving past my building without stopping. I glance up at the windows of my apartment, wondering with horror if there’s someone in there, waiting for me. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as Julian slips out his phone and dials.
“Ethan. Navy sedan, 30th Avenue; same position as before. New York plates, Alpha-Kilo-seven series. I want an ID before I get back into the city.”
He hangs up. Before long, we’re back on the Queensboro Bridge, heading into Manhattan this time. The city swallows us in traffic and noise as I sit there with my heart pounding and his hand still on my thigh. I don’t want it to move.
“Julian. This is the second time.”
“I know.”
“Someone’s watching my apartment.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it’s Dobrov?”
“Possibly.” His tone is even and calm, which is exactly what I need. “Or possibly someone working for Alexander. Possibly both.” His jaw is clenched. “You’re not going home tonight.”
“Julian—”
“This isn’t a negotiation.”
I should argue. I’ve been arguing with him since that night in the alley, the night the first watcher was spotted outside of my apartment. This is my independence we’re talking about here—my autonomy, my ability to take the subway without needing a damn escort.
But this is the second incident of someone being outside my apartment.
And this comes just hours after I learned from the seating chart that Julian may have people who want to do him harm.
I want to kick and thrash against these new boundaries of my life, but I don’t.
This is Julian’s world, and I’m a part of it now.
“Where are we going?”
“My place.”
His place turns out to be a penthouse in Tribeca. Of course, it is. The elevator opens directly into the apartment, a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson. Minimal expensive furniture, simple art on the walls, and a kitchen that I can tell is barely used.
It’s clean, masculine, and impressive. I’m not surprised, considering the man who lives here.
“There’s plenty of space,” he says. “If you go upstairs and take a left, you can have that whole wing to yourself. And the building is one of the most secure in the city.”
But I’m not interested in the rest of the apartment right now. What’s caught my eye is a photograph on the wall near the stairwell. It’s of a woman with dark hair and gray eyes, holding a boy of maybe seven on her lap.
Irina and Julian.
I approach it slowly, stopping in front of it. Julian steps up behind me.
“She was beautiful.”
“Yes.” I can feel the warmth of his breath on the back of my neck. I break out into goosebumps, wishing he’d wrap his arms around me. “She would’ve liked you.”
“Your aunt said the same thing.”
“She’s usually right about such matters.”
I turn around, his musky scent enveloping me, along with his quiet intensity. He gazes into my eyes, and damn, I feel like I’m going to melt.
“Julian.”
“Lyra. You’ve been avoiding me.”
I glance away.
“I have not. I’ve been busy with work.”
“I know you’ve been busy, but you’ve also been avoiding me.”
There’s no sense in lying. Julian is too good at seeing through people. What hope do I have of fooling a Bratva don? And what’s the point in even trying?
“It’s just that I don’t know how to handle any of this,” I say. “It’s confusing. The most confusing situation I’ve ever been in. You’re my boss, yet I don’t know what else you are. It’s just—”
He kisses me.
That’s one way to get me to shut up, I suppose.
This kiss is different. Not the desperate collision from the office, not the gentle discovery the first time it happened. This is something in between—purposeful, deep, and intentional. His hand cups the back of my head, tilting me into the angle he wants.
I have been thinking about this, yearning for this, for seven damn days straight.
He walks me backward down the hallway without breaking the kiss. His bedroom is dark—tall curtains pulled in front of the massive windows, shadowing the room.
The bed is enormous and neatly made, exactly what I’d expect.
He gently pushes me back and looks at me, shaking his head slowly, as if he’s in denial about what he’s seeing in front of him.
His hands go to the buttons of my blouse, slowly undoing them, as if he’s unwrapping something he plans to take his time with.
The blouse falls open, and he pushes it off my shoulders.
He lifts my camisole over my head and unclasps my bra in the same smooth motion. It’s impressive—I have to admit.
And just like that, I’m bare from the waist up, standing in the shadowed light of the room. The old reflex flickers, that instinct to cover up, to angle, to minimize.
But before I can do any of that, Julian reaches forward and places his hand against my chest, right over my heart.
“No.” The word calms me, stops me where I stand. “Let me see you. Don’t even think about covering up.”
He looks. It’s not a glance or a sweep—it’s a study. His gaze moves over my breasts and my waist, the soft curve of my stomach. Julian’s expression is one of hunger—the controlled hunger of a man who knows exactly what he wants and has no plans on pretending otherwise.
He drops to his knees, unzips my skirt and slides it down over my hips, taking my panties with it. His mouth follows the fabric down, pressing hot, open kisses to the inside of my thighs.
“On the bed,” he says.
I lie back. He strips—efficient and unhurried—and climbs over me. That first press of his solid, hot body against mine is overwhelming. He’s warm and hard—everywhere. His weight pins me to the mattress, and I arch into it, his mouth finding my neck, my collarbone, my nipples.
