Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Best Man

Julian's lips hovered a millimeter from hers, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin, the vibration of his breath against her sensitive flesh. The anticipation was torture-worse than the kiss would be, worse than anything-this suspended moment where she could still pull back, still pretend she was the woman she'd been three hours ago. Kloe's head tilted back, instinct seeking escape. Julian's hand tightened at her nape, fingers pressing into the tension knots at the base of her skull, holding her exactly where he wanted her. "Don't," he warned, the word brushing her mouth. He reached sideways, finding the wine glass on the windowsill. She watched him drink, his throat working, the column of muscle shifting beneath skin she'd never been close enough to study. Then his free hand was at her jaw, thumb and fingers applying precise pressure, and her mouth opened in surprise. He bent. His lips sealed over hers, and the wine flooded her mouth-warm from his body, flavored with tobacco and something darker, forced past her teeth with the insistence of his tongue. Kloe gagged, swallowed, her hands coming up to push against his chest and finding only unyielding muscle. Julian didn't relent. His tongue swept through her mouth with methodical thoroughness, claiming every surface, erasing every boundary. The alcohol burned down her throat, pooling heat in her stomach that spread outward, loosening the rigid terror that had held her since the corridor. Her hands stopped pushing. Curled into fists against his shirtfront. Then, slowly, opened. Spread. Her palms flattened against the hard planes of his chest, feeling the thunder of his heartbeat against her fingertips. Julian made a sound-low, guttural, approving. His arm hooked beneath her knees, lifting her against him, and Kloe's legs wrapped around his waist with the automatic instinct of a drowning woman clinging to wreckage. The wedding gown bunched between them, layers of tulle and crystal creating a barrier he clearly resented. He carried her through the dark suite, past furniture she couldn't identify, until the backs of her thighs met the edge of something soft. The bed. He dropped her onto it, the mattress absorbing her weight, and followed her down with the inevitability of a collapsing building. Kloe's breath left her in a rush. Before she could recover, Julian's hands were at her back, finding the intricate lacing of her bodice. He pulled. The silk cords resisted, then gave way with a sound like ripping silk-no, that was the silk itself, the hand-stitched seams surrendering to his impatience. The dress died beneath his hands. Pearl buttons scattered across the hardwood, bouncing with musical notes. Crystal beads rained down, catching the city light through the windows, a fortune in embellishment reduced to debris. Cool air hit Kloe's spine. She gasped, her arms crossing instinctively over her chest, but Julian caught her wrists. His fingers circled her bones easily, pinning both hands above her head in a grip that allowed no negotiation. "Look at me," he commanded. Kloe's eyes had squeezed shut. She forced them open, blinking against the moisture that blurred her vision. Julian's face filled her world-harsh, beautiful, stripped of the social mask he wore in public. His hair had fallen across his forehead. His mouth was swollen from kissing her. "Keep them open," he said, and his free hand traced down her exposed side, thumb finding the sensitive hollow beneath her ribs. "I want to see you." His mouth followed his hand. Teeth closed on the tendon of her neck, not breaking skin but threatening to, and Kloe's back arched off the mattress with a cry she couldn't suppress. He soothed the mark with his tongue, then moved lower, mapping her collarbone with devastating precision. Lightning flashed outside the window-distant summer storm, heat breaking over the city. The illumination lasted only a second, but it showed her everything: her own pale limbs against the dark bedding, Julian's dark head at her breast, the destruction of her wedding gown strewn across the floor like shed skin. Thunder rolled, low and extended, covering the sounds she was making. Covering, too, any noise from the corridor, from the suite next door where her fiancé was still-where Justen was- Julian's hand moved between her legs, and thought became impossible. Kloe's head fell back, her eyes closing despite his command, and a tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracking toward her temple. She didn't know what it meant. Didn't know if she was mourning or celebrating or simply surviving. His thumb swiped angrily at the tear, smearing the moisture across her cheek with rough possession. "Don't cry for him in my bed," he murmured, his voice harsh, stripping away any illusion of comfort. The raw dominance in his tone forced Kloe's eyes open, searching his face for a reprieve she wouldn't find. Julian's expression was locked in fierce concentration as his free hand moved to unfasten his remaining buttons, as his weight settled fully over her. "Last chance," he breathed against her mouth, though they both knew it wasn't true, that the door was locked and her dress was destroyed and she'd already crossed every line that mattered. Kloe answered by lifting her hips to meet him. Her fingers found the bare skin of his back, digging in, holding on. The pain when it came was bright and clarifying, a single sharp note that cut through the wine and the chaos. Kloe cried out, the sound swallowed by Julian's mouth, and then they were moving together, and the pain transformed into something else entirely, something that built and built until the storm outside was nothing compared to the one breaking inside her skin.