She was drowning in need—helpless and aching—watching him take what he wanted without hesitation while she was forced to wait, to watch, to burn in silence.
Julian didn't need words.
The way he moved—relaxed, confident, utterly unbothered—was a language of its own.
Leaning back in the chair, he spread his legs wider, cock still wrapped in his hand. His eyes met hers for a heartbeat, then they drifted back down to his cock, as if to say, This is what you don't get to touch.
Her thighs squeezed together. The ache had become its own pulse, deep and needy. She shifted slightly, almost unnoticeable—until his brows lifted the slightest bit, amused by her current predicament.
She had confidently walked in, hoping to seduce her way into his bed, hoping to curry some favors after selling herself, but here she was reduced to nothing but dust, nothing but a lowly whore.
He slowed his pace, drawing out the moment.
