The hotel bar was a capsule of amber light and low murmurs, a deliberate sanctuary from the bustling city outside. Julianne traced the rim of her wine glass, the condensation cool against her fingertip. Ten years. It had been ten years since she’d last seen this city, since she’d left it—and him—behind without so much as a backward glance. The conference had been an obligation, a tedious necessity in a life she’d meticulously constructed elsewhere. She was here for two days, and she was already counting the hours until her flight home.
She was about to signal the bartender for her check when a familiar voice, rich and smooth as aged whiskey, cut through the ambient jazz.
“Julianne? Julianne Reed?”
Her spine stiffened. She knew that voice. It was the voice that had whispered her name in the dark, that had laughed with her under starlit skies, that had cracked with emotion the last time they’d spoken. Slowly, she turned on her stool.
There he was. Liam. He looked… different. The boyish charm that had once defined him had been honed into something sharper, more potent. His dark hair was still thick, but now it was styled with a deliberate carelessness that spoke of confidence. The hint of a beard framed a jaw that seemed stronger than she remembered. But his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—were the same. They held the same intensity, the same flicker of mischief, and now, a deep, abiding shock.
“Liam,” she breathed, her own voice sounding foreign to her ears. “What are you…?”
“I’m staying here,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face, though his eyes remained serious, searching. “A case. I’m a lawyer now. And you? God, you look incredible.”
A flush crept up her neck. She’d chosen the sleek black dress for its anonymity, its power. Under his gaze, it felt like a second skin, revealing rather than concealing. “I’m here for a conference. I… I didn’t know you lived here.”
“I don’t,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to her. The space between them felt charged, electrified. “I moved to Chicago years ago. Just here for work. Just for a few days.” He signaled the bartender. “Two fingers of your best scotch, neat. And another of whatever she’s having.”
They fell into a cautious dance of catch-up. The stilted sentences, the careful omissions. He talked about law school, the grueling hours, the recent partnership at his firm. She spoke of her career in publishing, her move to the West Coast, her quiet, orderly life. They both carefully skirted the chasm of their shared past, the summer they’d spent inseparable, the future they’d naively planned. The future she had run from.
The bar grew quieter as the night deepened. The jazz singer had been replaced by a soft, instrumental piano CD. The scotch warmed Liam’s throat, loosening the tight rein he kept on his emotions. Julianne’s wine was gone, replaced by a club soda she barely touched. The air between them grew thick with unspoken words.
“Do you ever think about it?” Liam asked finally, his voice a low rumble. He wasn’t looking at her, but at the amber liquid in his glass. “That summer?”
Julianne’s heart hammered against her ribs. “Sometimes,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “More often than I’d like to admit.”
He turned to face her then, his gaze pinning her in place. “I looked for you, you know. After you left. I called. I wrote. I even drove to your parents’ house. You’d vanished.”
The guilt, a familiar, dull ache in her chest, sharpened. “I know. I’m sorry, Liam. I was… scared.” It was the truth, but a hollow one. She had been terrified of the intensity of her feelings for him, terrified of losing herself in him, of a future that felt too big, too overwhelming for a girl of twenty-two. She’d needed to build her own life, on her own terms.
“Scared of what?” he pressed, his voice gentle but insistent. “Of me?”
“Of us,” she corrected, her eyes dropping to her hands. “Of how much I felt. Of how easily I could see myself just… becoming part of you.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then, he reached out and gently lifted her chin with his finger, forcing her to meet his eyes. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure heat that shot straight to her core. “And now?” he asked, his thumb brushing her jawline. “Are you still scared?”
The question hung in the air, a challenge, a promise. The years of distance, of other relationships, of carefully constructed walls, seemed to evaporate in the heat of his gaze. She saw the same question in his eyes, the same flicker of longing. He leaned in, his scent—clean soap, a hint of sandalwood, and the smoky tang of scotch—enveloping her.
“My room is on the eighth floor,” he murmured, his lips inches from hers. “I have a decent bottle of wine. No club soda.”
Her mind screamed caution. This was a terrible idea. A complication she didn’t need. But her body, her traitorous, yearning body, had other ideas. The ten years of loneliness, of safe, unfulfilling relationships, crashed down around her. She wanted this. She wanted him. She wanted to feel the wildfire again.
She nodded, a barely perceptible movement. “Okay.”
