Flipping the lock, I lift the latch and let the door swing open. The warm summer air dances just beyond the threshold as Julian stands there like some kind of offering from the universe. Maybe this is my reward. The karma I’m due. Or simply what I need.
He doesn’t say anything, standing there in his dark jeans and boots. A worn black T-shirt with the sleeves torn off and armholes stretched, wrists and fingers naked from any jewelry as he opens his hands and squeezes them into fists at his sides.
“Deciding how brave you want to be?” he asks.
A loaded question, and the same one he asked that night in Montana all those months ago. I look down his body,appreciating the sheer size of the man in my doorway—tall and thick, strong and unapologetic in every single way. Bravery doesn’t have a place here with the way he’s looking at me, and with the way I’m feeling, there’s only one possible answer.
“How about I show you?”
Chapter Sixteen
Julian
She turnson the balls of her bare feet, the nearly sheer robe she’s wearing not leaving much to my imagination. It’s belted at the waist, but the two sides of it don’t meet until just above her navel. Bold colors of tattooed flowers trail up the length of her back, showing through the material.Beautiful.I run my palm across my mouth and swallow as I watch her peachy ass proceed down the small entry hall leading into her place.
There’s no mistaking the push and pull we’ve had and the way the tension between us tonight is a hair’s breadth away from fucking snapping. I knew it was a gamble coming over here, but I don’t overthink when I want something. And, fuck, do I want her.
I sat in my Bronco parked across the street and watched as she walked across the bridge to her place. I wasn’t going to let her leave my sight, not after telling her I was there if she needed me. I want to understand exactly what she’s wrapped up in. I’m beyond the point of curiosity. I need to know that she’s safe and what I can do to make sure she stays that way. That was my intent, but now? I blow out a breath as I close the door behind me, following her inside.
The low rumble of thunder sounds off in the distance as I take in the silhouette of her curves that show through the long, thin robe she’s wearing as she turns to me. She looks down at the bottle of whiskey I’m still holding and then reaches out her hand for me to pass it over to her.
She smiles. “At least you have good taste.”
“There was an incredibly insightful bartender I met once who really talked up Tennessee whiskey,” I say as I look around the loft-style space. Oversize canvases hang along the largest span of walls. Books fill her shelves, and more are stacked and used as side tables in the living space. With her back to me as she pours, I walk through the studio-style room. The kitchen carries the same bohemian vibe as the rest of the place. Gold and brass fixtures, a mint-green fridge, and pots with herbs and tiny flowers line the counters and bar separating the kitchen.
“What would happen if you were in that bar again, with Naomi?” she asks as she turns.
Whatever it is her mother and grandmother shared, I’m sure she’s feeling a lot of things right now. And playing along, taking her lead, is something I’m more than happy to do.
Looking at me with a glass in her hand, she adds, “Before she threatened you with a taser, before you saw things you weren’t supposed to see in that office? What if we were back there right now?”
I swallow, knowing there are layers here to what’s happening. That she doesn’t want to be who we are right now. Maybe that’s too difficult after hearing what her family had to say before I got here. Maybe she wants to hold on to some semblance of control. Maybe she wants to just pretend like the incredible coincidence of finding her again would only happen there and only as who we were while we were in Hideaway. My mouth waters, taking in the way she looks right now—messy and confident, determined and turned on. “I would say, if that’s the game you’d like to play, then tell me the rules.”
Her lips part just as they tip up along one side.
“Sit,” she says, passing me a rocks glass. The room is charged with tension. The way she’s taken command has my dick flexing. When she presses her pouty lower lip to her glass, my body tenses, fully aware of her every movement from her first sip to the path she makes to the record player.
There are many things that turn me on. I’ve enjoyed myself with plenty of people throughout my life, but the woman less than twenty feet from me has a hold on me in ways that I can’t begin to understand. I feel protective and unraveled near her, aroused and pissed off, and I’m overwhelmed with longing that I’ve never experienced for someone before, so I sit.
The only sound that cuts the silence is of my pulse throbbing as she chooses a record to play. I watch her wordlessly, pressing my lips to the glass and taking a sip, tracing the shape of her body beneath the sheer robe. The bite and burn of the drink turns warm and familiar as I drain my glass. Rubbing my fingers and palm of my free hand along the plush velvet of the chair, I want to take whatever part of her she’s willing to share with me. I’m internally praising her for letting me in.
A low vibration of bass guitar starts moments after the needle hits the record and an electric guitar chord cuts in justbefore a low and slow rendition of “Tennessee Whiskey” plays through.
I shift back, getting more comfortable as she walks from the record player to where I’m sitting. Two chairs make up the living space with a direct line of sight to her bed. And she stands at the foot of her bed, facing me, she drains what’s left in her glass.
“I feel sexy when you look at me,” she says, pulling the longest ribbon to the bow that’s holding the front of her robe together. “Like you savor every glance, and that each time, it’s as good as you’re expecting.”
I smirk, lifting an eyebrow. “You are. I do. And it does.”
“Would you like to watch me now?” she asks in a purr, looking like a fucking goddess.
I rub my palm across my mouth.Fucking hell, I’m going to come in my pants, aren’t I?“Yeah, Crowne. I want to fucking watch.”
“So do I,” she says as her robe drifts open and billows to the floor.
I’ve been around enough stylists to know that what Wyn is wearing wouldn’t be considered by any of them as lingerie—my mouth waters—but there’s not a single man on this planet, attracted to women, who wouldn’t have tented pants seeing her in her simple bra and panties.
I shift in my seat, trying to ease the way my dick punches at the zipper of my jeans.
