Chapter 16 Gus

Julia hops onto her bed and faces me, her expression alight with expectation and the thrill of an impromptu afternoon fuck.

"Why are you still clothed," I inquire lowly, "when we both know you're dying to get naked for me."

"For you? Please. I'm doing this for myself," she replies before she removes my flannel—the one that drowns her, but still makes her look like sex embodied. When she strips, relief crashes through me.

For the entire hike, my body felt tight with dread. More than once, I thought about extending the hike by taking her up to the lookout point—all so I could spend more time with her. I wanted to say it. I wanted to ask her to stay longer, but I couldn't do it. I have no qualms saying anything to anyone else. But telling Julia Ridgeway, of all people, how I want her so badly that a lump grows in my throat at the mere thought of her leaving is too much.

Old wounds threaten to break, reminding me that the sutures are still weak—even though decades have passed.

I know better. I know better.

I get one more time with her. One last time before I let her go.

When she's completely bare, she reclines on the bed, her long, shapely legs extended outwards towards me. Every inch of her is perfection—from the cascade of golden hair on her head to her clean, unpainted toes. How can any man be the same after being with her?

"Well," she coos, extending her leg as far as it will go so she can tickle my thigh with her toes. "Are you going to join me or are you going to stand there?"

I tug off my own flannel. "Which one is going to make you happier?"

"The option that gets you inside me." Her cheeky grin is so fucking cute.

I take a step closer so my knees touch the end of the bed. Expectantly, she stares up at me, issuing a challenge. I imagine it's, Fuck me well, August. Fuck me so I don't forget you.

"Julia, there's no option where I end up anywhere but deep inside your pretty pink pussy," I murmur.

She inhales audibly and heavily at my words, but I don't give her more. Meticulously, I strip above the waist to ratchet up the tension. I leave my jeans on, which I know frustrates her.

"Desperate?" I ask when she releases an exasperated sigh, eyes traveling restlessly over my bare chest and abdomen.

"You're so annoying, Winter. You think I can't get myself off? You've seen me do it. I don't need you."

"Oh, you don't need me?" I reply, playing along. I reach out and caress the arch of her foot, making her gasp and shiver. "So you're not going to tell me your safe word?"

"Fucking Paris," she blurts out before she gives up on waiting for me—because Julia Ridgeway waits for no man. She clambers to her knees and throws her arms around my neck before she kisses me, her mouth seeking and needy.

Her hands are everywhere. Touching my skin, pulling at my chest hair, gripping my back. I want to touch her—I want to touch her so bad—but I force myself not to. I force myself to deny her, to drive her to the point of desperation.

"Take off my belt," I order, breaking the kiss.

She doesn't protest. Her hands immediately go to my waist and deftly remove my leather belt from my jeans. When she's done, I take it from her and test its bend. It's an old belt, so the leather is soft and flexible. For this, it's perfect.

Face stoic, I loop the belt around her back. Once I have it aligned right above her elbows, I yank both ends, forcing the leather into her skin and pressing her closer to me. When I kiss her, she groans so loudly, I vaguely wonder if she's already coming. But no—she's just mindless over a bit of leather on her soft skin.

"You're leaving, aren't you," I murmur into the kiss. "You're going to leave and we're never going to see each other again."

"That's the plan, Daddy," she responds breathily while I squeeze the belt into her skin even harder.

"What if I keep you here," I reply deviously, testing her. "What if I belt you to my bed, so I can stuff myself into this perfect pussy anytime I want?"

Her response is a groan. She works her tongue against mine, deepening the kiss. Translation: I'd like that very much, August.

Suddenly, I let go of one end of the belt and Julia nearly loses her balance—but I would never let her fall. I hold her up, my hand pressed against the small of her bare back, and steady her.

"Hands out," I instruct.

For once, she listens and holds out both of her hands—like she knows exactly where this is going. I place the belt around her wrists and wrap it three times before I feed the length through the buckle, tightening it as hard as I can.

"You good?" I check.

"I'm good," she confirms—because we're old pros at this now.

Anticipation swells in me. Perfect. "Move to the top of the bed."

