Chapter 9
The air in the studio was thick with the scent of rain and wet clay, the dim glow of a single lamp casting long shadows across the sculptures that watched like silent sentinels. Julian's fingers traced the curve of Elara's spine as she bent over her latest work—a twisted, anguished tangle of limbs and longing.
His touch was no longer a demand but a claim, one she had stopped resisting.
"You're still fighting," he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. His voice was rough, velvet over steel. "But you don't have to."
Elara's breath hitched as his hands slid around her waist, pulling her back against him. She could feel the hard press of his body, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of her shirt. His fingers dug into her hips, possessive yet reverent, as if she were both his salvation and his ruin.
"Julian-"
"Shhh." He turned her in his arms, cradling her face in his hands. His dark eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded with something raw and hungry. "Let me show you what it feels like to stop thinking."
His mouth crashed down on hers, not with the gentle plea of before, but with a fevered intensity that stole her breath.
This kiss was devouring, all teeth and tongue and desperate need. Elara whimpered, her fingers tangling in his hair as he walked her backward, his body a relentless force against hers.
Her back hit the worktable, clay tools scattering as he lifted her onto the edge.
His hands shoved her thighs apart, settling between them with a growl.
"You've haunted me from the moment you walked in here," he breathed against her lips. "My brilliant, broken girl."
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her pants, yanking them down her legs.
The cool air of the studio ghosted over her skin, followed by the searing heat of his palm as he cupped her, his thumb circling her clit with torturous precision.
"You're so wet," he rasped. "All this time, you've been aching for me, haven't you?"
Elara's head fell back, a moan tearing from her throat as his fingers slid inside her, curling just right. She was already close, her body strung tight from weeks of tension, of stolen glances and forbidden touches. Julian watched her unravel with dark satisfaction, his other hand fisting in her hair, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Look at me when you come," he commanded.
And she did.
Her climax hit like a storm, her back arching as pleasure ripped through her.
Julian swallowed her cries with another kiss, his fingers working her through it until she was trembling, oversensitive.
But he wasn't done.
With a rough grip, he spun her around, bending her over the table. Her cheek pressed against the cold wood, her fingers scrambling for purchase as he undid his belt, the sound of his zipper deafening in the quiet room.
"You're mine now," he whispered, his voice a dark promise.
And then he was inside her, filling her in one brutal thrust. Elara gasped, her nails digging into the table as he set a punishing pace, each snap of his hips driving her higher. The pleasure was edged with pain, a delicious friction that had her seeing stars.
Julian's hand wrapped around her throat, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who was in control. "You feel that?" he growled. "That's what happens when you stop fighting."
She could only moan, her body tightening around him as another climax built, swift and devastating. Julian's breath was ragged against her neck, his grip tightening as he chased his own release. "Come with me," he ordered.
And like always, she obeyed.
They shattered together, a tangled mess of sweat and shared breath, the sculptures around them bearing silent witness to their downfall. Julian collapsed over her, his lips pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck-a fleeting tenderness in the aftermath of their ruin.
As the rain pattered against the windows, Elara knew there was no going back.
She was his.
And he would never let her go.