Elara was all oversized sweaters and the scent of vanilla, a soft blur of kindness in his jagged world. Julian, scarred by a life of cold calculations and sharp edges, never meant to touch her. But here they were, trapped by the rain in his dimly lit study.
His rough hand cupped her jaw, his thumb tracing her lower lip with a hunger that terrified and thrilled her. "You should run," he rasped, his voice a low growl.
"I don't want to," she whispered, leaning into his heat.
He didn't wait. He crushed his mouth to hers, tasting like whiskey and forbidden shadows. Julian stripped away her innocence with every searing touch, claiming her softness until she was breathless, arched against him, finally learning exactly how good a bad man could feel.
