The air vanished. His hand came up, not to her face, but to the windowpane beside her head, caging her in. She felt the heat of him, the vibration of his restraint in the tremor of his arm. The problem, his storm-gray eyes said, was that he’d stopped being her father’s keeper the moment she walked in. And now he was just a man, and she was the only truth in a house of lies.
Nora’s back pressed into the cold ledge. Her pulse was a frantic drum against her ribs, a rhythm she knew he could see. His gaze dropped to the base of her throat, where the beat was visible, and his jaw tightened. The scent of him—old books and clean rain—filled the space between them, and she felt a slow, hot ache unfold low in her belly. A betrayal. A truth.
“Why is it a problem?” she whispered again, the words barely sound.
Julian’s other hand came up, mirroring the first, framing her against the glass with the storm at her back. He didn’t touch her. He just held the space, his chest a breath away from hers. The fabric of his shirt brushed her with his inhale. “Because I have rules,” he said, his voice a rough scrape. “Your father has rules. This house is built on them.”
“I don’t care about the rules.” It was a confession, sharp and reckless. She felt the wet heat between her legs, a shocking, undeniable response to his proximity. She saw the exact moment he knew—his eyes darkened, the storm in them going still and deep. His gaze traveled down her body, as tangible as a touch, and his right hand flexed against the windowpane, knuckles white.
He closed the final inch.
The kiss wasn't soft. It was a hard press of his mouth against hers, a claiming devoid of request. His hand left the windowpane and came to her jaw, his fingers spearing into her hair to hold her still. The taste of him was rain and something darker, a hint of whiskey from hours ago. Nora gasped against his lips, and he swallowed the sound, his other arm sliding around her waist to pull her flush against the solid heat of his body.
Her hands came up, flattened against his chest. She could feel the frantic pound of his heart through the fine cotton of his shirt, a wild counter-rhythm to the controlled violence of his mouth. He didn't deepen the kiss, not yet. He just held her there, sealed to him, letting her feel the full, hard length of him straining against the front of his trousers. A low groan vibrated in his throat, a sound of pure, tortured restraint.
When he finally broke the kiss, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers. His breath came in ragged gusts, hot on her wet lips. His eyes were closed. “See?” he whispered, the word rough. “The problem.”
Nora was trembling. The ache between her legs had tightened into a sharp, desperate throb. She could feel the dampness soaking through her underwear, a blatant, physical confession. Her fingers curled into his shirt. “I don’t see a problem.”
Julian’s eyes opened. The storm in them was chaos now. He looked at her mouth, swollen from his, then back to her eyes. His thumb stroked the hinge of her jaw, a surprisingly tender gesture at odds with the tension corded through his entire frame. “You will,” he said, and it sounded like a warning, like a promise, like regret. Then his mouth found hers again, slower this time, deeper, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him with a helpless sigh.
His tongue swept into her mouth, hot and demanding, and the world narrowed to the taste of him—whiskey and rain and a dark, thrilling intent. Nora’s hands slid from his chest to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hard muscle there as she kissed him back, all reckless surrender. His own hands roamed, one tangling deeper into her hair, angling her head to take the kiss deeper, the other sliding down her spine to the small of her back, pressing her tighter against the rigid proof of his need. A ragged sound escaped her, part gasp, part moan, swallowed whole by his mouth.
He broke from her lips to trail fire down her throat, his stubble scraping the delicate skin, his teeth grazing the frantic pulse at the base. Nora’s head fell back against the cool windowpane with a soft thud, her eyes fluttering shut. “Julian,” she breathed, the name a plea and a discovery. His hand at her back slipped beneath the hem of her t-shirt, his palm searing against the bare skin of her waist. The contact was electric; she jerked, a full-body shudder, and felt his answering groan vibrate against her neck.
“This,” he murmured into her skin, his voice wrecked. “This is the problem.” His hand flexed on her waist, fingers splaying possessively. “I want to lay you down on this dusty floor. I want to ruin you for anyone else.” His mouth returned to hers, stealing her breath, his kiss now laced with a desperate edge that mirrored the aching throb between her legs. His thumb stroked a slow, maddening circle on her hip bone, just above the waistband of her jeans.
Nora arched into him, a silent answer. Her own hands were learning the landscape of him—the powerful column of his neck, the sharp angle of his jaw, the surprisingly soft hair at his nape. She could feel the fine tremor in his arms, the immense control he was burning through to keep from taking more. When she rocked her hips against the hard ridge of him, he went utterly still, his breath catching in a sharp hitch.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his storm-gray eyes black with need. His chest heaved. A bead of sweat traced a path from his temple down the cord of his neck. His gaze dropped to her mouth, swollen and wet from his, then lower, to where her shirt had ridden up under his exploring hand. The sight of his tanned, capable fingers on her pale skin made her stomach clench with fresh heat. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged his thumb higher, tracing the lower edge of her rib cage, and she knew he could feel the frantic hammer of her heart.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, the words guttural, raw. But his hand was already moving again, skimming upward, his fingertips brushing the underside of her breast through the thin fabric of her bra. Her nipple peaked instantly, a sharp point of sensation, and a broken noise escaped her. She saw the victory and the torment in his eyes. He didn’t wait for an answer she wouldn’t give. His mouth crashed back onto hers as his palm covered her fully, his touch firm and knowing, and Nora’s world dissolved into pure, desperate feeling.
His palm left her breast only to slide around to the clasp of her bra, his fingers working the hooks with a devastating, practiced ease. The fabric loosened. The cool attic air whispered across the damp skin of her back a moment before he peeled the garment away, baring her to the waist. Nora froze, a sharp inhale trapped in her throat. His gaze dropped, heavy and searing, and the look on his face—raw, reverent hunger—stole the air from her lungs.
“There,” he said, the word a rough exhale. His hands came back to her, calloused palms skating up her ribcage until his thumbs brushed the tight, aching peaks of her breasts. Nora’s head fell back against the window with a soft cry. The cold glass was a shock against her heated skin, the storm-battered garden a blurred painting of chaos behind her. His touch was fire and ownership, and when he leaned down to replace his thumb with his mouth, hot and wet through the thin cotton of her shirt, her knees nearly buckled.
He drew the damp fabric into his mouth, his tongue circling her nipple with a relentless, focused pressure. The sensation speared straight to the molten ache between her legs. Her hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the dark strands, holding him to her as she rocked helplessly against the hard muscle of his thigh. She was panting, small, broken sounds she didn’t recognize. Julian groaned against her, the vibration echoing through her entire body. He switched his attention to her other breast, his hand covering the wet, peaked flesh he’d just abandoned, kneading gently as his mouth worked her through the fabric.
“Julian,” she gasped, her voice shattered. “The shirt…”
He understood. Pulling back, his eyes black and wild, he gripped the hem of her t-shirt. He didn’t ask. In one swift, decisive motion, he pulled it up and over her head, tossing it into the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam. She stood before him, bare from the waist up, her skin flushed, her breasts full and tipped with tight, rosy peaks. The hunger in his gaze was a physical blow. His right hand flexed at his side, the tell screaming his struggle for control. He didn’t touch her. He just looked, his chest heaving, drinking in the sight of her as if memorizing it for a famine.
“You see?” he finally managed, his voice stripped raw. He lifted a trembling hand, his fingertips hovering just above her collarbone. He didn’t make contact. The space between his skin and hers crackled. “This is the problem. This is exactly the goddamn problem.”