The low, possessive hum of the city at night was a sound Lena had always found comforting. From the twenty-second floor of the Meridian Hotel, it was a distant, shimmering symphony, a world away from the sterile perfection of her suite. She stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of untouched champagne in her hand, the cold from the pane seeping through the thin silk of her robe. It was a robe that wasn't hers, just like the suite, just like the man whose scent still clung to the pillows on the king-sized bed.
Her reflection stared back, a ghost in the glass. Lena, the reliable one. Lena, the doting older sister. Lena, who was supposed to be at home, nursing a cup of tea and worrying about her sister's impromptu honeymoon. Instead, she was here, in the lap of a luxury she hadn't paid for, hiding from a truth that was as intoxicating as it was damning.
A soft click from the main door of the suite made her freeze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. She didn't turn. She didn't need to. She knew the sound of his footsteps, the confident, measured tread that had haunted her dreams for the past three days.
"I thought you'd be asleep," Julian's voice was a low rumble, smoother than the aged scotch she'd watched him drink earlier. It was a voice that could sell a man his own soul, and had, on more than one occasion, convinced a jury of twelve to see things his way.
"I couldn't," she whispered, her voice barely disturbing the air.
He moved closer, his presence a physical force that seemed to suck the oxygen from the room. He stopped just behind her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, a stark contrast to the chill of the window. She could see him in the reflection now, the sharp lines of his bespoke suit, the tie loosened and hanging open at his throat, revealing a hint of dark hair. His hair was the color of a moonless night, and his eyes, even in the dim reflection, were a piercing, intelligent gray.
"Neither could I," he admitted, his gaze locked on her reflection. "The sofa in the study is a poor substitute for a bed. Especially when the bed is right here. With you."
The words hung in the air, heavy and laden with unspoken promises. He was her sister's new husband's older brother. He was a world-renowned attorney, a man of power, wealth, and a reputation for cold, calculated victories. He was utterly, completely forbidden. For three days, since the whirlwind wedding in Vegas, they had circled each other in this shared suite, a dance of glances, of accidental touches in narrow hallways, of a tension so thick it felt like a physical thing, coiling in the pit of her stomach.
"This is wrong," Lena said, the words a feeble protest, even to her own ears.
"Everything about this feels wrong," he agreed, his voice dropping an octave. "And yet, I can't seem to make myself care."
His hand came up, not to touch her, but to rest on the window frame beside her head. He was caging her in, but it didn't feel like a trap. It felt like a promise. She could smell him now, a heady combination of sandalwood, scotch, and the clean, sharp scent of the winter air that clung to his coat. It was the scent of him that had been driving her slowly, maddeningly insane.
"Julian," she breathed, a final, desperate plea.
"Tell me to leave, Lena," he murmured, his lips inches from her ear. "Tell me to go back to the study, and I will. But you have to mean it."
She couldn't. The lie wouldn't form on her tongue. She had spent a lifetime being the good one, the sensible one, the sister who cleaned up the messes. For once, just once, she wanted to make a beautiful, terrible mess of her own.
Instead of speaking, she turned. The movement was slow, deliberate. She was no longer a reflection in the glass, but a living, breathing woman facing him. Her robe, a deep burgundy silk, gaped slightly, revealing the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her hair, a cascade of honey-blonde waves, tumbled over her shoulders. She felt vulnerable, exposed, and utterly alive.
Julian's gray eyes darkened, the pupils dilating as they swept over her face. He saw the conflict, the desire, the fear. And he saw the surrender. His hand left the window to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath her earlobe. His touch was electric, a jolt of pure fire that raced down her spine and settled low in her belly.
"Thank God," he whispered, and then his mouth was on hers.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. It was a release of all the pent-up frustration, the stolen glances, the agonizing self-control of the past seventy-two hours. His lips were firm and demanding, tasting of scotch and something uniquely him. She gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with hers. It was a kiss that stole her breath, her reason, her very soul.
Her hands, which had been hanging uselessly at her sides, came up to grip the lapels of his suit jacket. The wool was rough against her fingers, a grounding sensation in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. She pulled him closer, and he responded with a low growl, his other arm snaking around her waist to press her against the solid wall of his chest. The champagne flute slipped from her fingers, but neither of them noticed. It landed on the thick, plush carpet with a soft, muffled thud, the bubbly liquid soaking into the fibers, a forgotten sacrifice to the moment.
