Chapter 21 Julia

I'm bored of Vienna, and it's not just the schnapps talking. I'm so bored, I'm literally reading a book about patent law on a balcony at the Hotel Sacher while Jay gets ready somewhere in the suite.

My phone remains face down on the end table next to me, but I don't know why it taunts me. Once I ask him to chase me, Gus never responds. He shows up unannounced whenever he pleases. When he does show up, my heart beats dangerously, faster and faster, like I'm seeing him for the first time all over again.

Where. The. Fuck. Is. He.

"You ready?" Jay asks when he appears in the doorway to the balcony. He's wearing a tailored jacket over a crisp button-down, every bit the part of a playboy ready for a night out.

"I'm changing now," I assure him before slipping my bookmark into my book and rising with a stretch. I've been sitting for so long, I've gotten stiff.

Jay pulls his lips to the side. "Can you hurry? I want to get there before nine."

"What's happening at nine?"

"I'm getting drunk," he answers smartly. He shuts the door to the balcony behind me. "So, hurry up, Jules."

"Don't rush me," I warn, shooting him a look. "You know I hate being rushed. I'll be ready when I'm ready."

He tries to time his eye-roll so I'm looking away when he does it, but he screws up and I fully catch him in the mirror.

"Asshole," I chide, flipping him off in response.

"Whatever," he mutters. He checks his watch. "I'll meet you there."

"Fine," I agree.

Alone, I hold up two dresses and try to decide which one will look better on me for an evening of sitting around and wondering if Gus is coming. I go with a short red number I know will turn heads.

A knock sounds on the door to the suite and I can't ignore how easily the simple sound makes my stomach light up. My dress isn't even zipped up in the back, but I still jog through the suite, clutching the front of my dress against my tits to keep it in place.

When I open the door, I find Gus in a black button-down shirt paired with black pants and a matching jacket. He's perfect. My relief at seeing his face is embarrassing, practically palpable. He looks so good, it takes everything I have to play it cool and keep from throwing myself into his arms.

My resolve lasts for all of three seconds.

I launch myself at him, holding my dress with one hand and practically strangle-hugging him with the other. A wave of his scent hits me while we embrace, and he smells familiar and wonderful.

His lips go to my cheek. "Hey."

"Hi."

"I missed you."

"I missed you too," I whisper, squeezing him tighter.

He pulls back, but he keeps his hand on the curve of my neck. "I'm here now."

His gaze trails to where my hand is holding up my dress. Minutely, his lips fold over his teeth and he bites down. His tongue pokes out, wetting his lips before he says, "Julia. We've talked about what you wear when you answer the door. A bikini is one thing, but this—" He waves his hand over me. "If you were to move your hand, you would be—"

"Naked?" I ask innocently, before I drop my hand.

And, as promised, I'm left completely naked.

He blinks hard, taking me in hungrily before he steps into the suite, slams the door shut behind us, and picks me up in both arms.

"August—"

"Shut up," he grits against my lips. "Neither of us is saying another word until you've come with my cock inside of you."

I'm too deliriously excited to put him in his place for that comment, so I vow to set him straight later. For now, I'm not about to argue with a man who I've yearned to touch for the last two months.

His hands palm me knowingly, proprietarily, while he carries me to my bedroom and drops me on the bed. I play unwilling, making a half-assed attempt to crawl away, but he catches me by the ankle and pulls me down until my leg hangs off the bed.

The expression of fury on his face drips with power, even if I know it's for show. When he flips me over onto my stomach, I moan with anticipation, knowing he'll make it rough for me.

Big hands run down my bare back, flattening the goosebumps peppering me. Anticipation turns to pleasure. He kneads my skin, focusing on my shoulders first, then my lower back, until he grips my bare ass.

He said it in Cartagena: "Next time I see you, I'm going to take your ass so well, you'll be begging me for forgiveness for all the games you play, all the stunts you've pulled."

