Chapter 4 Claimed

It wasn't careful.

It wasn't pretty.

It was need.

Clinton kissed her like he had to claim her or die trying. His mouth moved down her neck, over her collarbone, as he stripped the dress from her body.

Julian gasped as his hands found her thighs, her waist, her breast - every part of her claimed in fire.

She gripped his shirt, yanked it open. Buttons flew. She didn't care.

When he finally sank into her, she cried out - and he groaned like he'd been waiting a lifetime to hear that sound.

He moved like a man who knew how to destroy - and how to worship.

Later, as they lay tangled in the aftermath, Clinton brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

The Morning After

The first thing Julian noticed was the silence.

Not the kind that meant peace - the kind that felt too still, like the world was holding its breath. Her eyes fluttered open to the soft wash of gray morning light bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. She wasn't in her dorm. She wasn't in her own bed.

She was in his.

His sheets smelled like expensive cologne and something darker - danger disguised as comfort. Warm skin pressed against her back. An arm, thick and possessive, lay across her waist like it had always belonged there.

Clinton.

The memories hit her in slow motion.

The club. The velvet. His voice in her ear. His hands on her hips. The way he kissed her like he was starving - and how she had let him.

Her chest fluttered. Her body still ached from the night before in the best possible way. But alongside the heat bloomed a sharp whisper of doubt.

What have I done?

She shifted gently, trying not to wake him. His grip tightened immediately. Not rough. But firm. Unyielding. He didn't even open his eyes - just pulled her closer with a low grunt.

"You move, I pull you right back," he murmured, voice gravelly with sleep.

Julian froze. Then turned slightly in his arms.

His face was relaxed. Peaceful, even. But even in sleep, Clinton Black looked like a man who was always a second away from violence. His jaw was sharp, shadowed in dark stubble. His lashes, surprisingly long, rested on sculpted cheekbones that softened his otherwise brutal features.

He looked... human.

Not the untouchable man from the club. Not the monster she had been warned about by a dozen unspoken signals.

Just a man. Still sleeping. Holding her like she was something he didn't want to lose.

She whispered, "You always sleep like this with strangers?"

His lips twitched. "You're not a stranger anymore, sweetheart."

His eyes opened slowly - dark and unreadable - and locked onto hers.

Julian swallowed hard. "I need to get back. I have class."

He didn't let her go.

"I'll send you a car," he said.

"I don't need-"

"You do," he cut in. "Let me do this."

There was something in his tone that made her pause - not a demand, but a... request? The first chink in his armor?

She nodded. "Fine."

He finally released her, and she slid out of the bed. The chill of the floor made her gasp softly. Her red dress from last night was flung over the black leather armchair, one strap twisted like a careless memory.

When she picked it up, she realized her knees were weak. Clinton had thoroughly ruined her ability to stand gracefully.

He watched her from the bed, propped on one elbow, hair mussed and chest bare.

"You look better in my shirt," he said.

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're wearing my shirt."

She looked down. Sure enough, she had slipped into one of his oversized white dress shirts sometime in the night. The hem brushed her upper thighs.

Her face flushed. "Well, I didn't think I'd be parading around in heels and nothing else."

He smirked. "You could. I wouldn't mind."

Julian rolled her eyes, turning her back to him as she slipped back into the red dress. Her hands trembled slightly on the zipper, but she didn't let it show.

The moment felt too real. Too... intimate.

She didn't do sleepovers. She didn't do feelings. Especially not for dangerous, gorgeous men who looked at her like they wanted to burn the world for a second taste.

But when she turned around, Clinton was out of bed now, pulling a black Henley over his broad chest. The tattoos on his arms shifted as he moved, like secrets inked in violence and sin.

He crossed the room in two slow strides, reached out, and brushed a curl from her cheek.

Then he pulled her to the kitchen..