Chapter Six: Dripping Temptation
474 Words
Julian stepped inside, water running in rivulets down his bare arms, shirt clinging to every sculpted muscle.
“You’re soaking wet,” Sasha said, closing the door behind him.
“Didn’t want the wine to get lonely.”
She stared at the bottle, then up at him—trying to ignore the way her stomach flipped at his crooked smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
He handed her a glass. “You’re welcome.”
Thunder cracked overhead as the storm intensified. The villa's power flickered briefly, casting the room into flickering shadows before settling again.
Sasha led him into the lounge, where the storm echoed around them through the glass walls. Rain pounded the windows. The ocean churned in the distance. It felt like they were trapped inside a heartbeat.
“You always crash women's villas during storms?” she asked.
“Only when they’re dangerous,” he replied, sinking into the couch.
Sasha arched a brow and took the other seat. “You think I’m dangerous?”
Julian’s gaze dragged over her like a caress. “You walk into every room like you own it. You don’t flinch when men flirt—or threaten. You keep everyone at arm’s length, but you look like you’re starving for something real.”
That last part hit her square in the chest.
She swallowed. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he said softly. “But I want to.”
The silence between them thickened—heavy with unspoken tension, sharp with heat.
Julian leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes locked with hers. “Tell me to leave, and I will.”
Sasha’s breath hitched.
He was giving her a choice.
Control.
And that, more than anything, made her want him.
She stood slowly and walked toward him, every step deliberate, her body vibrating with anticipation.
She stopped in front of him. “What happens if I don’t?”
Julian stood too—close now, so close.
“Then I’ll touch you the way you’ve been begging to be touched since the moment you met me.”
Sasha’s lips parted, her chest rising fast.
The wine glass slipped from her fingers to the couch. Julian reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lower lip.
“You sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse.
She leaned in until their foreheads touched.
“I’m sure.”
Then he kissed her.
And it wasn’t gentle.
It was desperate. Hot. Starved.
A kiss that told stories—of frustration, of tension, of days spent pretending they didn’t want this.
She melted into him, hands fisting in his damp shirt. He groaned into her mouth, lifting her easily, carrying her to the couch as the storm howled around them.
It wasn’t just rain that poured that night.
It was all the restraint they’d tried to keep.
Gone.
- Writer