The ride in the elevator was a study in unbearable tension. They stood on opposite sides of the small car, the mirrored walls reflecting their strained, averted gazes. The air was thick with the scent of her perfume and his cologne, a heady cocktail. Julianne could feel her pulse in every part of her body—her throat, her wrists, a deep, insistent thrum between her legs. Liam’s knuckles were white where he gripped the polished brass handrail. When the doors slid open on the eighth floor, the sound was a relief, a starting pistol.
His room was a suite, a corner one with a panoramic view of the city lights. But neither of them noticed. The door had barely clicked shut before he was on her.
There was no gentle prelude this time. The years of separation, of unanswered questions and unresolved passion, combusted. His mouth crashed down on hers, not a kiss but a claim, a reclaiming of what he had lost. It was raw, demanding. His tongue swept against hers, tasting of scotch and a decade of regret. He backed her against the wall, his body a hard, hot line against hers, pinning her there. His hands were in her hair, tilting her head, deepening the kiss until she was dizzy, clinging to the lapels of his jacket just to stay upright.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he groaned against her lips, his voice ragged. “I’ve missed this.”
Julianne couldn’t form words. She could only gasp as his lips left hers, trailing a path of fire down her neck. He nipped at her collarbone, his tongue soothing the small hurt, and she shuddered, her hands finally moving, sliding under his jacket, feeling the solid muscle of his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. He was so warm, so incredibly alive.
He unzipped her dress in one swift, decisive motion. The black silk pooled at her feet, leaving her in only a lacy black bra and matching thong. He stepped back, his gaze a physical caress, raking over her body with a slow, deliberate intensity.
“My God, Julianne,” he breathed, his eyes dark with desire. “You’re even more beautiful than I remembered.”
His gaze made her feel powerful, desired, a goddess. She reached for him, pulling his shirt from his trousers, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. She wanted to feel his skin, to taste him. He helped her, shrugging out of the shirt and his jacket, revealing a broad, sculpted chest dusted with dark hair. She splayed her hands over his pectorals, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under her palm.
He lifted her easily, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. He carried her to the king-sized bed, the city lights a glittering backdrop to their reunion. He laid her down with a surprising tenderness, his body covering hers, his weight a comforting, arousing pressure.
His mouth found hers again, but the kiss was slower this time, deeper, a conversation spoken in touch and taste. His hands explored every inch of her, learning the new curves, the subtle changes that ten years had wrought. He traced the line of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. When his fingers dipped beneath the lace of her thong, she arched into him, a breathless moan escaping her lips.
“Please, Liam,” she begged, her body a live wire of sensation.
He didn’t make her wait. He rid her of her remaining clothes with a practiced ease that made her ache with a sudden, sharp jealousy. How many other women had there been? The thought was a fleeting, bitter pill, instantly washed away by the feel of his tongue on her skin. He kissed a path down her stomach, his tongue dipping into her navel before continuing his descent. He parted her legs, his breath warm against her most intimate flesh.
The first touch of his tongue was a revelation. She cried out, her hips bucking off the bed. He held her down, his hands firm on her hips, his mouth relentless. He licked and sucked, finding a rhythm that was both punishing and perfect. He brought her to the edge and then backed off, a master of control, leaving her whimpering and desperate. When he finally slid two fingers inside her, curling them upward to stroke that secret, sensitive spot, she came undone. The orgasm ripped through her, a tidal wave of pleasure that left her shaking, her hands fisted in the sheets, his name a broken sob on her lips.
He moved up her body, his face glistening with her arousal. He kissed her, and she tasted herself on his lips, a primal, possessive flavor. She reached for him, her hand closing around his erection, hot and hard and thick. He groaned, his hips thrusting into her hand. She stroked him, learning the length and feel of him, a shiver of anticipation running through her. This was real. He was real. And he was here, in her arms.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick folds. He looked into her eyes, his gaze serious, asking for permission, for absolution.
“Yes,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. “Yes, Liam.”
He entered her in one slow, deep thrust. The feeling of fullness was exquisite, a perfect, overwhelming fit. They both gasped, stilling for a moment, their eyes locked. It felt like coming home. He began to move, a slow, steady rhythm that quickly built in intensity. He wasn’t a frantic boy anymore; he was a man who knew what he wanted, who knew how to give pleasure. Each thrust was deep and powerful, hitting a spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes.
He whispered in her ear, a litany of praise and desire. “So good… so tight… God, I’ve dreamed of this… of you…”
Julianne wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his thrusts with her own. The sound of their lov
