Page 129 of Played
My jeans are the next casualty—I wiggle out of them somewhere near the small black table by our bedroom, hopping awkwardly on one foot while Julian's hands cup my face, refusing to stop kissing me even as I struggle with the denim bunched around my ankles. I finally kick them free, and they land in a crumpled heap on the dark hardwood floor, forgotten the instant they leave my body.
His button-down shirt comes off next, and my fingers are clumsy with need as I work the buttons, fumbling each one while his mouth travels down my neck, his teeth grazing that sensitive spot just below my ear that makes my knees weak.
He helps me, his own hands joining mine to speed up the process, and together we manage to get the shirt open. I push it off his broad shoulders, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. The sight of his bare chest, the smooth expanse of his dark skin and the artwork of his tattoo sleeve, makes something clench low in my belly.
By the time we stumble through the doorway into the bedroom, we're half-naked and completely breathless, our hands everywhere at once—his palms sliding down my spine, my fingers exploring the hard planes of his shoulders and back.
Our mouths collide in messy, urgent kisses that are all teeth and tongue and desperate need, neither of us capable of slowing down, of being gentle or tender when all we want is to be closer, impossibly closer, to erase the nightmare of the past days with the reality of right now.
He lays me down, hovering over me, eyes dark and intense.
"Are you okay?" I search his face, fingers tracing the bruise along his jaw.
"I am now." He dips his head slowly, his breath warm against my flushed skin as he presses his lips to my collarbone first—soft, sweet kisses that make my breath hitch.
Then he moves lower, his mouth trailing down to my chest, lingering there as his hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts.
I arch into him, fingers threading through his beautiful wavy hair, and he travels further down my body, kissing lower still as he slides my panties over my hips and down my legs.
I’m drowning. I want him so bad.
When he enters me, I cry out—not from pain but from the overwhelming rush of relief, from the sheer intensity of having him here with me like this, alive and warm and real, free from that horrible place, mine in this moment and every moment after.
My nails dig into his shoulders as he begins to move, starting slow and deliberate at first, his hips rolling in a measured rhythm that makes me gasp.
Then something shifts between us—the desperation, the fear we've been holding back—and he moves harder, more demanding, setting a pace that steals the breath from my lungs. Each push sends shockwaves through my body, and I meet him movement for movement, our bodies finding their own frantic rhythm.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, needing to feel every inch of him. Tears slip down my temples, mingling with the sweat on my skin.
"I love you," I whisper, the words breaking on a sob.
He stills for just a second, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged. "I love you too. So much."
Then he's moving again, and I'm lost in the rhythm, in the heat building between us. Guilt twists with pleasure, fear with love, until I can't tell where one emotion ends and anotherbegins. All I know is Julian—his hands gripping my hips, his breath hot against my neck, the way he whispers my name like a prayer.
When we come, it's together, bodies shaking, holding on like we're each other's anchor in a storm.
After, we lie tangled in the soft sheets of his bed, our bodies still pressed close, his arm draped heavily across my waist, his fingers tracing lazy, mindless patterns on my damp skin. The weight of him grounds me, reminds me that he's here, that this is real.
Neither of us speaks for the longest time. The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable—it's full of everything we've just shared, everything we've been through. We don't need words right now. Our racing hearts speak for us, gradually slowing in tandem. The occasional brush of his thumb against my ribs, the way my fingers absently curl against his chest—these small touches say more than any conversation could.
I press the magenta marker against the intricate mandala, filling in petals with slow, deliberate strokes. The repetitive motion should calm me—that's what the YouTube tutorial promised—but my hand keeps shaking, betraying my nerves and smudging the carefully drawn lines I'm trying so hard to stay within.
Between Daniel lying in that hospital bed in a coma, Julian's recent arrest that still makes my heart race with anxiety every time I think about it, and just... everything else happening in my chaotic, unpredictable life right now, I'm completely and utterly frazzled. My brain feels like it's running on fumes, scattered in a million different directions at once.
I set the marker down for a moment, rubbing my tired eyes with the heels of my palms. From the living room, I can hear Julian's voice—low and tense, barely more than a murmur. He's been on the phone for the past ten minutes, pacing back and forth across the hardwood floor. Each footstep creaks softly, matching the edge in his tone that carries just far enough for me to know he's upset about something. The actual words, though? Those stay frustratingly out of reach, lost in the distance between us and the deliberate quietness of his voice.
I pick up the magenta marker again, trying to focus on the mandala, but my attention keeps drifting toward the living room doorway. Whatever this conversation is about, it's clearly not going well.
"That's not good enough." His voice cuts through the quiet. "I'm paying you for results, not excuses."
I glance up, marker hovering over the page. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up.
"Three weeks. I've given you three weeks and what do I have? Nothing." He pauses, listening, then shakes his head. "No. No more time. We're done."
He ends the call, stabbing at the screen harder than necessary.
"Everything okay?"
