Chapter 5 An Offer She Should Refuse

Julian sat on the velvet edge of Clinton's massive, cold kitchen island, coffee cup warm between her hands, her bare legs dangling as soft morning light poured through tall windows. The penthouse was like him - minimalist, masculine, expensive in a way that didn't need to try. Black stone, steel, and quiet.

He watched her from the hallway.

Silent.

Barefoot, shirtless, arms crossed over his chest.

She looked like a siren - his white shirt swallowing her frame, her long legs exposed, skin glowing, lips red from last night. She didn't know it, but she looked like she belonged here.

Like she'd always belonged here.

He'd never brought a woman home.

Ever.

Not here. Not to his real space. Clinton kept his world segmented. Business. Power. Sex. Control.

But this girl... Julian had walked into his club and then his life like she didn't need permission.

And now?

He didn't want her to leave.

He stepped toward her, slowly, like not to startle a wild thing.

"You always look like that in the morning?" he asked.

She glanced at him over the rim of her mug. "Like what?"

"Like you just woke up from a sin."

She huffed a breath - part laugh, part disbelief. "You're very good at making things sound dirty and poetic at the same time."

"I'm very good at everything," he said simply.

"Confident, aren't we?"

"No," he said, stepping closer, between her knees now. "Just... sure of what I want."

Julian stiffened slightly. She sipped her coffee to buy a second of control.

His fingers grazed her bare thigh - just barely - before moving to the hem of his shirt hanging on her. He tugged it gently. Possessively.

"You're quiet," she said, voice low.

"I don't talk much in the morning."

"Is that why you're staring at me like you're planning something violent or romantic?"

Clinton grinned. "Maybe both."

She placed the cup down slowly.

"Look," she said, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. "Last night... it was incredible. But it doesn't have to mean anything. We don't have to play pretend."

His jaw ticked.

"I don't pretend, Julian."

She felt a chill roll down her spine. Not fear - awareness.

He stepped between her knees again, this time closer. His hands rested on her bare thighs, warm and slow, dragging upward with aching patience. Her breath hitched.

Clinton dipped his head, lips brushing against her temple.

"You're not a one-night memory," he murmured. "And I don't do disposable."

She froze.

"Clinton-"

"Stay here," he said, voice low, rough silk. "I'll have someone bring your things. You won't have to worry about rent or safety or walking alone at night. I'll take care of you."

Her heart started thudding.

"I don't need a protector," she said.

"You do now," he said. "Because you're mine. And I don't let what's mine wander."