The storm outside was trying to shatter the windows, but it had nothing on the wrecking ball currently swinging around inside my head.
I was on top of Julian. Literally.
I was straddling the man who had bought my life, ruined my reputation, and basically kidnapped me into high-society luxury. I should have been smothering him with a pillow. I should have been clawing his eyes out.
Instead, I was riding him like I was trying to break him in half.
I have officially lost the plot, I thought, tossing my head back as a jolt of pleasure shot straight up my spine. "Fuck!"
I am clinically insane. Someone call the guys in the white coats and tell them to bring the net.
Julian's hands were on my hips, his grip bruising. He looked up at me with that expression of pure, religious adoration that made my skin crawl and my blood boil at the same time. He looked wrecked. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were so dark they looked like oil slicks.
"Alina," he groaned, his hips snapping up to meet mine. "God, look at you. Ride my dick. Take it."
"Shut up," I panted, bracing my hands on his chest. His skin was hot, smooth, and smelled like expensive soap. It pissed me off how good he smelled. "Don't talk. You ruin it when you talk."
I ground down on him, hard. He let out a choked sound, half-gasp, half-sob, and his head fell back against the pillows. Eyes rolling so far behind his lids, I though they'd stay there.
This was sick. It was twisted. It was a train wreck in slow motion. But here was the kicker, the dirty little secret that was making me feel crazier than the drugs he'd used: I liked it.
I liked the weight of him. I liked the way he looked at me, like I was the only thing in the world that could kill him, and he was dying to let me do it. Silas had been gentle. Silas had made love to me like I was something precious that might break.
Julian? Julian fucked me like we were both already broken and just trying to see whose edges cut deeper.
I moved faster, setting a punishing rhythm. I watched his face contort, watched the control freak lose control. It was intoxicating. For weeks, he'd been the one pulling the strings, moving me around his chessboard. But right now? Right now, I was the one calling the shots. I was the one making the "king" of real estate shake like a leaf.
You're a monster, Alina, my brain supplied helpfully. You're sleeping with the enemy. You're literally screwing the villain.
Yeah, another part of me whispered back, the part that felt heat pooling in my belly. And it feels fantastic.
I leaned forward, my hair falling around us like a curtain, shutting out the rest of the penthouse. "Do you like that, Julian?" I whispered, my voice dripping with venom. "Do you like it when I take over?"
"Yes," he hissed, his hands sliding up to cup my breasts, his thumbs digging in. "Fucking destroy me, Alina. Please."
What kind of sicko asks to be destroyed? Him. That's who. And what kind of sicko obliges him? Me.
I felt the pressure building, that tight coil of tension low in my stomach. I stopped thinking about the diner. I stopped thinking about Silas and his blonde fling. I focused entirely on the friction, the sweat, and the sheer, raw power of making Julian Vane come undone.
I rode him through the edge, grinding down as the climax hit me. It was violent and sharp, ripping a cry from my throat that sounded angry. Julian followed me a second later, arching his back off the mattress, his hips slamming up to bury himself as deep as possible, shouting my name like it was a curse and exploding into the condom.
I collapsed on top of him, my chest heaving, my sweat mixing with his. For a long minute, the only sound was our ragged breathing and the wind howling against the glass.
I should have rolled off. I should have felt ashamed. And I did, there was a pit of guilt in my stomach the size of Texas. But there was also a buzzing, electric sense of satisfaction.
I lifted my head, looking down at him. He was staring up at me, his chest rising and falling, a look of complete, terrifying vulnerability on his face.
"You're insane," I whispered, poking him in the chest.
Julian smiled. It wasn't his oily, fake smile. It was a real, crooked, exhausted smile. "And you," he breathed, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, "are magnificent."
I rolled off him and flopped onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. I felt dirty. I felt powerful. I felt like I was driving a car with no brakes down a mountain, and instead of screaming, I was laughing.
Silas wouldn't recognize me, I thought, closing my eyes. Hell, I don't recognize me.
But as Julian's arm draped over my waist, pulling me back against his side, I didn't push him away. The winter was cold, and I was a survivor. If surviving meant going crazy in a penthouse with a man who worshipped my worst qualities... well, I'd been called worse things than crazy.
"Round two?" Julian whispered against my shoulder, his voice hopeful.
"Give me five minutes, you freak," I muttered.
But I didn't say no.