Julian stood frozen, as if the oxygen in the suite had been swept away by the sheer force of Scarlett's audacity. He searched her face, looking for a flicker of doubt, a shadow of hesitation, but he found only a resolve that burned bright under the amber glow of the hotel lamps.
Without a word, Julian closed the distance. He pressed his body against hers, letting her feel the wild, frantic gallop of his heart. His large hand shifted from the door to the nape of her neck, his fingers burying themselves in the silk of her hair.
"You want proof?" Julian whispered, his voice raspy with long-suppressed hunger. "That kiss this afternoon was a scripted poison. But this..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He silenced her with a kiss so intense it was a chaotic fusion of guilt, longing, and absolute claim. This was no longer a performance for the cameras or a contract on vellum; this was the primal vocabulary of a man falling to his knees for the only woman capable of shattering his world.
