24. Julian
JULIAN
I'm on my knees, my face buried between her thighs, and I'm losing my fucking mind.
The taste of her floods my senses, and my entire body is wound so tight I think I might shatter.
My hands grip her thighs hard enough to bruise, my fingers digging into soft flesh, and it's the only thing preventing me from breaking the rules she's set and touching myself, stroking my aching cock until I find the release that's been building for what feels like hours.
But I can't. She told me not to. And despite everything—despite having ended lives with these same hands, despite being someone who takes orders from no one—I'm following her command like it's the only thing that matters in the world.
I want her forgiveness. I want her to give me everything. I need anything she'll let me have, any concession she's willing to make toward understanding, and I'll do anything for it. Even force myself not to touch my cock for the first time in my life, desperate for release and denying it.
My erection throbs between my legs, hard and leaking and desperate for attention.
Every time my tongue circles her clit, every time she gasps or moans or tightens her fingers in my hair, my cock pulses in response.
The need is so intense it's almost painful, a constant ache that radiates through my entire body.
I'm trembling with the effort of keeping control, my muscles locked tight, sweat beading on my forehead and running down my spine.
She tastes like heaven and damnation all at once.
Like everything I've ever wanted and everything I know I shouldn't have.
I work my tongue against her, wanting her to come again, wanting to come myself, and I feel like I'm unraveling myself from the inside out.
I don't know why I haven't come yet, despite the fact that I haven't touched my erection once.
I'm so hard it feels like I should have come multiple times by now, but my cock refuses to tip over that edge, as if my body feels like I haven't earned forgiveness yet, either.
My jaw aches. My neck is cramping. My knees are screaming against the hard floor.
And I don't fucking care. All I care about is making her come, proving to her that I can follow her rules, that I can give her what she needs, even when it's killing me.
That I can be what she wants me to be, even if it means destroying myself in the process.
She's close again. I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble against my hands, in the way her breathing has gone ragged and uneven, in the way her fingers tighten almost painfully in my hair.
She's riding my face with increasing urgency, using my mouth for her pleasure, and the power she has over me in this moment is exhilarating.
I've never experienced anything like it with anyone, never been willing to crawl and beg and degrade myself for a woman.
I'm always the dominant one, the one in control.
But for her, I'd do anything. Beg. Plead. Crawl. Ache.
Die.
I flatten my tongue against her clit, and she cries out, her hips jerking.
I can feel my own release building in response, coiling tighter and tighter at the base of my spine.
I'm not getting any physical stimulation beyond the taste of her on my tongue and the sound of her pleasure in my ears, but it's happening anyway.
My cock is so hard it's almost purple, the head and shaft slick with pre-cum, and every pulse sends a jolt of sensation through me that borders on pain.
My balls are drawn up tight, aching with the need to release.
The tension in my body has reached a breaking point, every muscle coiled like a spring wound too tight, and I know—I know—that when she comes, I'm going to come too.
And I'm desperate to give her what she needs, even if it means losing myself completely.
She gasps, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
Her thighs are shaking against my face, her entire body trembling with the approach of her orgasm.
I can feel it building in her, can sense the exact moment when she's about to tip over the edge, and I double down, working my tongue against her clit with relentless precision.
"Julian—oh god, Julian, I'm—"
The sound of my name moaned on her lips makes me shudder and groan, my cock jerking between my thighs.
She comes with a cry that echoes through the hotel room, her body convulsing, her thighs clamping around my head.
I feel her pulsing against my tongue, feel the flood of wetness, and something inside me breaks.
My own orgasm hits me like a punch to the gut, so intense and unexpected that I cry out against her, the sound muffled by her flesh.
My cock pulses violently, untouched, and I feel myself coming in hot spurts that paint the floor beneath me.
The pleasure is overwhelming, almost painful in its intensity, radiating out from my groin in waves that make my entire body shake.
It's humiliating, and exhilarating, and absolutely devastating, and I can't stop the sounds that tear from my throat as I ride out the waves of my release.
Isabelle pulls back from me, her body still trembling with aftershocks, and I collapse forward onto my hands, gasping for breath. My arms are shaking so badly I can barely hold myself up. My cock is still twitching, still leaking, and I can't breathe.
I'm a trained assassin. A former special forces soldier. A man who's killed more people than he can count. And she just made me come without even touching me.
She's unmade me, stripped away every layer of control and dominance until there's nothing left but raw, desperate need.
And God, I still fucking need her. My cock has softened slightly, but it would take nothing to get me hard again.
I look up at her through the hair that's fallen into my eyes, and she's staring down at me with an expression I can't quite read. "Did you just—?" she starts to ask, her voice breathless.
"Yes." My voice rasps. "I came. Without touching myself. Just from—"
She stares at me. We're both breathing hard, the air between us charged with electricity.
And I still don't know how she managed to break through every defense I've ever built.
All I know is that I'm lying on a hotel room floor in Rome, covered in my own release, having just experienced the most intense orgasm of my life without a single touch to my cock.
She's destroyed me. Completely and utterly destroyed me.
And the worst part is, I'd let her do it again in a heartbeat.
