Chapter 8

• Chapter Eight
• Julian POV
• I bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat.
• Heart pounding.
• Breath shallow.
• “What the fuck?” I whisper to the darkness.
• The sheets are twisted. My chest is heaving.
• Her name is still on my lips.
• And I swear I can still smell her skin.
• I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, hands gripping the back of my neck like they’re the only things keeping me grounded.
• The city glows outside, soft and cold through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But in here, I’m burning.
• I can still feel her.
• Still feel everything.
• It wasn’t just a dream. It was her.
• Her voice, her skin, the sound she makes when she’s too far gone to pretend, she’s not falling apart under me.
• God, the way she said my name, like it meant something. Like it still means something.
• I close my eyes, and it crashes over me again.
• She was in that little kitchen. The one we once called home. The light above the stove buzzing faintly, her back arching against the countertop I used to press her against when we were too hungry for each other to make it to the bedroom.
• She smelled like vanilla and something warm, something hers.
• Her dress was soft. Black, I think. It pooled around her waist as I lifted her onto the counter.
• She was gasping, fingers clutching at my shoulders, legs wrapped tight around my hips.
• And her eyes—
• Shit.
• Her eyes.
• Half-lidded. Wild. Like she was seeing me, not the man on the magazine cover or the suit behind the company.
• Just me.
• Her Julian.
• She pulled me in with nothing but a look.
• And the way she moved, every shift of her hips, every bite of her lip, was branded into me like a memory I never wanted to lose.
• She whispered, “Don’t stop,” like it was a prayer.
• And when she came, she said my name like it belonged to her.
• And maybe it still does.
• I swallow hard, the sheets cooling against my skin, sticking to the sweat I haven’t shaken off.
• My body’s still aching. Still tight with need.
• But more than that, I’m wrecked.
• Because that wasn’t just a fantasy.
• That was us.
• Unfiltered. Untamed. Real.
• And the worst part?
• I didn’t even know I still remembered how she tastes.
• But I do.
• Every fucking second of it.
• ***
• Serena POV
• Brooklyn – 2:14 AM
• I wake up gasping, tangled in my sheets like I’ve fought something in my sleep. Maybe I did.
• My body is flushed, skin damp, thighs aching. The dream still clings to me like a second skin.
• Julian.
• His voice. His mouth. His fingers. The weight of him between my legs.
• I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm the way my heart won’t settle. But it’s no use. I can still feel his breath against my neck. Still feel his hands gripping my hips like he needed me to survive.
• I slide my hand beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts. No hesitation. No shame. Just need.
• I bite my lip as my fingers move through my folds, slow at first, then with more pressure. The rhythm he loved. The one he found and memorized like a favorite song.
• I close my eyes and let him come alive in the dark.
• His hands. His tongue. The way he’d pin me down with nothing but his gaze and make me forget my own name.
• My body arches off the mattress, chasing the memory.
• Chasing him.
• ***
• Julian POV
• Manhattan – 2:14 AM
• I haven’t moved.
• Still on the edge of the bed, but the tension has built past the point of denial. The image of her, squirming beneath me, moaning my name, is tattooed behind my eyes.
• My hand slides down, slow and deliberate.
• I hiss through my teeth as I wrap my fingers around my cock.
• Not out of lust. Out of need.
• I stroke slowly, imagining her mouth, the heat of her breath, the curve of her thighs wrapped around me.
• The way she’d dig her nails into my back when she was close.
• The way she’d beg without a single word.
• I pump harder, faster. Stroke after stroke. I can feel her lips on my shaft. The way her tongue caressed the tip. The way she would take me all in. The way she would caress my balls lightly.
• I can feel her. Hear her.
• That soft gasp she made when I whispered “Mine” in her ear.
• She was never quiet.
• And neither was I.
• We came undone like wildfire. And I’m burning all over again.
• ***
• Serena POV
• I cry out, quietly, breathless. I move my fingers through my folds and into my core like he did. No vibrator needed today.
• The pleasure builds fast, sharp, and sweet, curling in my stomach and exploding behind my eyes.
• I see him when I come.
• Only him.
• ***
• Julian POV
• It crashes over me, sudden and deep.
• A low, guttural groan escapes my throat as I spill ribbons into my hand, her name on my lips like a confession. She would be mad and say something like “waste not, want not.”
• “Serena.”
• I fall back against my pillows.
• Alone.
• Shaking.
• Haunted.
• I don’t move for a few minutes.
• Still catching my breath, arm flung across my eyes like I’m shielding myself from what just happened.
• That… that wasn’t just release. That was detonation.
• The kind that leaves your nerves fried and your heart pounding like it just remembered it was still alive. My chest rises and falls, slow and uneven. My hand’s still warm. The sheets, ruined.
• And I don’t even care.
• Because for the first time in years, years, I came harder than I knew I could. Because of her.
• Serena fucking Eslinger.
• I haven’t seen her in five years. Five long, brutal, soulless years. But that dream? That memory? That need, it hasn’t aged a day.
• Does she still wear her hair wild and curly, or has she tamed it into something sleek and corporate? Do her lips still part just slightly when she’s lost in thought? Do her thighs still clench when she’s trying not to smile?
• I sit up, already reaching for my laptop.
• Curiosity? Obsession? Regret? Whatever it is, it’s a force of nature now.
• I open the browser.
• Fingers flying before I can second-guess.
• Serena Eslinger.
• Search.
• 1,713 results.
• Fuck.
• But there, near the top. A clean, elegant site.
• Vale Industries.
• Marketing and branding.
• Boutique. Woman-owned. Sharp, polished.
• I click.
• The home page is stunning. Minimalist but bold. Hints of gold and slate gray. It breathes class, confidence, and quiet power.
• Just like her.
• I scroll.
• “Meet Our Team.”
• Click.
• And then…
• There she is.
• Owner. CEO. Serena Eslinger.
• And I stop breathing.
• She hasn’t just aged well. She’s weaponized it.
• Her curls are longer now, pulled back into a power ponytail that commands attention. Her skin is still that perfect sun-kissed bronze I used to trace with my mouth.
• She’s wearing a pinstriped suit, fitted like it was sewn onto her. The jacket hugs her waist, the skirt hits mid-thigh, and the slit is high enough to tempt but not cheapen.
• And those legs…
• Long. Strong. Crossed just enough to show off the dagger heels that look like they were forged in hell. She’s standing with one hand on her hip, gaze locked on the camera like she owns the world.
• Because maybe now, she does.
• I right-click before I can stop myself.
• Save image.
• Desktop.
• No hesitation.
• I fall back into bed, laptop sliding off to the side, my eyes wide and unblinking as I stare at the ceiling.
• She did it. She made the company we used to talk about on a shitty mattress in a freezing apartment. She made it real.
• And she looks like everything I ever wanted…and everything I lost.
• I transfer the photo to my phone. Open a hidden file.
• Then I stare at it.
• And I’m hard all over again.
• I reach down, slow this time. Reverent.
• Like I’m touching a memory.
• Like I’m worshipping a ghost.
• She’s staring right into the camera in that photo. But it feels like she’s staring at me. I pump slow, deep strokes, my breath catching in my throat.
• “Serena,” I whisper.
• And when I come, again it’s just as hard, just as aching. And her name slips from my lips like a prayer I was never worthy to say.