Page 46

Lila

J ulian is going to drive himself insane if he doesn't stop researching.

I watch him from my reading chair, where I'm pretending to focus on one of the novels he brought me weeks ago, but really I'm watching the way tension radiates from every line of his body.

He's been hunched over his laptop at my kitchen table for the past three hours, surrounded by printed articles, handwritten notes, and what appears to be a color-coded spreadsheet that's grown to truly impressive proportions.

"The average red carpet interview lasts between forty-five seconds and two minutes," he announces to the room, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose.

"But A-list celebrities can expect longer segments, especially if there's a compelling personal angle.

Which there will be, since you're arriving with an unconventional pack dynamic. "

I set down my book and really look at him.

Dark hair disheveled from running his hands through it, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms that I've been thinking about entirely too much lately, jaw clenched with the kind of determination that suggests he's trying to solve world hunger through pure research.

"Julian," I say gently, "you know you don't have to memorize the entire history of award show protocol, right?"

"I'm being thorough," he says without looking up from his screen.

"Did you know that the optimal positioning for group photographs is a slight triangular formation?

The omega in front, alphas arranged to create visual balance while maintaining protective positioning.

I've calculated the ideal spacing based on height differentials and?—"

"Julian."

"—and I've cross-referenced the most commonly asked questions from the past five years of Cinema Excellence coverage. The statistical probability of receiving questions about pack formation is sixty-seven percent, relationship timeline is forty-three percent, and future career plans is?—"

"Julian."

He finally looks up, blinking like he's surfacing from deep water. When our eyes meet, I see something that makes my chest ache. Fear, carefully hidden beneath all that methodical preparation, but unmistakably there.

"I need to understand how this works," he says quietly, his voice losing that clinical tone. "I need to know what I'm walking into, what they'll expect from us, what could go wrong. If I can map the variables, identify the potential pitfalls?—"

"Then you can control it," I finish, understanding flooding through me. "You can make sure nothing goes wrong."

He nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders at being seen so accurately. "I won't be the reason you get negative coverage. I won't be the one who doesn't know how to stand or what to say or which direction to look when they?—"

"Hey," I interrupt, rising from my chair and moving toward him. "You're spiraling."

"I'm preparing."

"You're overthinking yourself into a panic attack," I correct, noting the slightly rapid breathing, the white-knuckled grip on his pen. "When's the last time you took a break? Ate something? Thought about anything other than camera angles and interview protocols?"

Julian glances at his phone, confusion flickering across his face. "What time is it?"

"Almost six. You've been at this since lunch."

The admission seems to surprise him, like he's lost time in his research spiral. This is what happens when Julian gets overwhelmed—he disappears into analysis, trying to think his way through problems that can't be solved with data.

"But I haven't finished calculating the optimal response timing for controversial questions, and I still need to research the biographies of major entertainment reporters so I can anticipate their individual interview styles?—"

"Julian," I say, settling onto the chair beside him and gently closing his laptop. "Stop."

He reaches for the computer automatically, then catches himself when our hands brush during the movement. The contact sends electricity racing up my arm, and I watch his pupils dilate slightly as he registers the touch.

"I can't stop," he admits, his voice rougher than before. "If I stop thinking about this, I'll start thinking about other things. Like how I have no idea what I'm doing with you. With any of this."

The vulnerability in his admission hits me square in the chest. Julian, who analyzes everything, who finds patterns and solutions and ways to make sense of chaos, is completely out of his depth with feelings he can't quantify.

And beneath that, I hear echoes of what he's told me about his past pack. The ones who called him "too much," who made him feel like his particular brand of careful attention was a burden instead of a gift.

"What if I gave you something else to think about?" I ask, my voice dropping to something softer, more intimate.

His breath catches. "Lila..."

"Your brain is going a million miles an hour," I continue, shifting my chair closer until our knees are almost touching. "What if I helped you turn it off for a while?"

The careful control he's been maintaining starts to crack, and I can see want warring with uncertainty in his dark eyes. "I don't think that's—we shouldn't?—"

"Why not?" I reach out to trace my fingers along his forearm, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my touch. "Don't you want me, Julian?"

"God, yes," he breathes, the admission torn from him like a confession. "I want you so much it's making me crazy. But what if this complicates things? What if we're moving too fast? What if?—"

I silence him by leaning forward and pressing my lips to his.

The kiss starts gentle, just a soft brush of mouths, but when Julian makes a sound low in his throat, it deepens into something that makes my head spin.

His hands come up to cup my face, fingers threading through my hair, and I can taste the desperation he's been hiding beneath all that careful research.

When I pull back, his breathing is ragged, his carefully maintained composure completely shattered.

"Still overthinking?" I ask, my lips brushing against his as I speak.

"I—" He swallows hard, his thumb tracing across my cheekbone. "My brain feels remarkably quiet right now."

"Good." I slide off my chair and settle between his knees, my hands resting on his thighs. "Because I have a better idea for how to spend your evening."

His eyes widen as he realizes what I'm suggesting, heat flaring in his gaze before uncertainty creeps back in. "Lila, you don't have to… I mean, just because I was stressed doesn't mean you need to?—"

"Julian," I interrupt, my hands moving to his belt buckle. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No," he says immediately, then flushes at his own honesty. "But are you sure? We haven't really talked about what this means, what we're doing, whether…"

I silence him again, this time by pressing my palm against the obvious evidence of his arousal through his dress pants. The contact makes him gasp and buck involuntarily into my touch.

"I'm sure," I say, working at his belt with steady fingers. "Are you?"

For a moment he just stares at me, pupils blown wide with want and something deeper… amazement, maybe, like he can't quite believe this is really happening. Then his hand covers mine, not to stop me but to help, and the simple gesture sends heat racing through my entire system.

"Yes," he breathes. "God, yes."

I make quick work of his belt and zipper, and when I free him from his boxer briefs, he's already hard and flushed and perfect. The sound he makes when I wrap my fingers around him is broken and desperate and goes straight to the growing ache between my thighs.

"Lila," he whispers, his voice wrecked with want.

Instead of answering, I lean forward and take him into my mouth.

The reaction is immediate and devastating.

Julian's hands fly to my hair, not pushing but holding on like he needs the anchor, and the sound that tears from his throat is pure pleasure mixed with shock.

His head falls back against the chair, exposing the strong column of his throat, and I watch his careful control completely dissolve.

"Love," he gasps, his voice barely recognizable. "Lila, I—oh God?—"

I work him slowly, thoroughly, using my tongue and lips to map every sensitive spot that makes him gasp and tremble.

His responses are so honest, so unguarded, nothing like the careful consideration he brings to everything else.

This is Julian stripped down to pure sensation and watching him fall apart under my touch is intoxicating.

For someone who lives in his head, who analyzes every variable and calculates every outcome, surrendering control like this must be terrifying. But he's doing it. For me, because of me, trusting me to take care of him in ways he can't take care of himself.

"I can't—" He tries to speak but the words dissolve into a groan when I do something with my tongue that makes his hips jerk involuntarily. "You're going to…I'm already…"

I pull back just enough to look up at him, taking in his flushed face, the way his chest rises and falls with ragged breathing, how his dark eyes are completely unfocused with pleasure.

"Let go," I tell him, my voice rough from what I've been doing. "Stop thinking and just let go."

"I don't know how," he admits, vulnerability bleeding through the desire.

"Then let me teach you."

I return my attention to what I was doing, using everything I've learned about Julian's careful nature to completely overwhelm his senses.

The way he responds, desperate sounds, trembling hands, his whole body going taut with approaching release tells me everything I need to know about how long he's been holding back.