Chapter 2

Julian locked the heavy oak door with one hand while the other stayed locked around Elara’s waist. He did not ask again if she was sure. He simply took her mouth the way a man takes something he has denied himself for two full years—deep, claiming, and without apology. The gold fountain pen rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor. Papers scattered. Elara’s purple silk nightgown rode up her thighs as he lifted her onto the polished mahogany surface and stepped between her knees.

“Say my name,” he ordered against her lips, his voice low and rough.

“Julian—”

He kissed the rest of the word out of her. His hands were everywhere at once: one spanning the small of her back, the other sliding up the inside of her thigh with deliberate, possessive pressure. When she arched into him, breathless and already trembling, he made a sound that was almost a growl.

“Two years,” he murmured against her throat. “Watching you walk through this house in dresses that barely covered you. Listening to you laugh at dinner like you weren’t the single most dangerous thing under this roof. Do you have any idea what that does to a man who is not allowed to want?”

Elara’s answer was lost in another kiss. She had studied the videos. She had practiced the sway of her hips and the slow trail of fingers along a collarbone. None of it prepared her for the reality of Julian Thorne when the leash finally snapped.

The kiss turned deeper, hungrier, almost punishing. One hand braced beside her head. The other shoved the hem of her purple silk nightgown up over her breasts. He cupped her, squeezed, then pinched both nipples between his fingers until she gasped into his mouth.

“Off,” he ordered against her lips. “All of it.”

Elara yanked the nightgown over her head. Her cheeks burned as she clumsily pushed her silk shorts down her legs and kicked them aside. Completely bare, she sat on the edge of the desk, her heart hammering.

Julian stepped back. Instead of touching her again, he walked to the leather chair opposite the desk, sat down, and simply looked at her. He was still fully clothed—dark trousers, open-collared shirt, the same controlled exterior the rest of the world saw. Only his eyes had changed. They were dark, intent, almost predatory.

“Touch yourself.”

The command left his mouth low and smooth, like warm honey poured over steel.

Elara’s breath caught. “W-what?”

“Touch yourself,” he repeated, his voice calm but absolute. “Play with yourself, Elara. Show me exactly how you touch that pretty little cunt when you think about me fucking you.”

Her face flooded scarlet. For a second, she froze. Then, under the weight of his stare, she slowly parted her thighs. The cool air of the study kissed the wetness already gathering between her legs. Her pussy lips were flushed and glistening.

Julian’s gaze dropped and stayed there. A low, appreciative growl rumbled in his chest.

“Fuck. You’re soaked already.”

Elara’s hand trembled as she brought it between her legs. She used the tip of her index finger to circle her clit. A sharp shudder ran through her body the moment she made contact. The sensation was sharper, more intense under his eyes than it had ever been alone.

“That’s it,” Julian murmured. “Slow circles. Don’t rush. I want to watch every second.”

She obeyed, rubbing in careful, circular motions. Wet sounds began to fill the quiet room. Her breathing grew uneven. Julian leaned back in the chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, looking completely at ease except for the hard line of his cock clearly visible against his trousers.

“Now dip lower,” he instructed. “Two fingers. Slide them through your folds. Feel how wet you are for me.”

Elara’s fingers trailed down. She was slippery, almost dripping. She pushed two fingers inside herself with a soft, shaky moan.

“Deeper,” Julian said. “Curl them. Find that spot that makes your thighs shake.”

She did. Her hips jerked. A broken sound left her throat.

“Good girl. Keep fucking yourself on your fingers. Nice and slow. And use your other hand—pinch your nipples. Hard. The way I did.”

Elara’s free hand rose to her breast. She pinched one peaked nipple, then the other, rolling and tugging the way he had. The dual sensation made her head fall back. Her fingers moved faster inside her, the wet, rhythmic sound growing louder.

Julian’s voice dropped even lower.

“Look at me while you do it. Don’t close your eyes. I want to see your face when you get close.”

Her eyes locked on his. The intensity of his stare made everything sharper—the stretch of her own fingers, the ache in her nipples, the way her inner walls fluttered every time she brushed that sensitive spot.

“Faster,” he ordered softly. “Rub your clit with your thumb while you finger yourself. Harder. Pretend those are my fingers. Pretend I’m the one stretching you open right now.”

Elara obeyed. Her movements turned frantic. Her thighs trembled. Soft, needy whimpers spilled from her lips. She could feel how wet she was—slick coating her fingers, dripping onto the polished wood beneath her.

Julian’s jaw flexed. His hand rested on his thigh, dangerously close to the obvious bulge in his trousers, but he didn’t touch himself. He only watched.

“You’re close,” he observed. “I can see it. Your cunt is fluttering around your fingers. Don’t come yet. Not until I say.”

Elara’s breath hitched. She slowed, fighting the rising wave, eyes still locked on his. Her whole body was tight and trembling.

Julian finally stood. He crossed the short distance, stopped right between her spread thighs, and looked down at the obscene, glistening mess she had made of herself.

“Take your fingers out.”

She did, shaking.

He caught her wrist, brought her wet fingers to his mouth, and sucked them clean one by one, holding her gaze the entire time. Then he gripped her hips, hauled her off the desk, and spun her around so her back pressed against the cool wall beside the bookcase.

He shoved his trousers down just far enough. The thick head of his cock notched against her entrance.

“This is why I needed you to be ready for me. And you did such a good job, baby girl. Now open up for me,” he growled against her ear.

He thrust up into her in one hard, unbroken stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Elara cried out, fingers curling and gripping Julian’s hair hard.

He began with slow, deep, powerful strokes to help her adapt to his size.

Then he picked up the pace.

Julian fucked her into the wall—deep, powerful strokes that drove her higher against the plaster with every snap of his hips. The wet slap of skin filled the study. One of his hands braced beside her head to make sure she didn’t accidentally hurt herself; the other reached around to rub tight, relentless circles over her swollen clit.

“This is what you get for teasing me for two years,” he rasped. “Taking my cock like a good girl against the wall. So fucking tight. So wet you’re dripping down my balls.”

He didn’t slow. He fucked her harder, angling deeper, until the only sounds left were her broken moans and the heavy impact of his body against hers. When she came it was sudden and violent—her walls clamping down around him in strong pulses while she sobbed his name against the wall. Julian followed with a low, guttural groan, burying himself to the root and spilling hot and deep inside her.

For a long moment he stayed there, breathing hard against the back of her neck, still buried inside her. Then he carefully pulled out, turned her around, and lifted her into his arms.

He carried her to the wide leather couch, laid her down, and followed her. This time he stripped completely. When he settled between her thighs again his eyes were softer, the sharp edge of control tempered by something almost tender.

He kissed her slowly as he pushed back inside—long, rolling thrusts that filled her without the earlier roughness. One hand stroked her hair. The other held her hip, guiding her gently.

“That’s it,” he murmured against her mouth. “Just feel me. Slow. Nowhere else to be.”

The second round was unhurried and deep. He rocked into her with steady, deliberate strokes, kissing her continuously, whispering low praise between every breath. When she came again it was quieter, fuller—warm waves instead of a crash. Julian followed with a low, drawn-out groan, holding himself deep as he pulsed inside her once more.

Afterward he stayed joined with her, arms locked tight around her body, face buried in her hair. His hand stroked slowly up and down her bare back, as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between them.

“Mine,” he murmured against her skin. “Both ways. Hard and slow. You’re not getting away from either.”