Old Flame, New Love

Lydia froze for a heartbeat, then quietly corrected him.

“This is my bed.”

Julian pressed down harder, his palm firm at her waist, even through the thin fabric of her nightdress.

“Fine. Your bed,” he murmured. “Then let me rephrase—while you’re under me, calling someone else’s name… doesn’t that deserve an explanation?”

Lydia didn’t answer. Instead, she moved—her slender arms sliding around his neck. She leaned up and licked the hollow of his throat.

His entire body tensed instantly.

Her soft breath brushed against his skin as her fingertips traced the back of his neck. Her voice came out light and sleepy.

“Are we doing this or not? Because if not, I’d really like to sleep…”

They knew each other’s bodies too well. It didn’t take much to strike a nerve.

Julian understood she was changing the subject—but the subject hardly mattered, did it?

His arm tightened sharply around her waist. Lydia frowned at the sudden pressure, but before she could speak, his mouth captured hers.

The force of it was sudden, consuming.

Lydia was never used to kissing him. Their encounters were usually silent, physical—never intimate.

But tonight, Julian was different.

He kissed her like a man starved—rough, deep, unrelenting.

Lydia pushed at him twice, to no effect. He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head against the pillow, giving her no room to resist.

The kiss deepened until her lungs burned. Her mind went white from the lack of air. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back.

She gasped, lips parted, chest heaving. In the dim light, her half-open eyes shimmered.

Julian studied her for a long moment, then leaned in again, brushing her lips with a gentler kiss—slow, almost reverent.

Lydia blinked, dazed by the abrupt change. Before she could recover, her hands moved instinctively, slipping down to his waist and tugging loose the tie of his robe.

…

Two days later, Lydia finally finished processing her experimental data and submitted everything before Friday.

Her workload lightened—at least until the clinical trials began.

On Saturday night, she met Monica Hayes at a downtown lounge.

She wore a fitted black knit top and loose black pants, her hair casually tied back. Under the warm bar lights, her pale skin seemed to glow, smooth as polished ivory.

She held a cocktail in one hand, head slightly bowed as she spoke softly to someone beside her.

“Wait, you know her?”

Sophie Reed stood in a shadowed corner of the bar, watching Lydia with quiet curiosity until someone bumped her shoulder.

She turned—it was a coworker, another waitress.

Sophie shook her head. “No.”

Her coworker chuckled. “Didn’t think so. A woman like that? Way out of our league. Did you see her watch? My friend and I saw one like that in the store window—the cheapest model costs more than most of us make in a year. And that woman next to her, the one in the green dress? That bag—limited edition. You can’t even buy it unless you’re on a waiting list. We could work our whole lives and never afford what they wear for a night out.”

Her words dripped with envy, but they weren’t wrong.

Sophie didn’t respond. When a customer waved her over, she quickly turned away to work.

—

“Damn it,” Monica swore, slamming her glass down. “Adrian Cole is such a two-faced bastard! He knew you and Vanessa were close, and he still went after her? What the hell—does he want the two of you to tear each other apart?”