Page 91 of Holy Hearts
Smirking, I shrug as I walk up to him to open the door. I get a whiff of whiskey and his musky, bergamot scent, and I hate how much I’ve come to enjoy his smell.
“He can use a litter box, too.”
Julian scoffs. “Fuck off.”
I chuckle and we take the elevator up to my floor. Once we’re inside my apartment, the door closes behind us and I crouch down and unclasp Willy’s harness. He yips and squeaks a few times before running wildly into his playroom. As I stand, I look back at Julian, who is hovering near the front door.
Why is it that I’m always aware of his presence now? I don’t remember feeling this way when we were teenagers.
Then again, I wasn’t fucking his wife while she fed me his cum back then, either.
But right now? He’s like a storm cloud, ready to burst. And I suppose he’s always been that way—always had an astounding effect on his surroundings. I used to say it was because he had a larger-than-life personality, but now I’m wondering if it’s more than that.
Especially as his sharp gaze cuts through the dim lighting, pinning me in place.
“You wanted to talk?” I ask. My voice is steadier than I feel. There’s no point in dancing around the fact that he texted me and wants to talk. Also, the fact that he’s here on a Wednesday night, at nearly nine in the evening, instead of at home with Sophie, sends a nervous thrill through me. My stomach twists with nerves, and I don’t want to examine why too closely.
Julian shrugs off his suit jacket in a singular fluid motion, laying it over the back of my couch with practiced precision. Leaning against the back of it with two hands, he looks back up at me. His expression is relaxed, and I know I didn’t misplace the smell of whiskey earlier.He’s been drinking.
I don’t know why that thought makes my heart begin to race.
His eyes gleam with something darker as he huffs a laugh.
“Yeah,” he finally says. “I wanted to talk about what happened on Saturday. And Sunday. At the gym.”
My hands, mid-motion to set my keys and phone on the entryway table, go still. The memory of what he said in the locker room echoes too vividly in my head. Forcing myself to gently place my belongings down, I slide my hands in the pockets of my pants as I attempt to project the nonchalance I don’t feel.
“What about it?” My voice comes out too quiet—toocareful.
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he remains behind my couch, which is probably for the best, considering he pinned me against the cold, metal lockers the last time we saw each other. Everything inside of me tightens when I think of his hand against my back.
When I think of howin controlhe was, and how I could’ve moved, but instead submitted.
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry for ripping up your contract on Saturday. And I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable in any way. I didn’t expect to get so riled up, uh, watching.”
I stop breathing, fighting the urge to look away, to escape the weight of what he’s admitting.
I knew he was riled up. I could tell by the way he touched himself. But to hear him admit it…
“As for the locker room,” he continues. His voice has an edge to it now. “I suppose I was…” He hesitates, running a hand through his hair before letting it fall over his forehead. “I was still angry about what happened that night seventeen years ago. And I wanted to hurt you.”
The floor feels unsteady, and I swallow hard, unsure of where to go from here. The words from the locker room work through me again, just as sharp and biting as the first time.
Mywifeenjoyed her night, and so did I. Thank you for your service.
And then the murmur that followed, venomous and deliberate…
How does it feel to be used? Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?
The memory burns, but I can’t ignore the heat it stirs in me—something jagged and raw, but unmistakably alive.
Julian’s voice pulls me back to the present. “It was immature of me to taunt you. So, I’m sorry.”
I stare at him as my heart pounds against my ribs. Truth be told, his words hurt more than I’d like to admit. There was something pulling me closer to both Julian and Sophie, and with those words, he’d drawn a line in the ground and treated me like a male escort. Not that there was anything wrong with sex work, but I suppose I just assumed that whatever the three of us had went deeper than that.
He’d made me feel like a mere transaction, and I was still reeling from it.
“Sorry,” I echo, the words like ash in my mouth. “That’s it? That’s why you wanted to talk?”
