Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“What?” I ask softly, self-conscious.
A smile touches his face. “You’re beautiful on an ordinary day but beyond exquisite when you’re passionate about a subject.”
I laugh quietly and glance down into my wineglass, but before I can think of a response, he’s already standing.
Then he reaches for my hand.
The gesture is simple, gentle, and yet my pulse races because I know exactly where this is going.
Julian says nothing as he leads me to the elevator, which whisks us upstairs.
By the time we reach his bedroom, I’m already caught in that hazy, intoxicating state he pulls me into so easily.
The room itself is magnificent, enormous in scale with soaring ceilings and warm light spilling across dark wood. The bed looks impossibly soft beneath the light of the lamps.
But honestly, I barely register any of it because all I really see is him.
Julian turns toward me slowly once the bedroom door closes behind us, and the look in his eyes steals what few coherent thoughts I have left.
Then he kisses me. Soft at first.
His hand slides along my jaw while his mouth moves against mine with slow, tantalizing patience, like he’s savoring me instead of rushing toward anything. The faint taste of red wine lingers between us, and when his fingers slip into my hair, a shiver moves all the way down my spine.
The kiss deepens gradually. The softness gives way to heat.
I know exactly when his restraint begins to crack because his hands are at my waist, pulling me closer, and the hard length of him presses against me through our clothes, making my breath hitch.
“Julian,” I whisper against his mouth.
The sound of his name seems to undo him further.
His kiss turns more ravenous, deeper, his rough beard scraping deliciously against my skin as his mouth trails from my wet lips to my throat. He exhales against my collarbone, warm and uneven, and every place he touches me feels heightened, overly sensitive beneath his large hands.
My fingers knot into the front of his shirt while he backs me slowly toward the large, four-poster bed, and the second my legs hit the mattress, I give way.
His shirt disappears first.
One second my hands are gripping fabric and the next my palms are against bare skin—warm, smooth, solid muscle shifting beneath my fingertips—and the sensation alone melts me. He’s all heat and strength and restrained power finally let loose.
Then his hands find the hem of my shirt.
He pauses long enough to look at me, his eyes dark with restraint hanging by a thread.
“You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I breathe.
That’s all it takes.
My shirt joins his on the floor.
His hands slide along my bare skin like he can’t touch enough of me at once, and every place his mouth follows leaves behind a taste of his raw sexuality. I feel the cool brush of air against my body one second and the overwhelming warmth of him the next. The weight of him, controlling me. The roughness of his hands contrasted against the gentleness of the way he keeps looking at me. It’s pure, unbridled sex, yet in a venue so comfortable and reassuring, I let myself go in ways I never imagined.
And when pleasure finally crashes through me, it hits so hard it’s surreal. I can’t tell which way is up now.
My back arches against the sheets, his hands exploring every inch of my body, his name breaking apart on my lips while the entire world narrows down to sensation—pressure and ecstasy so intense it leaves me breathless beneath him.
He finishes seconds later, burying his face against my neck with a low sound that sends another wave of heat through me as his arms tighten possessively, desperately.
And somewhere inside the haze of exhaustion and satisfaction and his body wrapped around mine, one impossible thought enters my mind: I could fall hopelessly in love with this man.
Chapter 23
Julian
It’s been a very long time since I’ve been this excited about the beginning of a new year.
For the past several New Year’s Eves, midnight has felt less like a celebration and more like a benchmark that comes and goes without much fanfare. Another year gone. Another twelve months placed firmly between me and the life I once had. I attended the parties because attendance was expected. I shook hands, raised the champagne, watched the ball descend over Manhattan while privately feeling nothing beyond the exhaustion of surviving another orbit around the sun.
But tonight is different. Tonight, Harper’s beside me.
The black Town Car glides down Fifth Avenue through the sea of lights and bundled tourists. Harper turns her face toward the window as we pass the towering Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, her eyes widening.
She’s stunning tonight.
Her blond hair falls in soft waves around her bare shoulders, glossy and impossibly touchable after the appointment I arranged for her this afternoon at Laurent et Cie, a salon where Hollywood’s most glamorous actresses routinely spend obscene amounts of money pretending beauty is easy.