CLAIRE.

“You actually came down here ready to beg.”

Julian’s voice is low and rough when I step into the kitchen just after six. He stands at the counter in nothing but those same gray sweatpants, coffee mug in one hand, bare chest still marked with faint sleep lines. The morning light cuts across the hard planes of his stomach and the heavy outline already straining the front of the fabric. My mouth waters the second I see it.

I do not answer with words. I walk straight across the cool tile, heart hammering, and drop to my knees in front of him without being told. The position puts my...