The gin and tonic was a lie. It was meant to be a shield, a prop, a way for Clara’s hands to have something to do other than tremble. But the condensation slicked her fingers, the juniper bitterness did nothing to quell the heat rising from her chest, and the clinking ice cubes only underscored the frantic tempo of her heart.
She stood by the French doors of Julian’s penthouse, the city a glittering, indifferent tapestry beyond the glass. Inside, the party thrummed with the low pulse of a bassline, the chatter of a hundred guests, the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. It was a sea of familiar faces, colleagues from the firm, clients, friends of friends. But Clara only had eyes for one person.
Him.
He moved through the crowd with an ease that made her breath catch. Julian. His name was a prayer she’d whispered to herself for three agonizing years. Three years of stolen glances across conference tables, of brushing past him in hallways with a jolt of electricity, of listening to his deep, rumbling laugh during client calls and imagining it whispered against her skin.
Tonight, he was in his element. A charcoal blazer stretched across his wide shoulders, a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of tanned skin. His dark hair was artfully tousled, his jaw sharp and clean-shaven. He held a glass of scotch, the amber liquid swirling as he gestured while talking to a senior partner. His smile was professional, charming, and utterly devastating.
Clara had promised herself she wouldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not again. She was tired of being the woman who watched from the sidelines, who nursed a crush like a secret wound. She was twenty-nine, successful, independent. Yet here she was, reduced to a puddle of adolescent longing by a man who probably saw her as nothing more than a capable associate.
She took a long gulp of her drink, the ice stinging her lips. It did nothing.
As if sensing her gaze, Julian’s head turned. His eyes, the color of warm whiskey, found hers across the crowded room. Time stopped. The noise faded to a dull roar. He didn’t look away. Instead, a slow, private smile touched his lips, a smile that wasn’t for the senior partner or anyone else. It was for her. A thread of heat pulled tight in Clara’s belly.
He excused himself, his movement fluid and deliberate. He glided through the crowd, a predator cutting through a sea of passive prey, his eyes never leaving hers. Clara felt a flush crawl up her neck, painting her cheeks. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy.
He stopped a foot away, close enough that she could smell his cologne—sandalwood, cedar, and something sharp and masculine. The scent was an assault on her senses.
“Hiding in plain sight, Clara?” His voice was a low, velvet murmur.
“Just… taking a break from the noise,” she managed, her voice sounding foreign.
“Good.” He took a slow, deliberate sip of his scotch, his eyes tracing the line of her throat, the curve of her shoulder where her emerald silk dress fell. “I was hoping to find you alone. It’s the only way to talk to you without a wall of people.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “What do you mean?”
“You’re a fortress, Clara. Professional, composed, brilliant. And you keep everyone at arm’s length. Everyone except the work.” He took a step closer. The air between them crackled. “I’ve been trying to get past that wall for three years.”
The confession hit her like a wave. She blinked, her mouth dry. “You… what?”
“Don’t play coy. You know exactly what I mean.” He set his glass down on a nearby windowsill, freeing his hands. He was now completely focused on her, his full attention a tangible weight. “I’ve watched you in meetings, watching you take command. I’ve seen the way you bite your lip when you’re solving a problem. I’ve memorized the sound of your laugh.”
“Julian…” she breathed, her world tilting.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming raw. “Not unless you mean it. Not unless you want me to say yours in a way that would make your toes curl.”
The air in the room vanished. Clara’s chest rose and fell rapidly. The gin and tonic was forgotten, her hand slowly lowering the glass to the sill beside his. The party was a distant, irrelevant hum. There was only him, and the dark promise in his eyes.
“Show me the rest of the penthouse,” she heard herself say, the words a daring gambit.
His eyes darkened with something primal. He didn’t answer with words. He simply took her hand. His palm was warm, his fingers calloused, the touch electric. He led her away from the glass doors, through the milling crowd, her body humming with every step. No one paid them any attention. They were just another couple excusing themselves.
He guided her down a short hallway, past a gleaming kitchen, and into a study lined with bookshelves and heavy leather furniture. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them off from the world. The sound was a finality, a lock turning on a cage of her own making.
The room was dimly lit, a single brass lamp casting a golden glow over a massive mahogany desk. The air smelled of old paper and his cologne. He didn’t let go of her hand. Instead, he turned her to face him, backing her gently until the edge of the desk pressed against the back of her thighs.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, her voice betraying her.
