Reborn at Eighteen The Billionaire's Second Chance novel Chapter 87

Chapter 87

Elara

So when he reached for the lamp and plunged us into darkness, I

didn’t stop him.

When his hands found the hem of my torn shirt and pulled it over my

head, I didn’t stop him.

When he backed me onto that red velvet bed–the same bed where

Marcus had tried to–I didn’t stop him.

I should have. God knows I should have.

But I didn’t.

Because some sick, broken part of me still wanted this. Still wanted

him. Even after everything he’d done, everything he’d put me

through, some corner of my heart that refused to die still whispered:

“Maybe this time. Maybe now he’ll finally see you.”

His mouth found my neck. My collarbone. Lower.

Darkness swallowed the room, broken only by thin strips of red light

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bleeding through the curtains from the hallway. My eyes hadn’t adjusted yet, couldn’t see his face, but I felt him–felt the mattress

dip as he climbed onto the bed.

“Julian-” My voice came out thick, slurred. The alcohol was still heavy in my system, making everything slow and dreamlike. “Wait-”

His hand found my ankle. Slid up my calf.

I flinched. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” His voice was rough, different from his usual controlled tone. “You said you loved me for three years. Let’s see if

that was true.”

“I–I didn’t mean-” I tried to sit up. His other hand pressed against my shoulder, pushed me back down. Not violent, but firm.

Unmistakable.

“Don’t move.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. The room was spinning, but not enough. Not enough to make this unreal. Not enough to let me pretend I didn’t know what was happening.

“This is wrong,” I whispered. “You don’t want this. You want Sloane.

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You’ve always-”

His mouth crashed into mine, cutting off the words.

It wasn’t gentle. His lips were hard, demanding, one hand fisting in my hair to angle my head the way he wanted. His tongue pushed past my teeth and I tasted whiskey and something bitter–anger, maybe.

Or desperation.

I should have pushed him away. My hands were on his chest, pressed against the solid muscle beneath his shirt. I could feel his heart racing, matching mine beat for beat.

Push him away.

But I didn’t.

My fingers curled into his shirt instead. Held on.

He made a sound low in his throat–triumph or frustration, I couldn’t tell–and deepened the kiss. His weight settled onto me, pinning me to the mattress. One of his legs pushed between mine, spreading

them.

“Tell me to stop.” He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against my lips. “Say it.”

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I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Say it. Say stop. Say no.

The words stuck in my

throat.

“That’s what I thought.” His hand moved to the hem of my torn undershirt, already half–destroyed from earlier. He pulled it over my head in one swift motion. The fabric caught on my arms and I had to lift them to help, and the fact that I helped–that I participated- made something inside me break.

Cold air hit my skin. I wasn’t wearing a bra–couldn’t afford nice ones, and the cheap ones had stretched out. His eyes tracked down my exposed chest and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

“Julian, please-” I wasn’t sure what I was begging for. For him to

stop? To continue? To make this mean something other than what it

was?.

He didn’t answer. Just lowered his head and put his mouth on my

breast.

I gasped. Arched up into him before I could stop myself.

His hand slid down my stomach, fingers working at the waistband of

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my skirt. I felt the zipper give, felt him tug the fabric down over my hips. I lifted my body to let him–God, why did I lift my body–and

then I was in just my underwear, torn tights pooled around my

ankles.

“Last chance,” he muttered against my skin. His hand rested on my inner thigh, so close to where I was already aching despite

everything, despite knowing this was wrong. “Tell me no.”

I stared up at the dark ceiling. Felt tears slide down my temples into

my hair.

“I can’t,” I whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because I still-” My voice broke. “I still want you. Even after everything. Even knowing you’ll hate me for this tomorrow. I still-”

I didn’t get to finish.

He kissed me again, harder this time, and his hand moved higher. I felt his fingers slip beneath the elastic of my underwear and I went

rigid.

“Wait-”

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“Shh.” He pressed his forehead against mine. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

His fingers found me, touched me in a way that made my mind go blank. I bit my lip to keep from making noise but a small sound escaped anyway–something between a whimper and a moan.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Let me hear you.”

My hips moved against his hand without permission. Seeking more. I was so drunk, so confused, and it felt too good and too wrong all at

once.

He worked me with practiced efficiency, like he knew exactly what he was doing, how to make my body respond even as my mind screamed that this was a mistake. Within minutes I was gasping, trembling, my hands clutching at his shoulders.

“Please-” I didn’t know what I was asking for.

He knew.

His fingers stilled. Withdrew. I made a sound of protest and immediately hated myself for it.

I heard his belt buckle. The rasp of a zipper.

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