Seduction’s Stormy Edge

The rain's coming down in sheets, a cold, relentless drumbeat against my skin as I stomp out of my apartment, my boots splashing through puddles on the sidewalk. Mara's words from last night—Come to my place next time, if you dare—are still looping in my head, tangling with Julian's paint-streaked confession and Lena's tequila-soaked betrayal. It's too much, this web of lust and lies, and I need air, space, something to shake it loose. But fate's a cruel bitch, because there he is—Julian—leaning against the brick wall of his studio across the street, waiting for me like he knew I'd break.

"Sasha!" he calls, voice cutting through the storm, rough and urgent. His leather jacket's soaked, hair plastered to his forehead, and those dark eyes lock on me, pulling me in even as I want to run. I don't stop—just keep walking, head down, letting the rain blur him out—but he's faster, catching my arm and spinning me around. "We need to talk."

"About what?" I snap, yanking free, my voice sharp over the roar of the downpour. "Your wife? Your muse? Or the fact that you're fucking drowning me in your mess?" My chest heaves, rain dripping off my lashes, and he steps closer, too close, his heat cutting through the chill.

"About us," he says, low and fierce, his hands hovering like he's afraid to touch me again. "About Mara."

That name—Mara—hits like a spark to gasoline, and I shove him, hard, my palms slamming into his chest. "You don't get to say her name to me," I hiss, the memory of her foot on my thigh, her cool control, flashing hot and bitter in my mind. "Not after last night."

His eyes narrow, confusion flickering, then realization. "She got to you," he mutters, more to himself, and something snaps—reason, restraint, whatever thin thread was holding me together. I shove him again, pushing him back until he hits the wall, the wet brick scraping against his jacket.

"Yeah, she did," I spit, my voice trembling with fury and something else—something reckless. "And you know what? I liked it." The confession hangs there, raw and jagged, and his face shifts—anger, jealousy, hunger all colliding in those dark depths. He grabs my wrists, pinning them against the wall above my head, and the rain's soaking us both now, my shirt clinging, his breath hot against my cheek.

"You're mine," he growls, but it's desperate, not possessive, like he's trying to convince himself. I laugh, wild and broken, twisting against his grip, and then his mouth's on mine—hard, punishing, tasting of rain and regret. I bite his lip, drawing a groan, and he presses himself closer, his body a solid line of heat against me, the wall rough at my back.

Reason's gone, drowned in the storm and the ache he's stoking, and I kiss him back just as fierce, my hands breaking free to claw at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders. It hits the ground with a wet slap, and my fingers dig into his shirt, tearing at soaked cotton until I feel skin—warm, slick, alive under my touch. "Not yours," I gasp against his mouth, a lie we both ignore as he hoists me up, my legs wrapping around his waist, the friction of his jeans against my thighs sparking through me.

The rain's relentless, streaming down my face, pooling where our bodies meet, and he doesn't care—just grinds against me, hard and insistent, his hands gripping my ass like he's afraid I'll slip away. "Say it," he demands, voice ragged, teeth grazing my neck, and I tilt my head back, letting the water and his mouth wash over me.

"No," I moan, defiant even as I rock against him, needing him closer, deeper. He snarls, fumbling with my jeans—sodden, stubborn—and I help, shoving them down just enough, the cold air biting before his heat takes over. He's inside me in one rough thrust, and I cry out, the sound swallowed by the storm, my nails raking down his back. The wall's unforgiving, scraping my spine through my shirt, but it's perfect—raw, messy, us.

We move like we're fighting, not loving—hard, fast, each thrust a clash of need and anger. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling, and he bites my shoulder, marking me, claiming me in a way words can't. The rain's in my mouth, mixing with his taste, and I'm drowning in it—in him—every slam of his hips pushing me higher, tighter, until I'm trembling on the edge. "Julian," I gasp, half-curse, half-prayer, and he groans my name, his rhythm faltering as he chases me over.

I shatter first, a jagged, shuddering release that leaves me clinging to him, and he follows, burying his face in my neck, his breath hot and broken against my skin. We're still for a moment, panting, rain running rivers between us, until he lowers me, my legs shaky on the slick pavement. My jeans are a tangled mess, my shirt transparent, and he's no better—shirt half-torn, chest heaving, eyes wild.

"You're going to kill me," he mutters, running a hand through his wet hair, and I laugh, a shaky, hollow sound that gets lost in the wind. I step back, pulling my clothes together, and that's when I see her—Lena—across the street, half-hidden under an awning, her silhouette sharp against the neon glow. She's watching, her face unreadable, and my stomach twists, a fresh jolt of adrenaline cutting through the haze.

"She saw," I say, voice flat, nodding toward her, and Julian turns, stiffening. He doesn't say anything—just stares, rain dripping off his jaw, and I wonder what she's plotting now, what new chaos she'll spin from this. I should care more, should feel the weight of it, but I'm too spent, too lost in the aftershocks of him.

"Fuck her," he says finally, turning back to me, reaching out, but I step away, the cold seeping in now that the heat's fading. "Sasha—"

"No," I cut him off, wrapping my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how drenched, how exposed I am. "This—this drowns everything. I can't think straight with you." I turn, walking back toward my place, rain stinging my eyes, and he doesn't follow—just stands there, a shadow in the storm.

Lena's still watching as I pass, her smirk faint but there, and I don't stop, don't give her the satisfaction. Passion's drowned my reason, sure, but it's left something else in its wake—a clarity I'm not ready to face. The game's shifting, and I'm not sure who's winning anymore.