“The best ones always are,” he replied, his free hand coming up to trace the line of her jaw. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, a featherlight touch that sent a shudder through her. “Tell me to stop, Clara. Say the word, and I swear to God I’ll walk back out that door and never bring this up again.”
She stared at him. The man she’d wanted, fantasized about, touched herself to in the lonely hours of the night. He was here, wanting her. The word wouldn’t come. Instead, a low, desperate sound escaped her throat.
He took that for the answer it was. His hand slid to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, and he pulled her into a kiss.
It was not a tentative, exploratory kiss. It was a claim. His mouth was hot, demanding, his tongue sliding against hers with a practiced, possessive urgency. The taste of scotch and Julian flooded her senses. Her hands, suddenly free, flew up to clutch his lapels, pulling him closer. Her body arched into his, starved for contact.
He groaned against her mouth, the sound vibrating through her. One hand left her hair to travel down her spine, pressing her flush against him. She could feel the rigid line of his arousal through his trousers, a hard, undeniable fact that made her core clench.
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured against her lips, his breath ragged. “Every. Single. Day. The way you’d feel. The sounds you’d make.”
“Don’t think,” she gasped, her fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. “Just… touch me.”
A low, approving growl rumbled in his chest. His hands found the zipper of her dress, a slow, deliberate slide down her back. The silk loosened, cool air kissing her skin. He pushed the straps down her shoulders, and the dress pooled at her waist, revealing the black lace of her bra.
He pulled back, his eyes drinking her in. His pupils were blown wide, the whiskey-gold nearly swallowed by black. “Fucking beautiful,” he breathed.
He didn’t give her time to feel self-conscious. His mouth descended on her neck, teeth and tongue working a path of fire down to her collarbone. His hands cupped her breasts through the lace, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked, hard and aching. She arched into his touch, a soft cry escaping her.
“I want to taste you,” he said, his voice thick. “Every inch of you.”
He lifted her, setting her on the edge of the desk. The wood was cool and smooth against her bare thighs. He knelt before her, a sight so intimate, so powerful, it made her head spin. His hands gripped her knees, pushing them apart. His eyes were locked on the damp patch of black lace between her legs.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties and pulled them down, slowly, reverently, baring her to his gaze. The air hit her wet, aching flesh, and she shivered.
“God, Clara,” he murmured, his breath hot against her inner thigh. “You’re already so wet. Is this for me?”
She could only nod, her throat tight.
He didn’t need another invitation. He lowered his head, and the first touch of his tongue was a revelation. It was a long, slow, deliberate lick from the bottom of her slit to her clit, savoring her. A sob of pleasure tore from Clara’s throat. Her hands flew to his hair, clutching the dark strands, holding him to her.
He worked her with a devastating skill. His tongue circled her clit, flicked, and prodded, while one finger, then two, slid inside her, curling to stroke that perfect, sensitive spot. He was relentless, reading her body like a map he’d memorized. The tension in her belly wound tighter and tighter, a coil of pure electricity.
“Please,” she gasped, the word a broken prayer. “Julian, please.”
He doubled his efforts, his mouth sucking her clit into a hard, rhythmic pressure, his fingers pumping into her with a steady, driving rhythm. Pleasure crashed over her, a wave so powerful it made her vision white out. She cried out his name, her body convulsing against his mouth as he drank down her release.
He didn’t stop until her trembling subsided, then he kissed his way up her stomach, between her breasts, up to her lips. She tasted herself on him, salty and sweet and obscene.
“Your turn,” she managed, her voice hoarse.
She pushed him back, sliding off the desk. Her legs were shaky, but she was filled with a fierce, hungry energy. She dropped to her knees on the plush carpet before him, her hands going to his belt buckle. He was hard, straining against the fabric of his trousers. She freed him, his cock springing free, long and thick and heavy with need.
She wrapped her hand around his length, relishing the twitch of his muscles beneath her palm. She leaned forward, taking the head of him into her mouth. The taste of salt and skin exploded on her tongue. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his head falling back.
She took him deeper, her tongue swirling, her hand working the base. She wanted to devour him, to repay every moment of longing with pleasure. She set a rhythm, fast and hungry, and his hips began to thrust, pushing himself deeper into her throat. She didn’t gag. She took him, her eyes watering, her body humming with power.
“Fuck, Clara,” he gasped, his hands fisting in her hair. “Stop. I need to be inside you.”
He pulled her up, his movements rough and desperate. He spun her around, bending her over the desk. The wood bit into her palms. She felt his hard, hot length press against her slick