When her head is on the pillows, I raise her bound wrists over her head and rest them against the wooden beam along the top of the headboard. Immediately, I realize I need more props. "Don't move, Julia," I warn.

"I hate waiting," she calls after me. "Hurry up, old man."

Yeah, I'm going to get her for that one.

When I return from my bedroom with another belt, her eyes light up with recognition—and excitement. She can't contain the grin forming on her lips—the same little grin that always arises when I give her the taboo she so obviously craves. Rough sex. Dominance. Switching. She clearly loves this shit, and it seems to me like she's desperate for it.

To hell with all these men she was with before she met me. They didn't know what they were doing and it shows.

I'm so pleased to see she followed directions and her wrists still rest against the headboard. Using the second belt, I secure her to the bed, tugging on her restraints for good measure. She's not going anywhere.

"You good?" I ask, giving her another chance to safe out.

"This is how you're going to do it?" Her voice is husky with intrigue. "Force me to stay here? Make me your prisoner?"

"You can go anytime you want." I loom over her, enjoying her naked and bound body. "But we both know you don't want to."

I don't wait for her response. I roll off the bed and force myself to go to the kitchen, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to go back to the woman upstairs. My cock juts painfully against my jeans, dying for release.

She calls for me. She shouts my name. She starts out confused, but her tone quickly melts into anger.

Obviously, I'll let her go. She knows what she needs to do though.

Paris. Paris. Paris.

I pour myself a glass of wine I know she would love. I'll get her a glass after we're done. If things go according to plan, that should be hours from now—plenty of time for it to decant.

She keeps calling for me.

I take a seat at the kitchen island, doing my best to distract myself by reading the wine label repeatedly. It's brutal. I know she's up there, desperate for me—desperate for my cock—and I'm down here.

It'll be worth it though—worth it when she's out of her mind with need, begging me to take her.

Half an hour passes. I want her to give in.

She won't.

I wait another five minutes before my own willpower finally crumbles. When I return, she's seething. To my alarm, her wrists are red and angry, swollen where she tugged on the belts. It takes everything I have not to climb over her and tenderly kiss each of the marks…

No. Don't give in.

Instead, I sip from my glass, watching her.

"You got a drink?" she demands when she notices me in the doorway.

"It's a normal afternoon for me. I'm not going to change my routine simply because I've got a sex-crazed hellion tied up in my bedroom."

Julia kicks out at me in an exercise in futility. "How dare you leave me up here."

"If you hated it so much, you should have used your safe word."

"Fuck off."

"What's the capital of France, love?"

She narrows her eyes, trying so hard to burn a hole right through my chest. "It's your limp dick."

Cute. "And where would I go to see the Mona Lisa?"

"I heard she's up your entitled, arrogant ass, August."

"And where would I take you on our first date if you got over yourself and admitted you want to keep screwing me after this week?"

Suddenly, she stops thrashing. She stares at me unblinking, her jaw lowered a fraction. "What about CDMX?"

It's my turn to freeze now. In retrospect, it was such a dumb question. It was too heavy and too open to interpretation—no right or wrong answer. But the way she calmed down…is she saying…

"Fuck me," she requests, breaking the silence. "August, fuck me."

It's a figurative snap of her fingers. It's a hand waving in front of my face. It's a strict order to get a hold of myself and get us both on track. Nothing else. Nothing else. Just fucking.

Still holding my glass, I get on the bed and fit myself between her feet. "Spread your legs."

"Suck your own dick," she shoots back.

I chuckle. "Spread. Your. Legs." I repeat. "We both know you're dying to do it. That you've never hesitated to open that pussy for me." I run a hand over her flat stomach, enjoying the way she shudders with relief under my touch. "Save us both the time and spread your fucking legs, Julia."

She does it. She parts her thighs, showing me her wet cunt. Her plump folds glisten and her arousal strikes me in all the right places.

Locking my eyes on hers—making damn sure she's watching—I hold my glass high above the bed and pour my wine right onto her pussy.

Wine splashes onto both of us. I'm ruining the bedspread. I'm ruining the sheets. Hell, I'm ruining a forty-thousand-dollar mattress that had never been used until she visited. I don't care.

Julia gasps at the sensation—at the filthiness of it all.

Deep purplish red covers her, spreading across her skin so nicely. The stark contrast makes her look like a work of art. Her body is decadent like this. I dip down, burying my face in her pussy. The taste of wine and her juices flood my tongue—but I want more.

I lick her from clit to entrance before shifting dangerously close to her asshole. Frankly, I'd love to lick it, but I need to stay focused. I've already touched on too many taboos and an inexperienced man plays all his cards at once. Tonight, I only want to focus on her pussy.

I suck harder, wrapping my lips around her clit and going straight for her pleasure center. I've tortured her enough; I've tortured both of us enough. But I want her good and ready if this is the last time we ever play.

"Please," she murmurs, saying the word with sincerity for the first time since I met her. "Please, August. I want your cock in me."

Briefly, I release her clit from my lips. "Say it again."

"I want your cock in me," Julia repeats, craning her neck to look down at me where I'm nestled happily between her thighs. "I want your big, fat cock in me, you jackass. Now stop playing with me, or I'll say my safe word and ruin the day for both of us."

The threat makes my heart stutter. Without delay, I shove down the zipper on my jeans and pull myself out. I don't even bother to lose the pants—I just shove right into her.

She lets out an ecstatic scream that melts into a groan, and it's the most melodic sound I've ever heard. My body lights up with expectation and desire, desperate to fuck more of those sounds out of her. I begin to piston into her, working her mercilessly—the way she likes.

"Harder."

The bed scrapes against the floor, wood against wood. It creaks when she tugs on her restraints, worsening the redness on her wrists. Julia seems oblivious to all of it.

"I want you all day," she grits out, making a surge of pride swell in me. "Constantly. Please don't stop."

I don't want to stop. Not now, not today, not tomorrow—not ever. I could fuck this woman for months and never get bored. Hell, maybe even years. Her body takes mine so well. Her motions drive me wild. The indescribable swell and bounce of her breasts captivates me. No other body looks like this. No other body moves like this.

"You're so wet, Julia. Wine and more. Are you going to tell the next man who fucks you how wet you got for me? How slick you made that pussy for me?"

"Yes," she blurts out. "I'm going to tell him I had to soak you because it would hurt if I didn't."

She's incredible. Somehow, she knows exactly what I want to hear.

"It would," I grunt. "But don't tell him that. You like when it hurts, don't you? How will he know how to satisfy you if you lie and pretend you don't like when it hurts?" And to prove my point, I slap one of her big, soft breasts—forceful enough to make a sound that drowns out her gasp.

Her hands tug on her bindings so forcefully that the headboard creaks. "Again. Please, again, August."

I do it again. Again. Each time, her breasts grow redder and the thrust of her hips grows stronger. Her pussy is so wet we can both hear the sound it makes when I shove in and out. Her legs tighten around me, keeping me deep inside her—and begging me deeper. I lever up on my arms and hoist her higher. Her lips part and she can't stop swearing, can't stop saying yes.

She's so close. I'm so close.

She sobs with need and a tear rolls down her cheek. I want to give her everything. Every goddamn thing.

Julia cries out when her climax hits, unable to do anything else but take it from me. I don't hold back. Not now, not ever with her. I keep thrusting hard into her, knowing I can get another one out of her if I don't stop.

Sure enough, she falls over the edge once again, tugging on my belts and making me wonder if it's possible to tear leather. The sight is so mindbogglingly resplendent, I don't know how I'll ever sleep with another woman again without pining for Julia.

She doesn't have to ask this time. I know she wants my cum anywhere but inside her pussy. And even though it kills me to pull out, I'll never betray her trust.

Her throbbing inner muscles milk me, raw pleasure doing insane things to me. I'm a fucking animal, rutting her harder than I've ever handled a woman before. Again. Again.

When my climax hits, I pull out and finish on her stomach, painting her with pearlescent spurts. My body has never felt so damn satisfied. Her body is still trembling with the lingering vestiges of her climax. Beneath me, she luxuriates under my weight. I can't resist. Using my hand, I smear my cum against her pussy, mixing her wetness with it. She gasps and then releases a throaty, delighted giggle. She loves this.

I run my fingers through the mess I've made and press them into her lips. She sucks heartily before I take my fingers back and suck on them too.

Her eyes widen when she sees me tasting everything I just fed her. "Fuck, that's hot," she murmurs. "Untie me."

I've never undone a buckle so fast in my life. As soon as she's free, she reaches down, drags her fingers through the mess too, and brings them to her mouth. She sucks, savoring the taste either for show or because she's a perfect freak. After a long draw, she directs her fingers to my mouth. I take them, tasting wine, her familiar heady taste, and my own cum.

"You're filthy," I tell her.

Gleefully, she runs her entire hand through it before she licks between her fingers like she dipped them into a bowl of cake batter. "You taste good."

"Trust me. It's all you, Ridgeway."

Julia lets out a contented sigh and rolls to her side to face me. "I should use the bathroom. I'm asking for trouble by leaving wine on my pussy, but I'm so comfortable here."

"I can carry you," I offer.

She shakes her head. "I'm not that spoiled."

"But I'd love to spoil you," I reply, leaning in to kiss her. Surprisingly, she allows it. "Let me."

A smirk appears on her lips. "Don't let your mouth write checks that your butt can't cash, Winter," she warns.

"My butt can cash any check, Ridgeway," I counter, making her smile again. "And thanks to you, my butt is going to be worth a hell of a lot more next year."

"I hope you spend some of your earnings on a porch swing," she muses with a yawn. "And more honey almonds. I ate the rest this morning."

I squeeze her sides, which makes her squeal and try to shift away from me, but I don't let her get far. "I'll get a porch swing if you promise to sit on it with me."

"I will," she agrees, snuggling her head against my chest.

"Yeah? Because I'll want to put my arm around you. Is that allowed?"

"Yes, August."

"And we might have a glass of wine too," I go on. "Would you agree to that?"

Julia opens her eyes. "I would. It all sounds perfect."

We're silent and staring at each other, and I'm not sure if we're playing anymore.

"Are you…" I trail off, wondering if I dare toe the line and ask if she's serious—if she would stay with me for a few more days, or at least come back to see me. Either way, the question is simple: Do we exist beyond tonight?

She smiles soft and sweet—gentle enough that I'm unsure if she even realizes she's smiling at me.

I should ask her.

But how many times did Constance cry while we shared my pillow in my MIT dorm? How many times did she count the days until graduation, allegedly dreading the moment she would leave me? Countless. I asked her to stay. She told me to follow her.

I did. She didn't mean it. She broke up with me anyway.

I should know better.

"I'll lock up," I say. "Get a fire going. Come downstairs when you're ready. No rush."

Too quickly, I leave her in the bed in a mess of cum and her wetness and wine and sweat. I head to the living room and look out the windows at the clear evening. Perfect flying conditions.

I build a fire, doing my best to make the place look cozy. I make coffee and I put on an Elvis record. Then I sit on the couch with a glass of bourbon and a book and I wait for her.

Half an hour later, freshly showered, Julia enters the room and pads over to me, where she surprises me by snuggling up next to me. The scent of floral shampoo surrounds us both. Her damp hair is draped over one shoulder, twisted meticulously around itself—revealing how it always has a perfect, slight curl.

"Mine," she declares before she takes my glass. Reluctantly, I separate from her to pour another.

We stare into the fire in silence for a minute, music playing softly in the background. It's dangerous for me to consider how right it feels to have my arm around her.

"What are you reading?" she asks.

I hold up the book. "Peter Thiel's book. Trying to get inspired."

Her face pinches. "For what? Now that you've sampled me, aren't you selling your company and retiring?"

"I have every intention of founding a new company in a few years. In the meantime, I'm writing a book."

"What kind of book?"

"Nonfiction. Business philosophy."

"Like Malcolm Gladwell?"

"Similar, yes," I confirm, registering that she reads Malcolm Gladwell—yet more evidence that I've vastly underestimated what Julia knows.

For once, she doesn't have a retort. She lets out a sigh and looks over at the fire, focusing on the flames.

"So are you happy to go back?" I ask, making small talk for possibly the first time in twenty years.

"I like Christmas."

Ask her, Gus.

"Julia—"

Her eyes swivel to meet mine and she stares at me with expectation on her face.

Hell, ask her.

"Up," I request instead, holding out my hand.

Confused, she frowns at it before she says, "I thought you didn't dance."

I nod at the record player, where Elvis croons softly against the sound of the crackling fire. "I do when the King is playing."

She rolls her eyes, but she's fighting back a smile.

Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can't help falling in love with you.

We sway quietly, her head resting on my shoulder. My hand is laced with hers and the other rests on the small of her back. In this position, my chin sits on the top of her head and I can't ignore how well we fit together, like two pieces in an infuriating, three-thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle, sure—but we fit perfectly, nonetheless.

Grow a pair and ask her to stay.

"What's with you and Elvis?" she asks, shifting to look at me.

"My grandpa was a fan," I answer, trying to ignore the focus in her gaze. She's trying to read me, as usual. "Growing up, he always played Elvis records."

Julia's head returns to my shoulder, offering me a reprieve from her inspection. "Sounds like you spent a lot of time with him."

I breathe in deeply and exhale before I say, "He and my grandma raised me."

"What happened to your parents?"

"Mom left."

"And your father?"

"Died," I reply, hating how soft my voice grows. Tonight is the first time I've told anyone about my past in twenty-five years, and the rapid-fire admissions have me wishing I were back on the couch instead of standing in the middle of my living room with only Julia to distract me. Vulnerability is a menace I've avoided at all costs. Now, it breathes down my neck—and I'm entirely without armor.

The song ends and the next one starts. "I'm sorry," she finally murmurs.

"It was a long time ago."

"How old were you?"

More questions. Too many questions. I want to tell her to stop, but I know how badly she craves information. Knowing things. Understanding things. She's so curious, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't admire her inquisitiveness. But when it comes to me, it's different. I should give her more, I know. But the last time I gave any of myself to someone, it nearly ended me.

But I want her. I want her so much that I muster every ounce of audacity and daring in me, the stuff that made me the man I am today.

"Ten," I answer.

All that build-up for a simple, three-letter response.

My heart is pounding, skipping, and nothing feels right. But then I realize she's rubbing her hand on my back in a soft, reassuring caress.

"Grandma and grandpa were poor," I go on, finding the words easier to say with the comfort of her touch. "Food banks. Living without power every now and then. It was…well, it was what it was."

"That sounds so hard." She releases my hand and moves her arm around my back. She's holding me now—practically hugging me while we sway.

"Taught me a lot," I admit. "I started working when I was twelve, mowing lawns, walking dogs, and picking up groceries. Every dime I had went to them."

"That's selfless, August. I bet they were proud of who you became," she offers. "I know I would be."

Her approval shouldn't mean anything to me. Over the years, I've received approval and accolades from every facet of society. And yet pride swells in my chest when it comes from Julia.

"They never saw it," I murmur. "Grandma died when I was fifteen. Grandpa went when I was nineteen. At least he got to see me get into MIT, but neither of them knew I was going to become…me."

"Maybe they did know," she offers, shifting her head on my shoulder, relaxing even more. "I bet they knew you would do something astounding with your life."

Her words leave me speechless, but luckily the sounds of the crackling fire keep my silence from being too noticeable. It's the sincerest thing I've ever heard her say, and it leaves me unsteady.

"My father felt that way about me once," she continues. "When we were younger, I was always the one he gravitated towards. I was smarter than my brothers. Quicker. More competitive. Then…I don't know. When I was a teenager, I was pretty enough for people to make a big deal about it. Davis started getting serious about the business at the same time. After that, my father lowered his expectations of me, I think. He stopped noticing me altogether."

"That's the kiss of death," I mutter. "Underestimating you."

"I haven't proved him wrong yet."

"You could if you wanted to."

It's Julia's turn to be quiet. Her hand stops moving like my words have frozen her in place.

"I need to apologize. Again," I mention.

Quietly, she nods. No sass, no sarcasm, no righteous indignation. She's listening.

"I feel horrible about this morning. I made that comment about you not being motherly and it wasn't fair. I just have these hang-ups. Now that you know my mom left, not to mention…" I trail off, refusing to mention Constance. I can't. I won't. "I'm sorry, Julia."

She nods again. "I know I'm not what most people would consider traditional. I do want kids though."

I nod too. "Same. One day."

"It's hard to find the right person though, isn't it?" She pulls back and stares up at me. "I know I have plenty of time, but it doesn't stop me from wondering where the hell he is."

"Who?"

"The perfect man for me. Some days, I wonder if he even exists." She shrugs. "He may not. Then I'll have to settle for someone who could have been another person's perfect man, but ended up with me instead. That's scary, isn't it?"

I don't know who that man is, but an indescribable pang of jealousy tears through me—and I've never been a jealous person. The thought of someone confiding in Julia and holding her like this…. No man deserves it. Nobody is worthy of it.

"It's why I don't believe in love. My mom left my dad, and I—" I stop speaking when I realize I'm on the verge of mentioning Constance again.

"You don't believe in love?" She halts the sway of her body almost immediately. "I thought you wanted kids."

"I want a family, but love can't be an impediment. The person I build a family with is going to be a person who I can trust. They support me, and I support them. That's what I'm looking for."

"Like a business deal," she concludes flatly, frowning. "You don't want to marry for love, you want to marry for synergies."

She understands it, but her indignation confuses me. "You don't want someone who understands your philosophy and how you approach the world? I can't imagine starting a family with someone who doesn't."

"I want all of it," she answers, raising her shoulders. "A husband and, like, five kids if we can manage. Yes, he should understand me and support me the same way I understand and support him, but I also want my husband to check all my boxes. Sex. Affection. I want someone who loves me so much, he can't sleep at night, who would move the moon if I asked him to. I deserve that."

I raise a shoulder. "It's hard to find someone who checks every box."

"I have to try," she replies, frowning even harder.

She so young, I realize. Twenty-eight. She's only six years older than I was when Constance broke up with me—only six years older than I was when I experienced honest to god heartbreak. There's no way she can comprehend the pain of losing someone who you loved so much that you don't know how to exist without them.

Love and the demands of reality don't always coexist. Sometimes, the person you love doesn't share the same life philosophy as you, the same goals, or the same wants. The sooner she learns that, the better. But I won't be the one to teach her. I live in Montana; she travels the world. She desperately wants to be loved; to me love is secondary. But what I can offer her, I know, is everything she craves. Sex. Affection. That I can do.

"Stay," I finally whisper, putting my hands back on her.

Julia looks up at me, her expression illegible.

"Stay," I repeat. "Through Christmas at least. Let me make you come a hundred times between now and then. Anything you want. Any wild shit you've never tried, we'll do. Anything you're game for, I am too."

Her expression remains stony. I've made her a hell of an offer, and yet she seems completely unmoved by it. "You want me to stay here so you can fuck me," she clarifies, lifting an eyebrow.

I nod.

"I shouldn't," she says, pulling back her lip with her teeth like temptation dares to sway her. "I need to go."

My heart sinks, but I manage to keep my tone even. "Go where?"

"Boston. Away from here."

"Why?" Did I misread her? I thought she wanted to stay. I thought she wanted more of this—more of me.

Julia takes a step back, putting space between us. She pulls her arms in front of her body, clasping her elbows with her hands. There's a glossiness in her eyes—a note of sadness. She raises both shoulders. "It was a deal, August. Let's not make this harder than it needs to be."

So I make it easy on both of us by escorting her to her own room and her own bed. It takes her thirty minutes to climb into mine, naked and so damn warm. She crawls over me, pushing down my boxer briefs with unbridled urgency. She doesn't even take them all the way off. She just works her cunt around me, accepting my length full-hilt right off the bat. It's nothing creative or daring or quite like anything the two of us are accustomed to. On the contrary, it's efficient—borderline transactional. It still feels incredible.

I finish on her stomach again. She rubs my hand through it, coaxing me to massage it into her. Filthy. Intimate.

When we've both caught our breath, she rolls off me and drapes herself against my side, my cum mingling with her juices. Her breathing grows heavy and her weight relaxes into the mattress. When I place a hand on her stomach, she rests her own hand atop mine.

And when I awaken in the morning to an empty bed—yet again—I don't bother being angry. Instead, I get up and strip the sheets, hoping to erase every reminder that Julia Ridgeway was ever in my life.