We broke for lunch at the clubhouse terrace. Julian sat directly next to me, looking like he owned the space, the table, and the air in my lungs. Mr. Ashworth smoothed his napkin. “Julian, we’ve been discussing models for our new line. What do you think?”
Julian reached for his water. He used his other hand to brush his fingertips across my thigh—a slow drag of heat that made my breath stutter. He didn’t look at me; he looked at my father-in-law.
“Consumers want authenticity,” Julian said smoothly. His hand slid higher. “Models who look real. People want to feel like they’re looking through a window, not at a painting.”
His thumb pressed into the crease of my thigh—dangerously close to where he had no right being in public. I swallowed hard. He smirked.
“Exactly!” Mr. Ashworth nodded eagerly. “Inclusive sizing, diversity—”
Julian squeezed my thigh. I gasped, but too softly for anyone to hear except him. He dipped his head, pretending to check the menu. “Relax,” he murmured, lips barely moving. “You’re shaking.”
Brielle spoke up. “I think models should be aspirational. Gorgeous. Unreachable.”
Julian’s hand began a slow, maddening stroke. “The new luxury is truth. Raw, unvarnished, and…” His thumb pressed down at the junction of my thigh and hip. “…substantial. Men andwomen want something with weight enough to feel. Someone with body parts that don't need a filter to hold their shape.”
He slid his hand just a little higher—a light, daring question. “And we should make it more explicit. Explicit content performs better than polished.”
Brielle blinked. “Explicit? Like… sex stuff?”
Julian turned his head and smiled right at me. “Yes, sex stuff. We need to make people want to fuck,” he said. “The more visceral, the better. Unfiltered desire. People want what feels forbidden.” His gaze dipped to my mouth. “What feels… dangerous.”
A jolt of pure, unwanted heat shot through me. His hand dropped as he reached for a roll, his fingers skimming the hem of my panties. I choked on my water.
“Everything alright, Elara?” Mrs. Ashworth asked.
“Fine,” I croaked.
“Excuse me,” I said abruptly, my chair scraping back. “I need to use the restroom.”
I pushed into the women’s locker room, heading straight for the sinks. The door swung open barely thirty seconds later. I saw him in the mirror’s reflection.
“This is the women’s locker room,” I hissed.
“And you’re my woman,” he declared.
In two strides he was behind me, his hands caging me against the sink. He bent, his mouth finding the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. He bit down—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make me gasp.
“I hate your husband.”
“Julian, stop,” I breathed. “Everyone is right outside.”
“Let them be,” he muttered, his teeth grazing my earlobe. “Your husband is pathetic. He’d sell you off hole by hole if he thought it would get him a better deal.”
He turned me in his arms, his mouth crashing down on mine. It was all tongue and teeth. I kissed him back because the taste of him—mint and malice—was the only thing that felt real.
A sharp knock rattled the door. “Elara? You in there?”
Alastair.
I froze. Julian didn't flinch. He raised his voice, calm and perfectly composed, while his thumb stroked my swollen bottom lip. “She’s here, Ashworth. I wanted to have a private conversation with your wife about the business at hand. She’ll be out in a second.”
While he spoke, his other hand slid up under my skirt. He slid my panties down slowly, catching them in one hand. We heard the sound of Alastair’s retreating footsteps.
I shoved against Julian’s chest. This time, he let me go.
“You’re insane,” I whispered.
“I’m going to ruin your marriage. Really, it’s already a corpse. Your actions will decide whether I bury it… or display it.” He slammed his hand against the mirror.
