My Accidental Billionaire Husband (Katia and Julian) novel Chapter 87

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Katia

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The Calloway Club was the kind of place that didn’t advertise its existence. It was a tomb of old money and older secrets, and tonight, the air inside felt heavy, like it was saturated with the scent of expensive scotch and the impending ruin of my

composure.

I was at the bar at nine–thirty. I had done the roundtable, I had played the professional, and now I was nursing a drink that tasted like a copper–edged warning.

Then the room adjusted. It didn’t just shift; it pressurised. I didn’t need to look up to know that Julian Windsor had walked in. I could feel the microscopic hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I set my phone face down, my heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs.

Then I looked up.

He found me immediately. He didn’t scan the room; his eyes locked onto mine with a predatory precision that made my breath hitch. He wasn’t wearing a tie. His top two buttons were undone, exposing the hollow of his throat and the hint of dark hair. He looked tired, but his eyes were wired, burning with a dark, focused hunger that stripped me bare where I sat.

He didn’t say a word. He just walked over, his stride unhurried, his gaze never leaving mine. It was “eye fucking” in its purest, most aggressive form–a silent, scorching claim that made the space between us feel like it was ionising

He sat on the stool beside me. Close. So close I could feel the radiated heat of his body.

“Your event or mine?” he asked. His voice was a low rasp that vibrated in my marrow.

“Mine,” I managed, my voice steadier than I felt. “Technology. Yours?”

“Private equity.” He leaned in, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact was electric. “It seems our assistants have decided we needed to be in the same room tonight. I’ll have to give mine a raise.”

The conversation that followed was a blur of sharp wit and escalating tension. Two hours bled away. We weren’t talking about contracts. We were talking with our eyes–long, lingering looks that felt like hands sliding over skin. Every time he took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes stayed on my mouth, watching the way my lips moved, the way I swallowed. It was filthy. It was a promise

of what was coming.

“We’ve been paying attention to each other,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. His knee pressed firmly against mine now, a solid, insistent weight.

“Apparently,” I whispered back.

“Is that a problem?” He didn’t blink. He just stared into me, his pupils blown wide, dark and demanding.

“I don’t know yet,” I said, though my body knew. My thighs were aching, a dull, thrumming heat building between them.

The bar began to empty, the lights dimming, but the world had shrunk to the six inches between our faces. Julian reached out, his fingers grazing my jaw before sliding into my hair, tilting my head back. The look in his eyes was raw, unadulterated lust.

“Katia,” he groaned, the sound vibrating against my skin.

He didn’t kiss me; instead, his hand slid down my neck, over the silk of my blouse, until his palm pressed flat against my chest, right over my racing heart. His other hand vanished beneath the edge of the bar, finding the hem of my skirt.

I gasped, my legs falling open instinctively as his fingers found the damp silk of my underwear. He didn’t hesitate. He hooked two fingers into the lace and pulled it aside, his touch hot and insistent as he began to work them against my clit.

“Julian,” I choked out, my head dropping onto his shoulder.

“Look at me,” he commanded. I forced my eyes open, meeting his. He was watching me fall apart, his expression dark and

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triumphant. “I’ve wanted to do this since the first day you walked into my boardroom, not that I haven’t done anything like this, but fuck, you make me hard, Katia.”

I reached for him, my own hand fumbling with the fly of his trousers. I didn’t care who saw. I needed to feel him. My fingers closed around his length, hard, pulsing, and massive; I gasped. I heard him hiss through his teeth as I began to stroke him, my thumb rubbing over the bead of moisture at the tip.

The friction was agonisingly perfect. He increased the pace of his fingers and his movements, expertly driving me toward a cliff I’d been standing on for months. I bit my lip to keep from screaming as the first wave of the orgasm hit, my internal muscles clamping down on his fingers.

He didn’t stop. He leaned in, his mouth hovering an inch from mine. “Not here,” he rasped. “My car.”

We stumbled out into the cold night air, but I was burning. The moment the door to his town car clicked strut, privacy glass separating us from the driver, the restraint snapped.

I didn’t wait. I dropped to my knees in the cramped space of the footwell. I needed the taste of him. I unzipped him fully, his cock springing free, and I took him into my mouth with a hunger that surprised even me. He groaned, his hands clutching my hair as I swirled my tongue around the head, sucking him deep.

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