Chapter 1: The Storm That Finally Broke Him
The storm had been a bastard all evening, but Julian Ashford figured it had just become his best friend.
Rain hammered the windows of the Ashford Inn — no relation, though he'd gotten a laugh out of that when he'd checked in — in sheets so thick the glass might as well have been frosted. Beyond it, the world had dissolved into a gray-green smear of wind-whipped trees and a parking lot that had turned into a shallow lake.
Inside his suite, though, the fire had burned down to a low, orange breathing thing, and the candles Mira had lit earlier had melted into lopsided towers of wax. The room smelled like whiskey and her perfume, something warm and dark that made his throat tight.
Julian lay on his back on the silk sheets, one arm draped over his eyes, and tried to convince himself his heart rate was returning to normal.
It was not.
Neither was anything else, apparently, because when Mira shifted beside him — a whisper of movement, the mattress dipping — he felt himself twitch against his thigh like some kind of shameless animal that hadn't just been utterly wrecked.
"You're still hard," she observed.
Her voice was a rasp. Fucked-out and amused in equal measure. He liked that. He liked that a lot. A woman who could sound smug after everything he'd just done to her. She sat up on her elbows, chestnut waves tangled around her shoulders, and looked down at him with those warm brown eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen. She looked like a Renaissance painting that had been left out in a good storm.
Julian groaned. "I'm aware."
"You said you didn't know how many you had left." She reached over and plucked the whiskey bottle from the nightstand. Took a pull. "Was that true?"
He lifted his arm from his eyes and looked at her properly. Mira Vance. In his bed. In this ridiculous, candlelit, storm-trapped suite. The woman he had been quietly, pathetically obsessed with for years — watching her across rooms at parties, logging every laugh and every glance and every time she'd caught him staring and smiled like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
He had imagined this a thousand times. He had not imagined it like this. He could not have imagined it like this.
"No," he said finally. "I knew exactly how many I had left."
She arched a brow. Took another sip of whiskey. "How many?"
"The ceiling is five."
Mira paused with the bottle halfway to her mouth. Then she laughed — low and rich, a sound that hit him somewhere in the chest. "Five orgasms in one go? Julian."
"That's the count so far. Not the ceiling."
"Jesus." She shook her head slowly. "And here I thought I was just getting the first one out of you to take the edge off."
Julian pushed himself up on one elbow. His legs still felt like they'd been replaced with something unsteady and unreliable. His back was probably ruined. He didn't care. "The edge isn't off. It's worse."
"Worse?"
"You." He looked at her. Just looked. "It's always been worse with you."
The room went quiet. Even the rain seemed to hold its breath. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to say anything like that. But they were six orgasms deep — or he was — and whiskey-warm and tangled up in sheets that smelled like sex and her, and he had never been very good at lying when his body was this wrung out.
Mira set the bottle down. Her expression shifted, something softer sliding in behind the sharp amusement. "How long?" she asked.
"Years."
"That's a long time to want someone."
"It is." He swallowed. "I didn't plan on doing anything about it. Ever. You're... you're the kind of thing a person should look at from a distance. In case touching ruins it."
Mira tilted her head. The candlelight caught the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat. "That's the dumbest thing you've ever said to me."
"I'm feeling pretty dumb right now, honestly."
She scooted closer. Her hand found his chest, fingers tracing the damp hair there, the line of muscle. "Julian," she said, and his name in her mouth was a physical thing. "Did it occur to you that I might have been looking back?"
He stared at her.
"I've been looking back for a while," she said. "You're not subtle. You've never been subtle. I just figured you'd get around to it eventually."
He reached for her wrist, catching it gently. His fingers wrapped around the delicate bones of her hand, and he pulled her down until she was stretched alongside him, their faces close. "I was going to wait until I could do this right," he murmured. "Dinner. Flowers. A bed that didn't smell like the inside of a wet dog."
Mira's laugh was warm and a little breathless. "The dog smell is the storm. That's not on you."
"Still."
"Julian." She kissed him, soft and slow, and he felt the flicker of heat start building again. The familiar, treacherous surge of it. His body was already gearing up for round four, or five, or whatever number he was on now, and he wasn't sure he had the fuel for it. His legs were still trembling.
Mira pulled back and looked at him. Then she smiled. It was a dangerous smile. The kind that made him nervous and hopeful in the same breath.
"You said seven," she said.
"I said my ceiling was five. I said I was at five."
"How many more?"
Julian swallowed. "Maybe two. Maybe I don't know."
