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“What now?” I glance up at him through my lashes. “I don’t want to die,” I whisper, unconsciously laying a hand on my stomach. “Especially not like that.”
His lips brush my forehead. “No one’s going to touch you, princess. I promise.”
“That’s a promise you don’t have the power to make.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “I filed a stalking report.”
“Julian…” His name is a minefield of broken glass. The riotous emotions I’ve kept locked away break free, shredding all restraint.
He called me princess again.
For the first time, I don’t cringe.
Because of him, a word once used in hate, now sparks hope.
Rolling us over, he lowers his lips to my bare stomach, then glances up at me. There’s a lethal mix of heat and fear in his eyes that takes my breath away.
There are no words. No apologies. No forgiveness. He slides off the bed, suffocating me with a molten stare as he brings us both to our feet.
The few inches between us closes in a breath as he claims my lips with such force I stumble into the wall. He follows, deepening the kiss, his hand sliding down my neck.
Lower. Lower. Lower.
He doesn’t stop until his fingers trace the indentations that still reside above my hip. Unable to resist, I fist his hair, His response is a feral groan as his hand tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
When he kisses his way down my neck, I moan his name. “Julian, is this wrong? You know, with Vivian and all?”
“Probably,” he mumbles against my skin. “But when I think about it, shit hurts. I don’t want to hurt anymore, Phoebe. I need you to make the pain stop.”
He doesn’t have to explain. I understand...
More than he’ll ever know.
I nod, and his lips fall to my neck again, igniting a path of fire against my skin. His fingers burn imprints into my body wherever they land.
Dragging his lips back up to my ear, his says in a low, commanding tone, “Clothes off…now.”
I fall right back into our old banter. “Or what?”
Drawing in a husky breath he he grips the back of my thighs with both hands and lifts. And then he’s everywhere…
Merciless lips
Impatient hands.
Demanding cock.
His name is a whispered prayer dancing on my lips as he stalks forward. We move in a seductive rhythm, fluidly in sync until my spine hits the wall.
I’m his captive audience as he holds my stare while working my elastic shorts down my thighs. When he kicks them across the room and stands to his full height, I know I’ll bend… I’ll do anything he asks.
“Come back to me, Phoebe,” he whispers roughly, this stubble on his chin brushing my temple. “You’re my fucking light.”
His words are my undoing.
Tightening his grip, he spins me around and tugs me back against his chest. I’m lust drunk, the wall in front of me blending to nothing but haze as he shoves his hands under the my tank top, coaxing another moan out of me.
“Show me,” I say breathlessly.
