Isabella's heels echoed in the quiet corridor as she slipped away from the gala's glittering chaos. The air was cooler here, away from the crowd's hum and the weight of Julian Blackwood's gaze. Her cherry-red lips still tingled from his words—I don't chase. I claim.—and her skin burned where his fingers had grazed her wrist. She needed space, a moment to breathe, to remind herself she wasn't the kind of woman who melted under a billionaire's stare. But the truth was, her body had other ideas.
She pushed open a heavy door marked "Private" and stepped into a dimly lit gallery room, its walls lined with unsold canvases from lesser-known artists. The scent of oil paint and polished wood grounded her, a reminder of who she was: Isabella Voss, artist, survivor, not some trophy for a man like Julian. She set her champagne flute on a sleek table and ran a hand through her dark hair, exhaling. The painting in front of her—a swirl of crimson and shadow—mirrored the storm in her chest. She'd painted it after leaving her past behind, a testament to her refusal to break.
The door clicked shut behind her, and she froze. She didn't need to turn to know it was him. The air shifted, charged with that same electric pull she'd felt in the ballroom. Julian Blackwood moved like a predator, silent but undeniable, and when she finally faced him, her breath caught.
He stood in the doorway, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, revealing a sliver of crisp white shirt stretched across a chest that spoke of discipline and power. His gray eyes were darker now, like a storm about to break, and they pinned her in place. "Running already, Isabella?" His voice was a low caress, teasing but edged with something dangerous.
"Not running," she said, lifting her chin. Her cherry-red lips curved, defiant. "Just not interested in being your evening entertainment."
His smile was slow, wicked, and it sent a shiver racing down her spine. "You think that's what this is?" He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, closing the distance until only a breath separated them. "You're not entertainment. You're a challenge."
Her pulse hammered, but she didn't back away. She could feel the heat of him, the faint cedar and spice of his cologne wrapping around her like a dare. "And you think you can just… claim me?" she asked, her voice low, matching his intensity. "I'm not one of your deals, Blackwood."
"No," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips, lingering there with an intensity that made her thighs clench. "You're something far more dangerous."
Before she could respond, his hand found her waist, a light touch that burned through the thin fabric of her dress. Her breath hitched, and she hated how much she wanted to lean into it, to let his fingers tighten and pull her closer. Instead, she pressed a hand against his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. "Careful," she whispered, her voice a mix of warning and invitation. "I bite."
His eyes flared, and then his lips were on hers, a kiss that was all heat and hunger. It wasn't gentle—it was a clash, a demand, his mouth claiming hers with a fierceness that stole her breath. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer even as her mind screamed to push him away. His tongue teased the seam of her lips, and she opened for him, tasting champagne and something darker, something that was all Julian.
He backed her against the wall, the cool plaster a shock against her heated skin. His hands slid to her hips, gripping just hard enough to make her gasp into his mouth. She arched into him, her body betraying her resolve, and he groaned—a low, primal sound that sent heat pooling low in her belly. Her nails grazed his neck, and he deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up to cup her face, his thumb brushing her cherry-red lips as he pulled back just enough to look at her.
"You're trouble," he said, his voice rough, eyes blazing. "And I want every damn inch of it."
Her laugh was breathless, daring. "You have no idea."
His hand drifted lower, tracing the curve of her waist, then higher, skimming the edge of her neckline. Her skin hummed under his touch, every nerve alive with want. She could feel the city pulsing beyond the walls, its lights a distant echo of the fire between them. His lips found her jaw, then the sensitive spot below her ear, and she tilted her head back, a soft moan escaping her. This was reckless, dangerous, but God, it felt right.
The door rattled, and they froze. Footsteps echoed outside, accompanied by a sharp, familiar voice—Celeste. "Julian? Are you in there?"
Isabella's eyes met his, a silent challenge passing between them. She expected him to pull away, to play the polished mogul. Instead, he smirked, his hand still on her hip, and leaned in to whisper against her lips. "Let her wait."
Her heart raced, torn between amusement and desire. She pushed against his chest, just enough to create space, though her body ached at the loss. "You're trouble, too," she said, smoothing her dress, her lips still tingling from his kiss. "But I don't play second to anyone."
He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not forceful, his eyes locking onto hers. "There's no one else in this room, Isabella. Just you."
The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, a crack in his armor that made her pause. But the footsteps grew louder, and she slipped out of his grasp, flashing a teasing smile. "Prove it, Blackwood. Next time, no interruptions."
She turned and slipped out a side door, her heart pounding as she reentered the gala's chaos. The taste of him lingered on her lips, a promise of more to come. Whatever this was between them, it was only the beginning-and she wasn't sure she could walk away, even if she wanted to.