Mira pushed his shoulder. He went back against the mattress, boneless and willing. "Then lie back," she said. "You look like you're about to pass out."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
"It's the cold."
"The fire's still going."
Julian closed his eyes. Opened them. Mira was already moving, sliding off the bed, her feet silent on the thick rug. She crossed to the armchair by the fire — a big, overstuffed leather thing that had no business being as comfortable as it looked — and dragged it across the floor with a scrape. Turned it to face him.
"Sit," she said.
"Mira—"
"Sit."
He sat.
The chair was warm from the fire. He sank into it, his naked body aching in places he hadn't known could ache, and watched her approach. She was a study in contradictions — soft and sharp, playful and commanding, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen and the most terrifying. She straddled him without preamble, one knee on either side of his hips, her hands braced on the back of the chair.
"Here's how this works," she said. "You're going to stay right here. You're not going to move. And when you're ready to come — and you'll know when — you tell me."
Julian's mouth was dry. "That's cruel."
"Is it?"
"I don't know if I can—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know if I can hold it."
"You can."
"Mira."
"I know you can." She kissed him, and when she pulled back her eyes were bright and fierce. "You've spent years wanting this. You can wait a few more minutes."
He didn't have time to argue — didn't have the vocabulary for it — because she was already moving, her hips rocking down against him, the heat of her body a delicious, unbearable pressure. He hissed through his teeth and grabbed the arms of the chair, knuckles going white.
Mira laughed. Soft and breathy against his ear. "Good."
"Fuck."
"Not yet."
She rode him slow at first. Deep, and so deliberate it was a kind of torture. Julian's legs shook. His hips tried to buck and she pressed him back with a hand on his chest. "Stay," she reminded him. "You stay right there."
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The world narrowed to the slick heat of her, the quiet wet sounds, the crackle of the dying fire, the drum of rain on the world outside. She leaned in and licked a stripe up the side of his neck, and he shuddered so hard the chair creaked.
"Please," he heard himself say.
"What do you need?"
"You know what I need."
"You've had five already." Mira pressed her forehead to his. Her hair fell around them like a curtain. "You really want another one?"
"I want all of them." His voice cracked. "I don't even know how many that is. More. More than this. I want to be empty. I want you to take everything."
Mira's breath hitched against his mouth. "Fuck," she whispered. "Okay. Okay."
She changed rhythm. Slower now. Deeper. A merciless, grinding rhythm that dragged him toward the edge and then held him there. Julian's head fell back. His vision went hazy at the edges. He was babbling now, half-coherent pleas and praise and her name like a prayer he'd forgotten he knew.
"Mira. Mira. Fuck — please — I can't —"
"Not yet."
"I have to—"
"Not yet." She pressed a hand to his throat, not squeezing, just holding. A reminder. "You're not done. You said seven, Julian. Say it."
"Seven. Seven. I can't—"
"You can."
She kissed him. Bit his bottom lip. Rode him so hard the chair slid an inch across the floor, and Julian let go of the armrest and grabbed her instead, his hands on her hips, his mouth on her neck, wordless and desperate and louder than he meant to be.
"Now," he gasped. "Now, now, now—"
And she didn't stop.
The orgasm hit him like a car crash in slow motion — blinding, devastating, wave after wave after wave. He saw stars. Literally saw stars, a red-green burst behind his eyelids like the fireworks he'd watched from a rooftop with her last summer. Somewhere in the distance, he heard himself screaming. Somewhere closer, he felt Mira shaking above him, her hips stuttering, her teeth sunk into his shoulder as she came with him.
Then silence.
The fire popped. The rain kept coming. Julian slumped so far back in the chair he nearly slid off it, and Mira collapsed against his chest, both of them slick with sweat and breathing like they'd run a marathon.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Julian couldn't even answer. Couldn't even open his eyes. His body hummed like a struck bell, and every muscle had turned to jelly. His heartbeat was so loud he could barely hear anything else.
He wrapped an arm around her anyway. Held on. Felt her laugh against his neck.
"So," Mira said, once she'd caught her breath. "That's six."
"Mm."
"You're welcome."
He opened his eyes and looked down at her. Her hair was a disaster. Her makeup was a disaster. She was grinning up at him like they'd just pulled off a heist. And Julian, for the first time in years, felt something loosen in his chest. Something that might have been hope.
"One more," he said quietly. "Just to see."
Mira's grin turned sharp. "Give me five minutes and a cup of coffee, Ashford. Then we'll talk."
The storm raged on. The candles guttered low. And Julian held on to her, feeling very much like a man who had just discovered that the best thing in the world had been standing in front of him the whole time.