Isabella's heart pounded as Julian's words echoed in her mind—I'll show you everything. His penthouse felt like a cage of glass and desire, the Manhattan skyline glittering beyond the windows like a promise of freedom she wasn't sure she wanted. His hand still held hers, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles on her palm, each touch a spark that threatened to ignite her completely. Her cherry-red lips parted, still tingling from their earlier kiss, and she met his storm-gray eyes, seeing the hunger there, mirrored by her own.
"You talk a big game, Blackwood," she said, her voice low, teasing, but laced with a challenge. "But I'm not here for promises. Show me something real."
Julian's smile was dangerous, a predator's edge softened by something raw, almost vulnerable. "Real," he murmured, stepping closer until his body was a breath from hers, heat radiating through his shirt. "You want real, Isabella? Then don't run from this."
His lips captured hers, slower this time, but no less devastating. The kiss was a dance of control and surrender, his tongue teasing hers with a deliberate rhythm that made her knees weak. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shoulders as she pressed herself closer, craving the hard lines of him. He groaned into her mouth, a sound that vibrated through her, and his hands found her hips, lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the bar counter.
Her dress rode up, the cool marble a shock against her thighs, but his touch was fire, his fingers skimming the bare skin above her stockings. "You drive me insane," he whispered against her lips, his voice rough, unraveling. His mouth trailed to her jaw, then lower, kissing the sensitive curve of her neck, each press of his lips sending shivers down her spine. She arched into him, her nails digging into his back, and let out a soft moan as his hand slid higher, tracing the edge of her dress with a reverence that felt like worship.
"Julian," she breathed, her voice a plea and a command. His eyes met hers, dark with need, and for a moment, the world was just them—two souls caught in a fire neither could control. He pulled her closer, her legs wrapping around his waist, and the kiss deepened, a collision of want and recklessness. The city lights blurred beyond the glass, the penthouse fading as they lost themselves in each other, bodies pressed tight, hearts racing.
His hand slid under her dress, slow and deliberate, and she gasped, her head tilting back as his lips found her collarbone. The tension built, a delicious ache that made her forget the secrets, the doubts, the world outside. Just as she reached for his shirt, ready to pull it free, a sharp buzz cut through the haze—his phone, vibrating on the bar.
Julian froze, his breath ragged, his grip tightening briefly before he pulled back. "Damn it," he muttered, his eyes still locked on her, burning with frustration. He grabbed the phone, glancing at the screen, and his jaw clenched. "I have to take this."
Isabella slid off the counter, smoothing her dress, her body still humming with unspent desire. "Your world never stops, does it?" she said, her tone light but edged with irritation.
He shot her a look, half-apology, half-promise. "Not yet. But for you, it might." He stepped away, answering the call with a curt, "What is it, Ethan?"
Isabella's ears perked at the name. Ethan Caldwell, the charming business partner with the Ascent AI Image Generation System: a devil-may-care grin who'd waltzed into the penthouse last night. She wandered to the window, staring out at the city to cool her nerves, when the door opened again.
A new figure stepped in—a woman, petite and vibrant, with cropped auburn hair and a bohemian flair that clashed with the penthouse's sleek opulence. Her paint-splattered jeans and bright scarf screamed artist, but her sharp brown eyes held a quiet intensity. "Isabella Voss?" she asked, her voice warm but cautious. "I'm Mara Tate. Your work… it's incredible. I had to meet you."
Isabella blinked, caught off guard. "Thanks," she said, stepping forward, her cherry-red lips curving into a polite smile. "You're an artist too?"
Mara nodded, her smile softening. "Yeah, but nothing like you. Your paintings—they hit like a punch to the gut. I saw them at the gala and knew I had to talk to you. I'm curating a show downtown, and I'd love to feature your work."
Julian ended his call, his presence filling the room as he joined them. "Mara," he said, his tone neutral but his eyes wary. "Didn't expect you here."
Mara's smile faltered, a flicker of something—history?—passing between them. "Just business, Julian," she said, but her glance at Isabella held curiosity. "I'm not here to stir up old wounds."
Isabella's brow arched. Old wounds? She glanced at Julian, whose expression was unreadable, a wall of control back in place. "Mara and I go way back," he said, his voice clipped. "She's got a knack for finding talent. And trouble."
Mara laughed, but it was tight. "Still holding grudges, Blackwood? Let's keep this professional." She turned to Isabella. "Your art feels personal. Like it's hiding something. Care to share?"
Isabella stiffened, her past a shadow she didn't want to revisit. "Just paint," she said, her tone light but firm. "What you see is what you get."
Mara's eyes narrowed, assessing, but she nodded. "Fair enough. Think about the show. You'd steal it." She handed Isabella a card, her fingers brushing hers briefly, a spark of connection—or challenge—in her gaze. With a nod to Julian, she left, her scarf trailing like a comet's tail.
Isabella tucked the card away, her mind racing. Mara's warmth felt genuine, but her familiarity with Julian and that comment about her paintings set her on edge. Lena's words from last night echoed—You have no idea what you've stepped into. She turned to Julian, who was watching her, his eyes a mix of desire and something deeper, something guarded.
"What's with you and Mara?" she asked, crossing her arms. "And don't say 'nothing.' I'm not blind."
Julian sighed, running a hand through his hair. "We dated, years ago. It ended badly. She's brilliant but chaotic. Always digging where she shouldn't." His gaze softened, locking onto hers. "But she's not you, Isabella. No one is."
Her heart skipped, but doubt gnawed at her. Mara's words, Lena's warning, the secrets in Julian's eyes—they were pieces of a puzzle she didn't understand. She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his jaw, her cherry-red lips a breath from his. "No more interruptions," she said, her voice a sultry challenge. "But no more secrets either, Julian. I'm in this, but I need the truth."
His hand caught hers, his touch reigniting the fire between them. "Stay the night," he murmured, his voice a low promise. "And we'll start there."
As she leaned into him, the city's pulse outside matching her own, a text lit up her phone. From an unknown number: Your paintings know too much. Be careful, Isabella. Her blood ran cold, but Julian's lips brushed her temple, pulling her back to the heat of the moment. For now, she'd let the fire burn—but the shadows were closing in.