The apartment was filled with the soft, fading light of the early evening. We were home, the awkward tension from the workshop dissolved by Julian’s reassuring words in the car. I was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing the last of the dinner plates, the sound of the running water a comforting,
domestic drone. I was wearing a loose, thin cotton t-shirt and the soft nightdress shorts Julian had given me—clothing I now equated with feeling cherished.
I heard the bedroom door click open and the subtle shift of the air as Julian stepped out. I didn't need to turn to know he was there. The faint, clean scent of his soap—the one Alex also used, but somehow sharper on Julian—drifted into the kitchen.
My hands stilled in the cool water. I was expecting him to grab a script or pour a drink. Instead, I felt his presence move slowly, deliberately, behind me.
He didn't speak. He just came right up to the sink and circled his arms around my waist, his damp, warm chest pressing against my back. He was only wearing a pair of dark gray track shorts, the cotton clinging slightly to his wet skin. The contrast of his heat against my thin t-shirt was immediate and consuming.
Julian leaned down, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. "You're quiet," he murmured, his voice low and close to my ear. His lips were barely touching my skin, and the intimacy of the moment—so casual, yet so loaded—made my breath catch.
"Just... thinking," I managed, my voice suddenly thin.
"Don't," he whispered, his hands sliding lower, pulling my hips back, so I was flush against him. He knew exactly what the simple touch of his wet skin was doing to me. "Don't think too much . Just feel this."
His fingers found the soft fabric of the shorts, grazing the exposed skin of my upper thigh. He shifted his hips, and the sudden, undeniable press of his erection against my ass was the trigger. All the quiet tension from the day—the mild jealousy, the relief, the exhaustion—snapped. This wasn't the gentle, anchoring love from the morning; this was demanding, immediate desire.
He turned off the faucet with one hand, plunging the kitchen into a sudden, deep silence. Then, he used the other to spin me around, pushing me back against the cool edge of the counter.
Julian's mouth was on mine instantly, deep and hungry, erasing the memory of the actress’s kiss with his consuming passion. He was the demanding actor now, but his passion was purely for me. He lifted me slightly, settling me on the counter, my legs parting instinctively to frame his hips.
His hands were everywhere, pushing the thin t-shirt up, desperate for skin. He traced the curve of my waist, the soft skin of my stomach, pulling me closer against the damp, warm fabric of his shorts. I felt the powerful knot of his desire pressing relentlessly against me, and I was lost in the feel of his strength.
"You are so good for me, Elias," he muttered against my neck, biting gently at my collarbone—revisiting the claim Alex had left, but making a deeper, more immediate one of his own. His hand reached down, making a quick, efficient connection.
The kitchen counter was hard and cool beneath my thighs, a stark contrast to the heat Julian was building. The light from the window cast long shadows, making the room feel enclosed and private.
Suddenly, Julian broke the kiss, his eyes dark with a focused, hungry intent. He scooped me up into his arms, not bothering to stop the momentum, and carried me directly into the living room. He didn't head for the bed, but to the sofa—a sudden change in venue that felt thrillingly immediate.
He dropped me onto the plush cushions and immediately followed, leveraging his weight to pin me beneath him. He was the dominant force now, the top entirely in control, his body covering mine. His lips were on my ear, his breath ragged.
"Say my name," he commanded, his voice raw.
"Julian," I gasped, tightening my legs around his waist, urging him closer.
He shifted, a slow, agonizing grind of bodies, and I felt him finally shed his remaining control. The heat was unbearable, the connection instant and consuming. This was the fire I craved, the complete, unreserved freedom of being desired by the person who knew me best. There was no holding back, no quiet affection—only the deep, rhythmic thrust of his desire, driving me toward a pleasure that felt infinite, held secure in the arms of the man who was both my anchor and my storm.