—
Minutes tick by, and then I move, slowly climbing up onto the bed next to her. She doesn't say a word, but she doesn't stop me. I lie there next to her, naked, and for a long moment, we just look at each other. I feel myself stiffening, but I ignore it. Her gaze flicks down, then back up.
"You can touch it now if you want to."
A low, raspy laugh escapes my throat. "I figured as much. But I don't want to."
"No?" Her eyes stay locked on mine. "Do you want me to?"
My abdomen flexes, my cock leaping at the question. She laughs softly and reaches down, her fingers encircling me. She strokes once, slowly, then again, and then tugs lightly, pulling me toward her.
Slowly, I shift over top of her, watching her face, waiting for her to tell me to stop. But she doesn't. She just spreads her legs, giving me space to slide between them, and my hips settle against hers as I feel my cockhead slide against her slick, hot entrance.
She moans, and my entire body stiffens, need coursing through me as I start to slip into her. She's so fucking wet from the orgasms I gave her, but still tight around me, my cock a perfect fit as I slide in one slow inch at a time, savoring the feeling of her around me.
This is the last time. We both know it. Whatever happens tomorrow, there's no future beyond that. The pain in my chest is exquisite, the worst and best thing I've ever felt, a love that remade and destroyed me all at once.
When I sink all the way into her, she gasps, wrapping herself around me, legs and arms and hands twining around my body.
She arches up, her lips meeting mine, and for a long time, we move just like that.
Slow, my cock sliding in and out of her in lazy strokes meant to draw it out, my lips on hers, her nails scratching slow lines down my back.
I kiss her, and I fuck her, and I let her feel everything I can't say to her aloud as I take her and make her mine one last time.
As I give myself to her, one last time.
She moans as she comes around me, her breasts pressed to my chest, shuddering as she comes apart. I feel her clench around my cock, and I want so fucking badly to come inside of her, to feel her heat around me as I fill her up.
But I won't do that to her—leave her with something she didn't ask for, when there's no future for us.
So at the last possible second, when I can no longer hold back the climax burning up my spine, I pull free of her, moaning with the aching need to stay as I wrap my hand around my cock and spurt over her, painting her skin with my cum.
She gasps, arching as the hot liquid stains her skin, and I stare at her, so fucking beautiful it hurts.
I collapse next to her, and for several long moments, neither of us says anything. Then she gets up without a word, and goes to the bathroom, and I hear the shower turn on.
—
I wake to the sound of movement in the room and the absence of warmth beside me.
My eyes open slowly, my head pounding with the remnants of last night's alcohol, and I see Isabelle across the room. She's already dressed, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She's moving with purpose, packing her few belongings into her bag.
The vulnerability of last night is gone. She's thrown up her walls again, putting distance between us despite what happened just hours ago.
It stings more than I have any right to feel.
I push myself up to sit, wincing at the protest from my body. My knees are bruised, my jaw aches, and there's a soreness in my muscles that reminds me of exactly what we did last night. I want to pull her back into bed and do it again.
"You're up," Isabelle says without looking at me.
Her voice is cool, like we're colleagues preparing for a business meeting instead of two people who were tangled together intimately just hours ago.
I watch her for a moment, trying to read her body language, but she's giving me nothing.
Her entire demeanor screams distance. "What time can we leave? "
She's protecting herself. I understand that. But understanding doesn't make it hurt less.
"There's a flight at three this afternoon."
"Then we should get moving." She finally turns to face me. Her expression is carefully blank, her eyes guarded. "We don't have time to waste."
The dismissal is clear. Last night was last night. Whatever vulnerability we shared has been compartmentalized. If she forgave me—which is what felt like she did—it was closure for her, and now she's putting that aside and focusing on what comes next.
I should be relieved. This is easier, less complicated. But instead, I feel something twist in my chest that feels uncomfortably like loss.
"Isabelle—" I start, not sure what I'm going to say.
"Don't." She cuts me off, her voice sharp. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. We have work to do. That's all that matters right now."
I know she's right. But it doesn't stop me from wanting to cross the room, pull her into my arms, and tell her that last night meant something. That she means something.
But she's made it clear she doesn't want to hear it. And because I'm not sure I could articulate it even if she did.
So I just nod and push myself out of bed, ignoring the way my body protests the movement. "I'll shower and pack. We'll leave in thirty minutes."
She turns back to her bag without responding, and I head to the bathroom, closing the door behind me harder than necessary.
The face that stares back at me from the mirror looks haggard. There are dark circles under my eyes and stubble covering my jaw. I look like a man who's been through hell and isn't sure he's going to make it out the other side.
I turn on the shower and step under the hot spray, letting it wash away the evidence of last night. But it can't wash away the memory—the taste of her, the sound of her pleasure, the way my body responded to hers.
She's unmade me—completely and utterly unmade me. And now she's pulling away, protecting herself from whatever this is between us. I can't blame her. I understand the impulse. But it doesn't make it any easier to accept.
I finish showering and dress quickly. By the time I emerge from the bathroom, Isabelle is sitting on the edge of the bed, her bag at her feet and her phone in her hands.
She looks up when I enter, and for just a moment, I see something flicker in her eyes. "Ready?" she asks.
"Ready," I confirm.
And just like that, we're back to being what we were before last night, allies against a common enemy. Two people trying to stay alive long enough to end this nightmare.
Nothing more.