“Julian… God, just like that.” I find myself wondering if he’d be able to make me come just from the way he’s kissing me.
He works his way down, kissing places that no one has ever paid attention to before—the underside of my breasts, the curve of my waist, the dimple above my hip.
By the time his mouth reaches where I need it the most, I’m already trembling, my fingers twisted in the sheets, my breath coming in shallow gasps.
The first stroke of his tongue against my pussy wrecks me. He eats me like it’s an act of devotion—slow and thorough, his hands gripping my inner thighs and spreading me wider, his groans vibrating against my clit.
He flattens the warm, wet velvet of his tongue against my swollen clit and drags it upward in one long sweep, like he’s savoring the taste, wanting to make sure he gets every last drop.
I thread my fingers into his thick hair and hold on to keep myself grounded. My nails drag against his scalp, and he growls in approval, the vibration sending another shockwave of pleasure through me. Julian’s tongue never stops its slow, devastating grind against my clit.
He flicks those gunmetal grays up at me.
“Come for me. Right now.”
It happens without any say from me. My back arches off the mattress, hips bucking hard against his mouth as the orgasm shatters through me in bright, pulsing waves. He doesn’t pull away, his lips soften, his tongue turns gentler. The aftershocks keep coming, smaller but just as relentless.
But then they start to build again. I’m practically whimpering by this point, not sure if I want him to give me a moment to compose myself or to keep going.
He keeps going.
“One more time.” His voice is rough, thick with desire. Before I can catch my breath, he slides two fingers inside of me.
I gasp as his fingers curl upward, hitting me right where I need them. He finds the spot instantly, the one that makes my whole body shake. He moves in and out, stroking me in time with the steady press of his tongue.
God, it feels so good, better than anything I’ve ever felt in my life.
His curled fingers drag against the swollen ridge inside of me, his tongue lashing around my clit in tight, fast circles. Heat coils low in my belly, tighter and tighter until I feel like I’m about to explode. I clamp my thighs around his head.
I come again, harder this time as I buck my hips to the side. My breasts heave, my nipples tight and aching.
He lifts his head once the orgasm fades. His lips are glossy, chin slick, eyes dark and lustful. He climbs up, his cock dragging against my entrance and making me shudder.
“Beautiful,” he whispers against my temple. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you come for me.”
Julian reaches down and takes hold of himself by the base, positioning himself perfectly. He pushes inside with one slow, deep stroke. I’m so wet that he glides right in. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper; I want every inch of him, every inch and scar and tattoo, every everything.
He moves with unhurried thrusts. His forehead presses against mine as his hand slides down to grip the full curve of my hip, his fingers digging into my flesh. The sheer possessiveness in the way he holds me makes me feel something I’ve never felt before.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do. His eyes are narrowed, silver rings around the gunmetal irises. He’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time. He growls when I clench around him, and I can tell that he’s at the edge.
I can feel the next orgasm building slowly and radiating outward. Julian feels it too—I can tell by the way his rhythm changes. He moves harder and faster, his breath ragged, his grip tightening on my hip.
“Together,” I whisper.
He responds by burying his face in my neck and driving in deep—slow, powerful thrusts, once, twice, three times.
I shatter around him as he comes. Julian’s body stiffens, a groan tearing from his chest that vibrates through my entire body.
The orgasm rips through me, and I close my eyes, focusing on his pulsing cock inside of me.
We stay like that; my legs wrapped around him like a vice. His body relaxes, and I feel a trickle of warmth down my thigh. Julian raises his head enough to gaze into my eyes for a long moment before coming in for a deep, slow kiss. I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my chest.
When he slides out slowly, I miss him inside of me instantly. He falls to my side and pulls me into his arms. Together we lay in the late-afternoon light, the sun’s rays casting shadows over us.
We’re silent for a long while as we catch our breaths. His hand moves slowly up my side, tracing the curve of my body like he’s trying to memorize it. His rough, warm palm travels over my waist and ribs to the swell of my breast before coming to a rest on the curve of my shoulder.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“I know. That was a bit intense.”
He chuckles. “Yes, it was.”
His hand moves down, resting on my stomach. He splays his fingers wide, pressing firmly and possessively. Then he leans in and kisses my temple.
“Stay with me tonight,” he says, “in my room.”
“I was planning on it.”
“Stay tomorrow night, too.”
I laugh, and it comes out shaky, raw, and real.
God is the offer ever tempting.
“Let’s start with tonight,” I say with a smile.
He pulls me closer, kissing my neck and shoulder. The light of the lowering sun hits the Hudson, setting off golden shimmers. Julian holds me close in a way I’ve never been held before, and a thought occurs to me:
This is what it feels like to be held by someone who accepts me as I am, unconditionally.
It’s a sweet thought, one that brings a smile to my lips, a smile that lingers as I drift off to sleep.