Tangled Lies

The morning light slices through the penthouse blinds, sharp and unforgiving, dragging me out of a dream that's all teeth and tongues. My head throbs, a dull reminder of too much wine and not enough sleep, but my body hums with something else—something raw and restless. I'm sprawled across my bed, sheets twisted around my legs, the black dress from last night crumpled on the floor like a shed skin. The party's over, the guests long gone, but the air still feels heavy, thick with the echo of what happened in that kitchen.

I roll over, expecting to be alone, but there he is—Julian, propped on one elbow, sketching me. His dark hair's a mess, falling into his eyes, and that white shirt hangs open, the wine stain a faint shadow on his chest. The pencil in his hand moves quick and sure across a scrap of paper, and I can feel his gaze tracing me, lingering on the curve of my hip, the dip of my collarbone. It's intimate, invasive, and my skin prickles under it, heat creeping up my thighs.

"Didn't peg you for a morning person," I say, my voice rough with sleep. I stretch, slow and deliberate, letting the sheet slip just enough to tease him. His eyes darken, but he doesn't stop drawing.

"Couldn't sleep," he murmurs, his tone low, like he's still tasting me on his lips. "You're too damn distracting."

I smirk, rolling onto my side to face him. "Good. I'd hate to be forgettable." My fingers itch to touch him, to pick up where we left off, but there's something in his stare that holds me back—something guarded, shadowed. I prop myself up, the sheet falling away, and his pencil pauses, hovering over the page.

"Lena's gone," he says, unprompted, and the name lands like a spark in dry grass. My chest tightens, a flicker of last night flashing through me—her hands, her mouth, the way she turned our chaos into something feral. I don't know if I'm pissed she's not here or relieved.

"She always leaves before the mess gets sticky," I say, keeping my tone light, but there's an edge to it I can't hide. I swing my legs over the bed, standing naked in the morning glow, and I feel his eyes follow me as I grab a silk robe from the chair. It's a power move, letting him look, letting him want, and when I turn back, his sketch is abandoned, the pencil rolling off the bed.

"Last night was…" He trails off, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Unexpected."

"Understatement of the century." I tie the robe loose, the fabric whispering against my skin, and step closer. "You're not complaining, are you?"

He laughs, a rough sound that sends a shiver down my spine. "Not a chance." He stands, closing the distance between us, and I can smell him again—paint and cedar and that faint tang of wine. His fingers brush my arm, light as a promise, and my breath catches. "But I should probably tell you something."

The air shifts, heavy with whatever he's holding back. I tilt my head, inviting it. "Go on."

"I'm married." He says it flat, no apology, just fact. "Separated, but still… tangled."

I freeze, the word sinking in slow, like ink bleeding into paper. Married. Separated. Tangled. It should scare me off, send me running, but instead, it lights something up inside me—something dark and hungry. I step closer, my robe parting just enough to bare a sliver of skin, and his eyes drop to it, helpless.

"Tangled how?" I ask, my voice a purr. I trail a finger down his chest, retracing the path my nails took last night, and he sucks in a breath.

"She's still in my life. Messy divorce. Doesn't mean I don't want this." His hand catches mine, pressing it flat against his skin, and I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong. "Doesn't mean I don't want you."

"Good answer," I say, and I mean it. The danger of it, the mess, only makes him more irresistible. I lean in, brushing my lips against his jaw, and he groans, soft and low. "So, what now, artist? You gonna keep sketching me, or are we picking up where we left off?"

He doesn't answer with words. His hands slide under my robe, palms rough against my hips, and he pulls me against him, hard. My breath hitches as I feel him, already straining through his jeans, and I grind into it, teasing, testing. His mouth finds mine, slower this time, deliberate, like he's savoring every inch of me. It's different from last night's frenzy—less chaos, more intent—and it's driving me wild.

We stumble back to the bed, the robe slipping off my shoulders, and he's on me, his weight pinning me down. His fingers trace lazy circles up my thigh, higher, higher, until I'm trembling, arching into him. "You're trouble," he whispers against my neck, his breath hot, and I laugh, breathless, because he's right.

"Keep going," I murmur, guiding his hand where I need it most. He does, slow and torturous, his thumb brushing just shy of where I'm aching, and I curse under my breath, my hips bucking to chase the touch. Julian's lips curl into that damn smirk, and I want to wipe it off his face—preferably with my mouth. My hands fumble with his jeans, popping the button free, and he groans as I slip inside, finding him hot and heavy against my palm. The power shifts, delicious and fleeting, and I stroke him once, twice, watching his eyes flutter shut.

"Fuck, Sasha," he rasps, his voice breaking, and it's the sweetest sound I've heard all morning. His fingers finally give me what I want, sliding against me with just enough pressure to make me gasp, and we're a tangle of hands and heat, teasing each other to the edge. The bed creaks under us, the sheets a mess, and I don't care—I'm lost in the rhythm of it, the slow burn building to something wild.

But then he pulls back, just enough to catch my gaze, and there's something raw in his eyes—like he's peeling back a layer he didn't mean to show. "You don't care, do you?" he says, half question, half challenge. "About the wife. The mess."

I pause, my hand still on him, my breath ragged. "Should I?" I tilt my head, letting my hair fall across my face like a curtain. "You said separated. That's enough for me." It's not entirely true—there's a thrill in the forbidden, in knowing he's still tied to someone else, someone who could crash through this moment like Lena did last night. But I don't say that. I just press closer, my lips brushing his ear. "Unless you're having second thoughts."

"No second thoughts," he says, and his voice is firm now, resolute. He flips me onto my back, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, and I arch up, loving the weight of him, the control. His free hand roams, tracing the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, and I'm trembling again, every nerve lit up. "Just wanted to be sure you're in this."

"Oh, I'm in," I say, and I hook my legs around him, pulling him down until there's no space left between us. His mouth crashes into mine, and it's messy again, all heat and hunger, tongues clashing as we grind against each other. The friction's unbearable, my robe long gone, and I can feel him through the denim, so close to where I need him. I claw at his back, nails digging in, and he hisses, the sound vibrating against my lips.

The morning stretches on, lazy and indulgent, and we don't rush it. He takes his time, kissing a slow path down my throat, my chest, his stubble scraping my skin in a way that makes me squirm. I tug at his hair, guiding him lower, and he obliges, his breath hot against my stomach as he works his way down. Every touch is a tease, every pause a torment, and I'm unraveling, piece by piece, under his hands.

But there's a question nagging at me, buried under the haze of want. Who's this wife? What's she like? Does she know he's here, sketching me, fucking me? I push it down, focus on the feel of his fingers, the way he's looking at me like I'm his muse and his ruin all at once. It doesn't matter. Not now. Not when he's got me this wound up, this desperate.

"You're thinking too much," he says, his voice muffled against my skin, and I laugh, sharp and breathless.

"Then make me stop," I challenge, and he does—oh, he does. His mouth finds me, finally, and I'm gone, head thrown back, a moan ripping out of me as the world narrows to heat and sensation. He's relentless, skilled, and I'm shaking, clutching the sheets, chasing the release that's so close I can taste it. The wife, Lena, the party—all of it fades, swallowed by the storm he's building in me.

When I come, it's hard and fast, a wave that crashes through me, leaving me gasping his name. He doesn't stop, drawing it out until I'm boneless, sprawled across the bed, my chest heaving. He crawls back up, kissing me deep, and I taste myself on him—a filthy, perfect reminder of what we've just done.

"Better?" he murmurs, his smirk back in place, and I can only nod, still catching my breath. But as I lie there, tangled in him, I can't shake the feeling that this is just the start—that the mess he's hinted at is bigger than he's letting on. And damn if that doesn't make me want him more.