Too Wrong for Me: Chapter Two - The Breaking Point

The heat is rising, a coastal storm is brewing, and the thin walls of the cottage are driving Julian to the edge. Watching Maya from the shadows was supposed to be enough, but when the moon hits her just right in the kitchen, a decade of repressed desire finally snaps. He’s done being the "family friend." He’s ready to be the man who takes what he wants. 

Chapter One

The Breaking Point

Julian

The sound of the Atlantic is a goddamn heartbeat, but tonight, it’s out of sync.

I’m sprawled on the guest room bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it cuts through the stagnant, salty air. It’s midnight, and the humidity is a physical weight, the kind that makes the sheets stick to your skin and the walls feel like they’re closing in. I’ve lived in this town my whole life—worked the docks until my hands bled, hauled lumber until my back screamed. But this kind of heat is different. This is the kind of heat that makes men do things they can’t take back. It’s heavy with the scent of upcoming rain and the rot of low tide, and it’s making my skin itch with a restlessness I can’t shake.

I shouldn’t be here. I know that with every pulse of my blood.

Leo is my best friend. He’s the brother I actually give a damn about. But he’s a delusional idiot if he thinks I’m staying in this house because I’m "like family." I’m here because I’ve spent ten years trying to convince myself I didn’t want the girl in the room next door, and tonight, I’ve finally run out of lies to tell myself.

The wall between us is thin. I can hear the rustle of her sheets every time she rolls over. I can hear the soft, rhythmic click of her keyboard as she works on whatever secret "research" she’s doing—the kind of work she thinks is her golden ticket out of this zip code. Every time she shifts, I find myself holding my breath, my body wired tight enough to snap. I know the layout of her room as well as my own; I know where her desk sits, where her bed is tucked into the corner, and I can almost see her through the drywall, her brow furrowed in concentration, a stray hair tucked behind her ear.

Maya thinks she knows me. She thinks I’m the town's resident disaster, the guy who picks up girls at the bonfire just to feel something for an hour before the sun comes up. And she’s right; I’ve spent years using other women as placeholders. They’re all just ghosts of a girl who spends her days in a library and her nights dreaming of a way out of here. Every girl I’ve ever taken to the dunes was just a way to drown out the memory of Maya’s voice or the way she looks at me like I’m dirt under her shoe.

She wants to leave this town. I want to be the reason she stays.

A floorboard creaks in the hallway.

I’m off the bed before the sound even fades. I don’t turn on the light. I move quietly, a habit from the years I spent sneaking out of my old man’s house when the shouting got too loud. I crack the door just an inch, the hinges silent because I’d oiled them myself three months ago when Leo mentioned they were sticking.

She’s there, silhouetted by the moonlight coming through the hallway window. She’s still in that black silk slip. It’s a crime, the way that fabric moves over her hips, thin enough to be a second skin, reflecting the pale, watery light of the moon. She’s headed for the stairs, probably for a glass of water, her bare feet silent on the wood. She looks like a vision, something half-dreamed up by the salt air, but the way my heart is slamming against my ribs tells me she’s very, very real.

I don't go back to bed. I can’t. The gravity of her pulls me out of the room and down the stairs. I follow her shadow, staying just out of sight, listening to the soft hiss of her breath and the way the house seems to hold its breath right along with me.

By the time I reach the kitchen, the air has changed. A storm is rolling in off the coast; I can feel the pressure drop in my marrow, that static charge that comes right before the sky opens up. The curtains flutter in the salt-heavy breeze coming through the open window, and Maya is standing by the sink, the moonlight hitting the curve of her neck and the slope of her shoulders.

She’s got a glass to her lips, head tilted back, and for a second, I just watch the way her throat moves when she swallows. My pulse is a hammer against my ribs, heavy and relentless. I should walk away. I should go back upstairs, lock the door, and pray for the sun to come up. But I’ve spent a decade walking away, and I’m done.

I step into the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the tile. “Water’s better from the fridge,” I say, my voice a low rasp that sounds like sandpaper in the quiet room.

She jumps, the glass nearly slipping from her hand, hitting the porcelain of the sink with a sharp clink. She spins around, her chest heaving, her eyes wide as they find me in the shadows.

“Jesus, Julian,” she hisses, her voice a jagged whisper that cuts through the dark. “You’re like a ghost. Do you have to lurk in every corner of this house?”

“You’re the one wandering around in the dark, Princess.” I lean against the doorframe, my arms crossed over my bare chest. I’m only in my boxers, and I know exactly what I look like, too big for this kitchen, too rough for this house. I want her to look. I want her to see the man she’s been trying to pretend doesn't exist behind the library shelves and the "good girl" attitude.

Her eyes travel down my chest, tracing the ink on my arms, lingering on the scar across my ribs from that night at the docks three years ago. I see the exact moment her pupils dilate. She hates it. She hates how much she wants to touch me, how much this version of me is the one without the cocky grin or the mocking lines and it rattles her.

“I was getting water,” she says, her voice trembling just enough to give her away. “Go back to bed. Leo didn’t pay you to be a hallway monitor.”

“Can’t sleep. Too hot.” I take a step toward her, closing the distance. The space between us is thick with salt, ozone, and a decade of suppressed frustration. “Or maybe I’m just waiting for you to tell me what else you’re hiding. You’ve been awfully quiet about that little meeting at the pier.”