I want to tell him yes. I want to tell him to keep going and to do what he promised because I'm game for anything he wants. But he ordered me not to speak, and for the first time in my life I want to do exactly what I'm told.

Not another word until…

My brain goes cloudy when he licks and kisses the small of my back. His hands are everywhere, tracing the soft contours of my ass and skimming between my cheeks in a cruel tease.

I want more. I need more.

Like he senses I'm on the verge of pleading in desperation, Gus pulls my cheeks apart. I gasp when something touches my asshole. He fucking spit on it.

I groan from the filth of the act, trying to keep it together while his fingertip pushes into my ass, his spit acting as lubrication.

Yes yes yes—

"Damn it," Gus grits when the phone on the nightstand suddenly rings.

Alarmed, I push myself onto my hands to stare at it. Who's calling my hotel room right now?

He pulls away from me and rises to his feet. "Are you too young to know what that thing is?" he deadpans, pacing in place like he's trying to shake off pent-up frustration. "It's a phone, beautiful girl. When it rings, you answer it."

"Bite me," I reply. Reluctantly, I climb off the bed and I saunter—still stark naked—over to the phone. "Hello?"

"Can you come down now?" Jay asks without greeting me, his voice thick with impatience. "The hotel bar is dead. We need to get out of here."

Shit. I hadn't thought this far ahead. I was so single-mindedly focused on seeing Gus after two months, I completely forgot Jay was waiting for me.

"I need a few minutes." I eye Gus, who is glaring at me with his thick arms folded across his chest. He knows. He knows I'm speaking to Jay, and judging by his posture, he isn't thrilled. "Why did you call the suite?"

"You didn't pick up when I called your cell, like, three times."

He called me three times. Only fifteen minutes have passed since he left…Has Jay always been this demanding?

"Fine. I'll be there soon," I relent before I hang up, reluctant to broach this conversation with Gus. I take a deep breath. "Do you want to have a drink with Jay and me?" I ask, knowing the mere question is going to piss Gus off beyond recognition.

Naturally, his face tightens. Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched—he's gone from lusty and insatiable to dark and dangerous in a matter of seconds. "You really did it. You really summoned me out here while you're traveling with a man who kissed you right in front of me."

The thing is…I do like it when he gets like this.

"Yes." I'm shameless. I smile sweetly, like an angel.

"You really are a psychopath," he mutters, saying the words like they amuse him.

I nod, not denying it. "Are you in or not?"

"I'm all in," he replies, his jaw still tight. "I'll sit with Jay. My girl wants me to play nice with her friend, so I'll do it. I'll always give you whatever you want, Julia. Remember that."

I hold his gaze for too long, assessing the depth of his words. In bed? In life?

"Anything," he goes on. "I mean it. I'll give you everything you could possibly want. Can he?"

Oh, those words shouldn't make me inhale with desire, but they do—they really do.

"Don't be jealous," I say, not breaking the intense eye contact. "It's just a drink."

"Jealous?" Gus questions with a hint of a snicker lingering on his lips. "Why the hell would I be jealous? My spit is on your asshole, Julia."

My jaw lowers at the crudeness and confidence in his words, even though I should be accustomed to them by now. London, Milan, Montana, Cartagena, and now Vienna—this man's filthy comments have heated my blood and body all around the world.

Smirking, he brushes past me to exit the bedroom. "Put your clothes on," he calls over his shoulder. "I can't take you anywhere like that."

Jay is nowhere to be found when Gus and I arrive at the busy hotel bar, but eventually he texts to let me know he got tired of waiting and moved on to a bar a couple blocks over.

While I work on tracking down Jay, Gus rests his hand on the small of my back, shamelessly reading my texts over my shoulder. I don't stop him. Stopping him would force him to move away from me, and I like having him planted at my side. Possessive. Territorial. I imagine we make a gorgeous pair to anyone seeing us. We're dressed to the nines and both unaffected by our luxurious surroundings like we've seen and done it all before.

We probably look like a real couple.

The temptation to indulge in the fantasy becomes overwhelming when he takes up a gentle touch. His fingertips dance over my bare back, and I imagine him caressing me tenderly in a hundred different places. Parties. Galas. Weddings. Any one of my father's events. What would it be like to bring Gus? He's so affectionate, always touching me when he has a chance. I'm sure he'd be by my side all night, unwilling to separate for even a minute. I'd love that.

Stop it.

"We can meet Jay there," I suggest and motion for Gus to follow me to the hotel's front desk. "I can get a cab."

"We can walk," he interjects, nodding his head at the main entrance.

Surprised, I pull back my head. Does Gus…does he even walk places?

"We don't have to if it would hurt your feet," he goes on, glancing at my heels. "But it's a nice night and the bar is only five minutes away."

"I love that idea," I admit.

A small grin plays across his lips and he positions my hand on his bicep so he can escort me. "I knew you would. You love being outside."

He remembered. And there it goes again, my stomach lighting up with glitter and fluttering wings and other new, shimmery stuff that confuses and excites me all at once.

The short walk from the hotel to the bar where we're meeting Jay gives us a peek into a Saturday night in Vienna. It's nearly springtime, so tourism is starting to ramp up. The streets are crowded with locals and visitors alike braving the brisk evening for a night on the town.

After a few minutes, we near the Staatsoper, where I took the picture I sent to Gus. As we pass, he pulls my hand back. "Wait. We need a better picture in front of it."

"Of us?"

"If you want, but really, I was thinking of you."

Before I can clarify if Gus seriously wants to take a picture of me, he puts both hands on my shoulders to position me. "Stay there," he instructs before backing up on the sidewalk and glaring at a group of pedestrians who nearly pass in front of the shot. "Okay, look off to the side…"

He holds up his phone and bends his knees, looking for the right angle. "Yeah, perfect. Just move your hair a bit…yeah. Amazing."

After a minute, he moves to the side, keeping his eyes on his phone screen. "Got it," he declares. He holds out his phone. The image on screen looks borderline professional—good enough for me to post and garner a shit ton of likes if I wanted.

"Wow, August." I scroll through the pictures he took. There are easily fifteen to twenty great ones.

"Yep, you look perfect," he murmurs, giving me the compliment instead of taking it for himself.

Surprised, I look up and find him staring at the screen, his face beaming like a proud boyfriend or something.

Or something.

I'm so screwed.

Jay's eyes dance between Gus and me in a perturbed tango. Slowly, a frown crosses his face until his brow is so tight, it leaves a mark when he relaxes his features. He blinks several times, forcefully, like his contact lenses are dry. "Where did he come from?" he finally asks.

"London," Gus answers simply before he picks up the cocktail menu waiting on the table, not indulging Jay's obvious disgust. "These cocktails are thirty euros," he mutters. "Basically forty dollars."

"Too steep for you?" Jay responds, scoffing. He takes a sip of the forty dollar cocktail he ordered before we arrived.

"So it sounds like you're paying." Gus flicks the menu shut, throwing the gauntlet.

Jay freezes and stares at Gus over the table, pinning him with a look of annoyance. When Gus doesn't immediately offer an apology (because he would never), Jay rolls his eyes.

"You know what? Screw this," he declares. He slams his glass on the tabletop. "Julia, let's go."

It takes me a moment to realize what Jay is saying. Surprised, I look at Jay, who is standing and buttoning his jacket. He holds his hand out, motioning for me to stand.

"Jay, I invited Gus here," I explain—although I'm confused why it needs to be said.

And yet Jay shakes his head. "Jules, I want to go. We're not having a repeat of Cartagena."

Gus looks over at me, lingering on my mouth before he makes eye contact. His lips twist upwards into a rare grin before he whispers in my ear—softly, but not soft enough to be inaudible to Jay—"Oh, did you tell him what we did in Cartagena?"

The question is innocuous on the outside, but the innuendo runs deep. I exhale, trying to keep my cool, but the memory of Gus sharing me with Peter does the opposite. My skin flushes gradually, and even though neither of the men on either side of me can see my micro-reaction, my silence must speak volumes.

"What happened in Cartagena?" Jay demands, glancing between Gus and me. "What the hell is this? Are you two, like, a thing?"

I don't know how to answer. Scratch that—I know how I would answer if the question came from anyone but Jay. It's clear: Gus and I are a thing. It doesn't have a label, but we're most certainly a thing.

We're the best fucking thing.

We're two people whose intrinsic infatuation for one another smothers every defense mechanism we've honed over the years. We're two people who fuck each other well—so, so, so well. We're two people who have captivated each other so completely that one of the world's most notable recluses is regularly burning jet fuel in pursuit of one of the world's most prolific socialites—and she's wondering why he hasn't invited her to Montana again.

Simply put, we're two people who have taken over each other's minds and bodies—and hearts, possibly.

"I'll meet up with you tomorrow." I leave it at that.

Jay knows a dismissal when he hears one. His expression falls, the way it always does. Without a word, he presses through the Saturday night crowd. I watch him go, his perfectly sculpted shoulders weaving out of the bar and into the Vienna night.

"So, I take it he's not paying," Gus murmurs, pulling me back from the precipice and making me laugh out loud.

We stick around for the forty-dollar cocktails and do a late dinner at Amador, a bit off the beaten path, but worthy of each of its Michelin stars. Throughout the meal, Gus listens to me gush about every course and tells me what he likes about each one. He's a novice gourmand, but I do catch him looking up the Michelin Guide on his phone when he thinks I'm busy deciding what digestif I want.

Before we leave the restaurant, he insists on taking a picture of me in front of the barrels of wine lining the back. During the impromptu photo shoot, one of the servers spots us and offers to take a picture of the two of us together. It's our first one ever.

Later, during the ride to the hotel, I post the picture of Gus and me. It's a far cry from the perfect, well-lit and edited images I typically share with my followers, but by the time Gus's driver is dropping us off in the city center, the image already has tens of thousands of likes.

"This doesn't bother you, does it?" I show Gus the picture on my phone so he can see the likes—and the thousands of comments demanding to know if Gus and I are a couple. "I should have asked before I posted it. I know you're private."

He scrolls his finger on the screen to read some of the comments. "A lot of people are calling me ‘daddy.' Is that a common thing, Julia? Because I thought it was just something you said."

His genuine earnestness makes me melt, but I keep my cool and tug one of his lapels so he tilts close to me. "Let me be clear," I murmur, speaking while our lips are only a fraction of an inch apart. "Nobody else gets to call you Daddy."

"Fucking noted," he replies before he kisses me.

"Yes," I cry out. "Harder."

Gus pounds into me, slamming me so hard against the wall with each thrust that the pictures hanging on the wainscot panels shake and threaten to fall. I don't care—and neither does he. I beg him not to stop, and he scoffs—because of course he wouldn't stop.

Once we got back to the hotel, the evening turned into a lusty, desperate blur. We weren't even inside Gus's room before we started pulling off each other's clothes. We barely made it inside before he had his hand under my dress—which is why he's taking me a mere two feet away from the door to his suite.

He palms my breast over my dress (because it was too much work for us to find the zipper). His thrusts get rougher and faster, and soon I'm coming around him, thanking his humongous ego for bringing us together in the first place.

He follows a minute after me, pulling out of me before releasing his cum on my face while I kneel on the floor. It lands on my chin, across my mouth, in my hair. Everywhere. I'm filthy—in every way—and obsessed.

"Fuck, you look pretty," he murmurs. He wipes his thumb through his release, leading a path to my mouth. I welcome his finger between my lips, sucking on him and savoring him. He beams at me, looking pleased.

When he helps me up, my knees are red from falling to the floor. His eyes dart to the angry marks, and the tick in his jaw tells me he's not happy about it. Carefully, he brings me to the bedroom and lays me in the center of the bed. He takes the time to find the tiny, hidden zipper on the side of my dress, and carefully drags it down until I'm free. Then he kisses my knees languidly, tenderly, until his kisses gradually bring him up to my pussy. He works another orgasm out of me—a soft and methodical orgasm that leaves me sated to the point of exhaustion.

We fall asleep together, bodies tangled around each other, and even our noses touching.

I awaken at three in the morning, which has historically been the time when I've hastily scooped up my clothing and tiptoed out of his room and his life. Tonight, I won't. Tonight, I would rather stay and enjoy his arms wrapped around me. I turn around to move into his embrace—and I'm shocked to find the bed empty.

Panic strikes me. I palm the space adjacent to me where the sheets are cold and wrinkled.

He left me. He left me.

I try to find my underwear, but the room is pitch black and the pair I was wearing are—let's face it—really tiny. I'm fumbling in the dark like an idiot, trying to swallow the lump in my throat because I can't believe I managed to screw this up.

These past two months were excruciating. Every bit of willpower and impulse control in my body went towards keeping Gus at an arm's length. I knew it was risky to put space between us for months, but I wanted to know him. I thought it would be worth it, in the end, if we learned there was more between us than electrifying sex.

And there was—there is—I thought. We're so similar—both awfully misunderstood. The world knows him as a cold and cruel recluse, obsessed with his work, when he's just tentative with his unparalleled brilliance. The world thinks I'm a glamorous, jet-setting hedonist and socialite, when I just want a stable partner who loves me and takes me seriously, but keeps me on my toes.

For a decade, I've relied on the excitement of travel to keep my interest. Then I met Gus, and realized he could thrill me in ways I never thought possible—all from his heated patio in Montana.

And I ruined it all somehow, even when I thought we finally had our shit together.

My heart wants to split at the thought of him leaving, and I need him here. I need him here right now because—

Because I love him.

The realization collides into me like a Toyota Corolla skidding and slamming into a ditch. I love Gus Winter. I'm truly and unequivocally in love with Gus Winter.

I love him even though I tried not to. I love him even though he's reticent to fall in love again.

But how could I not love him? How could I not love a man who beams when he hears me talk about the books I've read and takes fantastic pictures of me like it's his job? How could I not love a man who fucks like a god and worships me like I'm a goddess? How could I not love a man who can buy literally anything, but still mopes sometimes because all he wants is a freaking puppy?

Frantic, I race to the suite's living room to find my phone and to call the shit out of him until he comes back.

"Julia?"

Startled, I jump and look around the dark living room until I spot Gus. He's reclining with his back against the entrance to the suite, shirtless with a blanket draped over his shoulders. His laptop rests on his thighs and a frown covers his face.

"What the hell are you doing running around the suite…naked?" He peers over at me.

"What the hell are you doing over there?" I demand, trying to retain my dignity even though this is one of the most mortifying moments of my life.

He glances over his shoulder at the door behind him. "Nothing."

Thick silence swells between us because it's abundantly clear neither of us wants to admit what we're doing.

"Are you…are you guarding the door? August, are you guarding the door so I can't leave?" I finally ask.

"No." He's not convincing.

"Okay, liar. Well, I'm running around naked, in a panic, because I thought you left me, and the thought of you gone makes me sick to my stomach. So, I'll ask again: Are you guarding the door?"

"I mean, it was either that or I tie you to the bed," he replies, feigning seriousness before a smile breaks across his face.

I burst out laughing, unable to hold back. I'm still laughing when he scoops me up and carries me back to the bedroom, where he makes good on his threat to tie me to the bed. Twice.