He walked her backward, his steps sure and steady, until her back hit the cool glass of the window. She was trapped between the unyielding hardness of the glass and the undeniable heat of his body. The city lights of Vegas sprawled out behind her, a glittering universe of sin and temptation, a fitting backdrop for their own forbidden act.
His hands moved with a purpose that made her tremble. He untied the sash of her robe with a single, deft pull. The silk slithered open, parting like a curtain to reveal her to his hungry gaze. She was wearing a simple black lace bra and matching panties, a last-minute purchase she’d made before the trip, a secret indulgence she’d never expected anyone to see. His eyes traced a fiery path from her collarbone, down the swell of her breasts, to the curve of her hips. He looked at her like she was a masterpiece, a priceless work of art he had been waiting a lifetime to behold.
"Beautiful," he breathed, the word a prayer. "I've imagined this a thousand times. Every time you walked into a room. Every time you bit your lip. Every time you looked at me with those eyes."
His words, raw and honest, were as potent as his touch. His hands came up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over the lace-covered peaks of her nipples. They tightened instantly, beading into hard, aching points. She moaned, a soft, helpless sound, and arched her back, pressing herself more firmly into his palms.
He lowered his head, his mouth finding the sensitive spot at the base of her neck where her pulse beat a frantic rhythm. He kissed and licked and gently sucked, marking her as his. Her hands tangling in his hair, she held him there, her head falling back against the glass. The coolness was a stark contrast to the fire he was igniting inside her.
"I'm going to take you apart," he whispered against her skin. "Piece by piece. I'm going to make you forget your own name."
He unclasped her bra with an expertise that spoke of years of practice, but the look in his eyes was anything but practiced. It was reverent, almost worshipful. The black lace fell away, and his breath hitched in his throat. He paled in comparison to the fantasies she'd conjured. Her breasts were full and round, the nipples a dusky rose, pebbled and waiting for his touch.
He didn't make her wait. He lowered his head and took one aching peak into his mouth. The sensation was exquisite, a shock of wet heat against her cool skin. He sucked gently, then laved his tongue over the sensitive tip, before drawing it deep into his mouth again. She cried out, a sharp, breathless sound that was swallowed by the vast, empty room. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, her nails leaving crescent-shaped indentations in the fabric of his expensive suit.
While his mouth worked its magic on her breasts, his hands were busy. One hand slid down her stomach, his palm flat and warm against her skin, until his fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties. He didn't pull them down, not yet. He simply traced the edge of the lace, a teasing, maddening caress that made her hips buck involuntarily.
"Please," she begged, the word a ragged whisper. The last vestiges of her propriety were gone, burned away in the fire of her need.
"Please what, Lena?" he asked, his voice a dark, seductive rumble. He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. They were nearly black with desire. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you," she panted. "I want you inside me."
A slow, devastating smile spread across his face. "Not yet," he said. "I want to taste you first."
He sank to his knees in front of her. The sight of him, this powerful, commanding man, on his knees before her, was the most erotic thing she had ever seen. He pulled her panties down her legs, his knuckles grazing the sensitized skin of her thighs. He helped her step out of them, then tossed the scrap of black lace aside.
The cool air of the room hit her heated, wet core, and she shivered. Julian placed his hands on her hips, his fingers gripping the soft flesh of her ass, and guided her to widen her stance. He looked up at her, his expression one of pure, predatory hunger.
"You're so wet," he murmured, and the simple, dirty admission made her blush. "Is this all for me?"
She nodded, unable to form words.
He didn't waste any more time. He leaned forward and buried his face between her thighs. The first contact of his tongue against her slick folds was an explosion of sensation. Her legs threatened to give way, and she had to slam her hands against the glass window to keep from collapsing. He licked a slow, deliberate path from her entrance to her clit, and then he focused his attention there, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue.
It was pure, unadulterated bliss. He was a master, knowing exactly how much pressure to apply, how fast to move. He would tease her, bringing her to the brink of an orgasm only to pull back, making her whimper with frustration. Then he would dive back in, his tongue lapping at her with a fervor that bordered on desperate. He pushed two fingers inside her, and she moaned, her inner muscles clenching around them.
"That's it, baby," he growled against her flesh, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through her. "Come for me. I want to taste your pleasure."
He curled his fingers inside her, stroking that perfect, hidden spot that made her see stars. At the same time, he sucked her clit into his mouth,
