Cherry Lips

Isabella's heart thundered as the second text burned in her mind: Leave now, or the truth about your past comes out. The words were a cold blade against the heat of Julian's touch, his lips still lingering on hers, a promise of more in his storm-gray eyes. The penthouse, with its sprawling views of Manhattan's glittering skyline, felt like a stage where secrets and desire collided. Her cherry-red lips trembled, but she steadied herself, stepping back from Julian, her hazel eyes narrowing. Someone was out there, watching, threatening, and she wasn't about to let them unravel her.

"Who's doing this, Julian?" she demanded, her voice sharp, cutting through the haze of their near-intimacy. "And don't say you'll handle it. I'm not some damsel waiting for rescue."

Julian's jaw clenched, his hand still on her cheek, thumb brushing her lip in a way that made her shiver despite her resolve. "I don't know who sent the text," he said, his voice low, raw with frustration. "But I meant what I said, Isabella. You're safe with me. I'll find them."

She wanted to believe him, to sink back into the fire of his touch, but Vanessa's warning, Lena's cryptic jabs, and Vincent's cold scrutiny gnawed at her. "Safe?" she said, her tone biting. "Your advisor's throwing shade, your sister's got a vendetta, and your father thinks my art's some kind of threat. Your world's a minefield, Blackwood."

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, cedar and spice wrapping around her. "Then let me be your shield," he murmured, his lips grazing her ear, reigniting the ache she'd tried to suppress. Her breath hitched, and before she could protest, he kissed her, slow and deliberate, a claim that melted her defenses. Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into his open shirt as she pressed herself closer, craving the escape of his touch.

He backed her against the desk in his study, a sleek mahogany slab overlooking the city. Papers scattered as he lifted her onto it, her legs parting to draw him in. Her cherry-red lips parted in a gasp as his hands slid up her thighs, pushing the sheet aside to reveal lace and skin. "You're killing me," he growled, his mouth trailing down her neck, kissing the pulse that raced under his lips. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard, and he groaned, the sound sending heat pooling in her core.

"Julian," she whispered, her voice a mix of need and defiance, her body arching as his hands roamed, one slipping under her bra, teasing her with deliberate slowness. The city lights glittered below, a distant echo of the fire between them. She pulled him closer, her nails grazing his back, and their kiss deepened, a clash of tongues and desire that drowned out the world. His fingers traced her curves, igniting every nerve, and she moaned, the sound swallowed by his mouth as they moved together, the desk creaking under their weight.

The moment stretched, a wildfire consuming them, until they collapsed against each other, breathless, tangled in the aftermath. His forehead pressed to hers, his hand cupping her face, thumb tracing her swollen lips. "You're not just in my world, Isabella," he murmured. "You're rewriting it."

Her heart ached at his words, but the text's shadow lingered. Before she could respond, a sharp knock echoed through the penthouse, followed by a voice—bright, familiar, and out of place. "Isabella? You in there?"

Isabella froze, pulling the sheet tighter. Julian's eyes narrowed, but he stepped back, smoothing his shirt as the door opened. Mara Tate stood there, her auburn hair catching the light, her paint-splattered jacket a stark contrast to the penthouse's opulence. Her brown eyes widened, taking in Isabella's flushed cheeks and Julian's disheveled state. "Oh," she said, a teasing grin spreading. "Bad timing?"

"Mara," Isabella said, sliding off the desk, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "What are you doing here?"

Mara held up a sketchbook, her grin softening. "I was downtown, saw your name on a gallery invite. Thought I'd drop by and talk about that show I mentioned. But…" She glanced at Julian, her eyes twinkling. "Looks like you're busy rewriting history."

Julian's expression was unreadable, but his hand brushed Isabella's, a subtle claim. "Mara, this isn't a good time."

"Clearly," Mara said, but her gaze lingered on Isabella, curious, searching. "Your paintings, Isabella—they're more than art. I felt it at the gala, and now I'm hearing whispers. People are talking about you."

Isabella's stomach twisted, the text flashing in her mind. "What kind of whispers?" she asked, her voice sharp.

Mara hesitated, glancing at Julian. "The kind that gets collectors nervous. Your work—it's like it's telling stories someone doesn't want told." She stepped closer, her voice lowering. "I had a visitor today. A guy asking about you, your past. Said he's a journalist."

Julian's posture stiffened. "Who?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Mara shrugged, but her eyes were wary. "Didn't give a name. Mid-30s, scruffy, too curious. Said he's digging into Isabella's art for a story. Mentioned a town—Willow Creek?"

Isabella's blood ran cold. Willow Creek. The name hit like a punch, dragging up memories she'd buried—her mother's death, her father's betrayal, the life she'd fled. Her paintings were her escape, not a spotlight on that pain. "He's wrong," she said, her voice tight. "There's no story."

Mara's eyes softened, but she didn't push. "Just watch your back, okay? This city eats secrets for breakfast."

Julian's hand found Isabella's, squeezing gently. "I'll handle it," he said, his tone final, but his eyes held a storm of worry. Mara nodded and left, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, leaving a charged silence.

Isabella pulled away, her heart pounding. "Willow Creek," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "How does anyone know about that?"

Julian's face hardened, but his touch was gentle as he turned her to face him. "Tell me," he said, his voice soft but urgent. "Whatever it is, Isabella, I need to know. To protect you."

Her cherry-red lips trembled, but she held his gaze, defiance warring with vulnerability. "It's my past," she said. "My mother died when I was 16. My father… he wasn't who I thought. I left that town and never looked back. My paintings—they're all I have of it."

His eyes softened, and he pulled her close, his lips brushing her forehead. "You're not alone anymore," he murmured. "Whoever's doing this, they'll answer to me."

But as his arms wrapped around her, another text buzzed through her phone, hidden in her clutch: Willow Creek isn't done with you. Neither am I. The words were a noose, tightening around her heart. Someone wasn't just watching—they were closing in, and Julian's world might not be enough to shield her.