Chapter 3 Behind Closed Doors

Julian's POV

The third-floor hallway stretched before us in muted gold light, wall sconces casting long shadows across dark wood paneling.

The heating pipes hummed somewhere behind the walls, and our footsteps—mine deliberate, hers stumbling—were the only other sounds.

Elle's weight pressed against my side, her head lolling onto my shoulder as I half-carried her down the corridor.

The cold sequins of her dress bit through my shirt even as the heat of her body burned underneath. Her perfume wrapped around me with every unsteady step—that soft peach scent, now amplified by champagne and proximity.

I stopped outside her door, trying to hold her steady with one arm while reaching for the handle. She was dead weight against me, fingers clutching at my jacket with surprising strength.

The sequined dress caught the dim light, throwing tiny reflections across the paneling. I got my hand on the door handle, was about to turn it, when Elle lifted her head and blinked at me with unfocused eyes.

"I wanted to kiss you," she said, words slurring together.

Then she went up on her toes and kissed me.

Just like that. Her hands grabbing my collar, pulling me down, her mouth pressing against mine.

I froze.

Her lips were soft, warm, tasting of champagne and something sweet. Her perfume overwhelmed my senses, and for about three seconds my brain went completely blank.

Then instinct took over and I pulled her closer. My hand slid into her hair as I kissed her back with a desperation I'd been holding back for months.

My other hand went to her waist, fingers spreading across cold sequins and warm skin. She made a soft sound and pressed against me until there was no space left between us.

Elle. Elle is kissing me.

She pushed at my chest suddenly. Gasped for air.

Her eyes were still unfocused, pupils huge in the dim light. She said something I couldn't make out, words that might have been my name or nothing at all. My heart was about to explode and I couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except wait for her to say it again, to confirm that she knew.

But when I really looked at her—focused on her eyes instead of her mouth—I saw it.

The glassy sheen. The way her gaze drifted past my face to focus on nothing. The slight sway even though I was holding her steady.

She wasn't looking at me. She was looking through me.

She had no idea who I was.

I let go like she'd burned me, stepping back even though my body screamed in protest. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, tried to ignore the way my hands were shaking.

"Do you know who I am?" The words came out raw. "Elle. Do you know who I am?"

She didn't answer.

Just blinked at me, her head tilting slightly. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. No words came out. She swayed on her feet, and I instinctively reached out to steady her, then stopped myself.

Ask her again. Make her say your name.

But my throat had closed up. Because if she said "Arthur," if she said any name that wasn't mine, I'd have to stop. And some terrible part of me didn't want to know.

She stumbled forward before I could decide.

Her arms wrapped around my waist, her face pressing into my chest. I went rigid, couldn't push her away even though I knew I should.

"Don't leave me alone," she said, voice cracking. "Please."

The words hit me like a physical blow. She wasn't asking me specifically. She was asking anyone.

That hurt worse than anything.

I took a breath that didn't quite fill my lungs, trying to think clearly through the fog of want and guilt. I needed to get her inside. Into her room, somewhere safe.

"Okay," I said quietly. "I'm here. But we need to get you inside."

I tried to turn her toward her door. Gently. Carefully.

But she wouldn't let go. When I tried to pry her hands away, she made a small sound of protest that stopped me cold.

Fine. Just a minute, until she calmed down.

I backed up against my own door and let myself lean against the solid wood. Maybe if she rested for a bit, she'd be more cooperative.

She shifted suddenly.

Her hands slid from my waist to my shoulders as she moved around behind me, pressing her full weight against my back.

"Warm," she mumbled. "You're warm. Don't go."

Every muscle in my body locked.

The sensation of her pressed against me—soft curves, cold sequins, heat underneath—shot up my spine like electricity. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms, because pain was the only thing that might cut through the want threatening to consume me.

She had no idea who was holding her. She just needed someone. Anyone.

It wasn't about me. It had never been about me.

I tried to focus on my breathing, but all I could focus on was her. The weight of her. The warmth of her. The way she fit against me like she'd been designed for this.

Hold it together. Just get her inside and walk away.

She let go of my shoulders.

For half a second I thought maybe she was coming to her senses.

But then she moved around to face me again.

Her hand came up. Touched my face.

Slow. Clumsy. Tracing the line of my jaw.

I held my breath, every atom focused on that touch. My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I was sure she could hear it.

Say my name. Please.

Her jacket slipped off her shoulders. Hit the floor with a soft thud. She didn't notice. Just kept staring at my mouth, her finger tracing my bottom lip.

"Your lips," she said. Voice dreamy and slurred. "Pretty. Earlier... felt good."

She leaned in again. Rising on her toes.

Something in me snapped.

Before I could stop myself, I was kissing her again.

But this time I didn't freeze. This time I didn't hesitate.

I grabbed her and pulled her against me, kissing her like I was trying to burn myself into her memory. My hand slid into her hair, angling her head back. My other hand went to her waist, then her back, then under the dress.

She was so soft. So warm.

She whimpered against my mouth. Her hands grabbed at my shoulders. I felt her knees buckle.

I caught her. Walked her backward until her back hit the wall.

Kept kissing her. Kept touching her. Kept pretending this was real.

My hand traced up her spine. I found the clasp of her bra through the fabric, felt the small metal hooks under my fingertips.

Some distant part of my brain was screaming at me to stop. But I couldn't.

Because once she sobered up, she'd never look at me again. This was it. My one chance to know what it felt like to have her want me, even if she didn't really want me.

Just this once. Let me pretend she's mine.

My fingers hooked under the clasp. I could feel how easy it would be to just—

Footsteps.

Coming up the stairs.

I froze.

The footsteps got closer.

Arthur.

Shit.

If he saw us like this—Elle pressed against the wall, my hand under her dress, her jacket on the floor—there would be no explaining it away.

I pulled my hand out. Grabbed her wrist. Shoved my door open.

Pulled her inside.

Slammed the door shut. Fumbled for the lock.

Four seconds to make possibly the worst decision of my life.

The footsteps stopped.

Right outside my door.

I pressed my back against the door, chest heaving. The room was dark and I could barely make out Elle's silhouette, just the sparkle of her dress in the sliver of light under the door.

Her jacket. Oh God, her jacket is still out there.

Right in front of my door. Right where Arthur would see it.

He'd know.

The room was silent except for my pulse hammering and Elle's soft breathing. She blinked at me, confused, trying to adjust to the darkness. The sequins sparkled with each breath.

"Julian." Arthur's voice echoed. Cold. Flat. "Are you with Eleanor?"