Tyler's pov
The knock came just after noon. I wasn't expecting anyone—least of all her.
I opened the door and there she was. Julia. Her hair tied loosely, eyes heavy with something I couldn't name—guilt? Conflict? God, she looked beautiful.
"Hey," she said, voice quiet.
My first instinct was to slam the door. Not out of anger—just... defense. But I stepped aside instead. "Come in."
I watched her walk into the house like it was hers, like nothing had happened. Like I hadn't seen Antwan's lips on hers at her gate. Like she hadn't fractured something in me that night.
"You want something to drink?" I asked. My voice felt foreign in my throat. She nodded, and I handed her a glass of orange juice—my hands were shaking more than I wanted to admit.
She stood in the living room, holding the glass like it was the only thing anchoring her.
"I know you saw Antwan kiss me," she said suddenly. Her voice cracked just enough to make me look up.
I blinked. "Did Camila tell you?"
"No," she said. "I saw it myself."
That made me pause. "Then what are you doing here, Julia?"
Her eyes searched my face. "I don't know. I didn't plan anything. I just… I didn't want you thinking he meant more than you do."
"You didn't choose him?" I asked, trying to keep my voice level.
"I didn't choose anyone," she whispered. "What happened… just did. And I'm sorry. But you're not some mistake I made during a storm."
The words hung in the air. I didn't know what to do with them. I didn't want to be grateful for scraps. I didn't want to be second-best.
"And what does that mean for us?" I asked.
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. "I don't know."
Frustration bloomed in my chest, spreading like fire.
"How am I supposed to choose?" she burst out suddenly. "I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't. I like you, Tyler. You taste like freedom and redwood. You smell like everything I've ever wanted and don't even get me started on how you look at me—"
"But Antwan," I bit out. Her words were beautiful, but they stung.
"He's sweet. I like him too," she confessed, voice breaking. "How do two people expect me to choose when my heart—"
I didn't let her finish.
I closed the distance between us in two strides, and the glass slipped from her hand and hit the carpet with a thud. Her back met the wall with a soft gasp, and I caged her in—one hand pressed against the wall, the other brushing her cheek.
I didn't ask. I kissed her.
Hard. Frustrated. Needing answers that wouldn't come in words.
She kissed me back like she'd been holding back the same storm. Like she needed the chaos too. My fingers tangled in her hair as her hands tugged my shirt. The room disappeared. Everything disappeared. It was just her. Just us.
I lifted her, and her legs wrapped around me instinctively. I carried her to my room once again, the tension breaking into something messier, deeper, truer than anything we'd ever dared to say.
No more holding back. She straddle me, feeling the heat of her skin against mine. Our lips met again, this time deeper and more urgent. I pulled away for a breath—only for her to pull me back, her hands sliding up my neck as she kissed a trail along it, nibbling softly at my ears. Her whispered need shattered the walls I'd built around myself. This wasn't the gentle touch of that stormy night; this was hunger, desperation. I was already hard from just the kiss, and the warmth of her breasts pressed into my chest made it impossible to think straight.
My hands fumbled at the buttons of her blouse, trembling with anticipation. When I finally freed her from the fabric, her smooth skin invited me like a siren's call. She shifted on me, teasing, and I couldn't help myself—I cupped her breasts, my fingers pinching hard at her nipples. I wanted her to feel my anger, my frustration—the ache of everything unsaid, everything broken between us. Her moan was raw, a mix of pleasure and need, and she threw her head back, eyes closed as she lost herself.
I peeled off my shirt, my skin prickling where hers touched mine. She smiled, teasing, pressing a kiss to my chest. I moved her breasts to my mouth, tasting, savoring her. She was a trembling, moaning mess beneath me, her body begging for more.
She begged me to slow down, but I bit her lightly on the neck instead, drawing a sharp cry from her lips. Her head found my shoulder, breath quickening, but I wasn't done—not by a long shot.
I flipped her over, heart pounding as I undid her pants. Her gasp sent a thrill through me. I pulled off her pants and panties, exposing every curve I'd memorized but never fully claimed. Laying naked before me, she was a promise and a challenge all at once. My cock twitched uncontrollably, and I stroked myself, watching her eyes track every movement.
She stared at me, breath hitching, and I knew she noticed I wasn't as big as some might expect. Seven inches, nothing impressive. But I wasn't about to let that stop me. I was going to make her feel everything I couldn't say.
I kissed down her stomach, feeling the heat rise from her skin. My hands roamed her breasts, teasing and tormenting, before moving lower, fingers trailing over her wet folds. Her body arched, hips pushing into my touch. She gasped and clutched my hands as I slipped two fingers inside her, slow and sure. Her moans built, desperate and sweet, but I held back, wanting her to feel every inch of my frustration.
She called my name, breathless and pleading. I needed this to be more than just physical—I needed her to understand what she'd done to me. When she begged for more, I gave in, but only on my terms. She had to ride me for her release.
She climbed on top, lowering herself down slowly, and I nearly lost control. The tightness, the warmth, the sound of her moaning—it was overwhelming. Her breasts bounced against me in a rhythm that drove me wild. If anyone else had seen her like this, I would have been lost forever.
For a moment, I thought maybe I could share her, but no. She was my drug, my addiction.
Her hips moved back and forth, and just as she teetered on the edge, I stopped her. Her eyes widened in disbelief, lips trembling as she whined she was so close. I was right there with her, burning with need, but I couldn't risk it—not without protection.
I told her to lie back, promising I'd take care of her. I already knew what she liked, and as I began to work her over again, she came apart beneath me. Her release was mine to savor—I drank her down, tasting everything she was. She was intoxicating.
As I rose to clean us up, I realized I still needed relief. Knees shaky, she sat me on the edge of the bed, still trembling from her orgasm. Then, to my shock, she lowered herself, taking my tip into her mouth. I groaned, the sensation driving me closer to the edge.
Her throat tightened around me, and tears formed in her eyes from the intensity. I couldn't hold back—I gripped her hair gently but firmly, guiding her head deeper. She gagged, struggling for breath, and I kissed her, whispering encouragements . She obeyed, pushing further, her determination a fierce contrast to the vulnerability in her eyes.
I was about to explode, but I pulled her head back, telling her I'd finish on my own. I didn't want to lose control and risk hurting her. But she insisted she wanted to please me, bobbing her head with earnest desperation. I groaned again, lost to the moment, and came deep into her mouth.
I felt guilty, but when I pulled her up and apologized, she just smiled, wiped her lips, and whispered that she wanted to cuddle.
I was stunned, but somehow, that simple desire felt like a balm to all the chaos inside me.
We didn't talk. We didn't need to. It wasn't tender. It was desperate.
It was a line we crossed—and we both knew it.
Later, when it was quiet and the storm inside me calmed just enough to hear her breathing, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't just want her.
I might have already been in love with her.