Chapter 107

[ 911 words ]

Julian’s POV

The welcome dinner was on the twenty-fifth floor.

I had arranged it three weeks ago; the venue, the guest list, the menu, and the seating plan. The seating plan specifically. I had reviewed it twice, ensuring she was directly across from me. Across was better. Across meant I could watch her eat. Across meant I could track every breath she took.

The room was right. Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides, Dubai spreading in every direction below—a city of glass and gold. I was standing at the bar at seven forty-five, talking to two regional directors about the Tokyo expansion, when the room adjusted.

The air didn’t just shift; it thickened. It became heavy with the scent of something expensive and floral, anchored by a musky undertone that made my blood pressure spike.

I turned, and Katia fucking Kensington walked in.

She was wearing red. I had never seen her in red. It was a silk slip dress the colour of a fresh arterial wound, and it didn’t just fit her—it worshipped her. The fabric was so thin it was a provocation, clinging to the swell of her breasts and the dangerous curve of her hips like a second, more honest skin. It was backless, held up by straps that looked like they would snap if I breathed on them too hard. Every time she moved, the silk rippled over the dip of her waist and the firm line of her thighs, showing me exactly what I had spent the last week imagining.

She was crossing the room with Sam beside her, collecting a glass of champagne from a passing tray with the unhurried ease of someone who had arrived exactly when she intended to and was in no hurry about anything. I watched her hand wrap around the stem of the glass, her movements fluid and agonisingly graceful.

I forgot what I was saying. My internal monologue simply stopped.

Zane, standing beside me, finished the sentence I had abandoned. I recovered in approximately three seconds, but the damage was done. I looked at the door again, my gaze dropping to the way the red dress bunched slightly at her hip as she walked.

Fuck!

She was a fire hazard in a room full of dry wood.

We were seated across from each other. My eyes were on her the entire night. It was “eye fucking” in its most ruthless form. I watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed that champagne. I watched the way she bit her lower lip when she listened to a point about the Gulf infrastructure. She knew I was doing it. She met my gaze, her dark eyes defiant and simmering, a silent conversation happening over the clink of silverware that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with the fact that we were both vibrating with a need that was becoming unbearable.

This reminded me of the other day at the club, her mouth wrapped around my cock, fuck! She sucked me so well that day. She was my wife’s sister, but did I fucking care? No, I didn’t because Delia was nothing to me except the arrangement we made.

Under the table, on the third course, her foot touched mine. It wasn’t a mistake. She slid her heel up my calf, the friction of her shoe against my trousers sending a jolt of pure heat straight to my groin. I didn’t move. I pressed back, my eyes locking onto hers. She didn’t blink. She just took a slow, deliberate sip of her water, her gaze never leaving mine as she dragged her foot higher. Holy shit!

By the time we moved to the terrace, I was half-insane with it.

The terrace was high above the city, the wind whipping through the heat of the Dubai night. I found her at the railing, the red silk of her dress fluttering against her legs, exposing a long, pale line of thigh. She still had her champagne in hand, looking at the skyline with that focused, sharp attention.

I stood beside her, the city humming below us.

“Do you ever feel,” I said quietly, the words feeling like glass in my throat, “like you’re looking for someone you’ve already found?” I asked because if Katia were the woman I had been looking for for years, I wouldn’t mind taking her home and sending Delia packing. Not that I wouldn’t do it for her if she let me; I don’t care she has a son.

She turned to look at me. The moonlight caught the moisture on her lips. “Every day,” she said.

The “eye fucking” ended there. The action began.

I reached out, my hand closing around the back of her neck, my thumb tracing the line of her jaw. I pulled her into the shadows of a large stone pillar, away from the glass doors. I didn’t kiss her. I pushed her back against the cool stone, my body pinning her there. The red silk felt like nothing between us. I could feel the heat of her skin, the frantic beat of her heart.

“You’re going to be the death of me, Katia,” I rasped.

I didn’t wait for an answer. I dropped to my knees in front of her. The red dress was hiked up in an instant, the silk bunching in my hands as I bared her to the night air. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Fuck! I groaned.

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