“I’m not hiding anything from anyone who matters,” she says, though she backs up until her butt hit the edge of the counter.

“Liar.” I stop inches from her. The smell of her, vanilla, laundry detergent, and sea salt—is wrecking my common sense. It’s a clean scent, one that doesn't belong in my world of grease and gasoline. “That research? Those fixers? You’re trying to buy your way out of here, aren’t you? Planning on leaving Leo and the rest of us behind without a word. Just another ghost in a beach town.”

She lifts her chin, her eyes flashing in the moonlight. “What if I am? What’s it to you? You’ll just find someone else to mock within a week. Another girl to take to the dunes so you don't have to think about anything real. You’re Julian Cross. You don’t do ‘real.’”

“You think that’s what this is?” I grab her wrist, my fingers closing around the delicate bone. Not hard, but firm enough to pull her flush against me. The silk of her slip is cool, but her skin is fire. The contact sends a jolt through me that feels like a live wire. “You think I’ve spent ten years pulling your pigtails because I wanted to see you leave? You think I watch you every day because I find it funny?”

“Let go,” she breathes, but she doesn't pull away. Her hand comes up to my chest, her palm flat against my heart, trying to push me back, but her fingers are curling into the skin of my pec. She can feel the way my blood is thrumming for her. She can feel the truth I haven't been able to say.

“Make me,” I repeat, the words a low growl that vibrates between our chests.

Outside, the first real crack of thunder rolls across the dunes, a deep, bone-shaking boom that rattles the glassware in the cabinets. The storm finally hits, rain suddenly lashing against the kitchen window in a violent, rhythmic spray. The house vibrates with the power of it, the lights flickering once before plunging us into true darkness.

“You’re Leo’s best friend,” she whispers into the dark, a final, weak defense.

“And you’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted that I couldn’t have.”

I don’t wait for her to argue. I bridge the gap, my mouth crashing into hers. It’s not a request; it’s a claim. I’ve been holding this in since I was eighteen, and it comes out like an explosion. It’s a collision of teeth and tongues and ten years of "I hate you" that actually meant "I’m dying for you."

She gasps into my mouth, her fingers fisting in my hair, and then she’s kissing me back with a desperation that matches my own. It’s competitive. It’s rough. It’s all the oil and water tension of the last decade finally catching fire. She tastes like the water she just drank and the heat of the night, and she sounds like a miracle as she moans into the back of my throat.

I pushe her fully into the counter, the edge of the granite biting into her lower back, my hands sliding down to her hips. I hitch the silk up, the fabric bunching in my fists, until I can feel the scorching heat of her thighs. As I lift her she wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, her nails digging into my shoulders. A sound rips out of her throat, half-sob, half-growl—and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

“The workshop,” I mutter against her skin, my mouth traveling down her jaw to the pulse point in her neck, which is fluttering like a trapped bird. “The wind is going to be howling through the siding of the house in an hour. We won't hear a truck pull up, and I’m not taking the chance of him walking in on us tomorrow morning because the rain cut his trip short. Let’s go where the door locks.”

“I don’t care where,” she pants, her head falling back as I bite at the sensitive skin of her shoulder. “Julian, please. Just… get me out of here. Anywhere.”

I don't need to be told twice. I adjust my grip under her thighs, keeping her locked tight against my chest as her silk slip rides dangerously high. I head for the back door, kicking it open.

We hit the rain, and it’s cold, sharp, and perfect. It’s a torrential downpour now, the kind that floods the coastal roads in minutes. We’re drenched in seconds, the wind howling off the ocean, kicking up sand that stings our skin and tastes like salt. I carry her across the crushed-shell path to the workshop, my foot slipping once on the wet grass before I find my footing.

I reach the workshop door and shoulder it open, slamming it shut behind us with a kick. I slide the heavy iron bolt home with a thud that echoes through the hollow space.

The smell of the shop, sawdust, gasoline, and the salt spray leaking through the cracks in the old siding, surrounds us. The rain is hammering on the tin roof, a relentless, deafening rhythm that drowns out the rest of the world. There’s no moonlight here, only the dim, flickering amber glow of the emergency light I keep plugged in by the workbench.

I set her down on the heavy oak bench, right next to a row of organized wrenches and a half-finished engine I’ve been stripping for parts. She looks wild in the amber light. Her hair is plastered to her face, her eyes are dark with a hunger I’ve never seen in her, and that black silk slip is slick with rain, clinging to every curve of her body like a second skin.

She looks like she belongs here, in the middle of the grease and the grit and the noise. She looks like mine.

“Still think I’m a mistake, Maya?” I ask, my hands reaching for the hem of her slip, my voice barely audible over the storm on the roof.

She doesn't answer with words. She reaches for the waistband of my boxers, her eyes locked onto mine with a fire that makes the storm outside feel like a breeze. “If you are,” she says, her voice steady and certain, “then I don’t ever want to be right.”

I hook my fingers into the wet silk and pull it over her head, throwing it into the shadows. She’s beautiful—pale, shivering, and absolutely perfect. I follow her down onto the wood, and the rest of the world ceases to exist.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: February 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix