Chapter 3 Forbidden currents

The next morning, Isla woke up tangled in hotel-quality sheets that still smelled faintly of lavender-and him.

Even though he hadn't been anywhere near her room, his presence lingered. In the silence. In the tension coiled in her stomach.

She got dressed-tight jeans, a white blouse unbuttoned just low enough to be dangerous-and stepped barefoot onto the cool marble of the hallway, headed toward the kitchen. She didn't expect to see him already there, sleeves rolled up, barefoot, stirring coffee like a man who didn't have a hundred million reasons not to be domestic.

Julian didn't look up. "Cream's in the fridge. No sugar."

"You know how I take my coffee?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I know how you took it yesterday. Black. No hesitation. Same as your attitude."

She narrowed her eyes, but she was smiling behind the mug. "Still profiling me, Mr. Cross?"

"Always."

He finally looked at her, and the jolt that passed between them was hot and instant.

"Where's the staff?" she asked, mostly to distract herself from the ache between her thighs.

"Gone. Gave them the week off."

"You cleared the entire building... just for me?"

Julian leaned against the island, sipping his own coffee. "I don't like distractions."

"You're one giant distraction."

He smiled slightly, and the room felt ten degrees hotter.

Then, out of nowhere: "Tell me something true."

Isla blinked. "Now?"

"Yes."

"Like what?"

He set his cup down, slowly circling the island toward her. "Something no one else knows."

She swallowed. "I had a stutter until I was twelve."

Julian stopped in front of her, brows raised. "Really?"

She nodded. "Speech therapy. My dad used to tell me I could outrun it with big words."

"Smart man."

"He died when I was fourteen."

A pause. Then softer: "I'm sorry."

She shrugged, though the wound was old and familiar. "It made me hungry. For truth. For stories. For... something real."

Julian stepped even closer.

"And do I feel real to you yet?"

Her pulse kicked into overdrive. "You don't even feel human."

He chuckled, low and dark, the sound like honey sliding down a blade. "And yet here I am."

Her breath caught as he raised a hand to her face-slow, careful, fingers ghosting the line of her jaw but not quite touching.

"You have no idea how hard it is not to touch you," he murmured.

"Then why don't you?"

"Because the second I do," he said, voice suddenly hoarse, "I won't stop."

Silence stretched between them, so taut it trembled.

Then Isla, unable to help herself, whispered: "Maybe I don't want you to stop."

Julian's jaw clenched. He stepped back like the air had burned him. "Don't say that."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm trying to protect us from something we'll regret."

She tilted her head. "You're a virgin, Julian. Not a monk."

His eyes darkened. "That's exactly why I'm careful. Because you're not a game to me."

And just like that, the energy in the room changed.

He turned away.

And Isla-confused, turned on, and suddenly furious at herself for wanting him so badly-forced herself to walk past him, mug clutched tight, ignoring the way her body screamed for what her pride wouldn't let her ask.

But as she reached the doorway, she heard him murmur behind her:

"You're not the first woman who's wanted me, Isla..."

She turned.

"But you're the first I've ever wanted to want me back."