As much as I hate talking about my past, Isabelle has the right to know about it. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And I plan to start being more upfront.
Well, on what I can. Some things I can’t disclose just yet, but once I can, I will.
“Isaac,” Hunter mutters, forcing me to return my phone to my ear.
“Yes.”
He waits a beat before muttering, “Probably doesn’t count for shit, but I think you made the right decision.”
With how woeful I feel right now, he has no idea how much his words mean to me, but before I can respond, much less work out what to say, he tells me he’ll have everything done tonight before he disconnects our chat with a quick, “Bye.”
51
“Isabelle.”
I brush away the strands of hair clinging to her temples before brushing my index finger down her cheek. She fell asleep two hours ago, but with the grumbles of her stomach announcing a lengthy sleep isn’t the right choice for her right now, I asked Hugo to recommence our trip home twenty minutes ago.
Cradling her in my arms the past two hours has been good for me. It gave me time to reflect and had me conjuring up ways to stop events like this from occurring again anytime in the near future. I’m not a cruel man. I merely need to learn how to aspire for my goals without taking down everyone around me in the process. My competitive nature isn’t something I can easily dismiss, but it’s the revenge aspect associated with it that often makes my quest to win an undermining and demoralizing game.
I need to do better, and from here on out, I will.
“Isabelle,” I murmur again before brushing the back of my hand down her budded nipple.
She stirs in an instant, and even quicker than that, her seductive scent fills the car’s cabin that smells like raunchy sex even with our exchange being on the opposite end of the scale.
We made love for the second time, and to my shock, it was just as good as when I bent Isabelle over my bathtub both this morning and last night.
When Isabelle’s glassy eyes shift from the dark sky outside to her watch, I disclose, “I asked Hugo to take the long route home.”
Against the wishes of my still-firm cock, I carefully withdraw from Isabelle before snatching up my jacket to drape it over her almost fully naked form. While doing up the buttons, I smirk about her sigh. I’m not sure if she is disappointed we’re not putting my erection to good use or grimacing about the clump of cum that drops into her panties when they snap back into place. It could be a combination of both.
Once I’m confident she is covered head to toe, I exit the vehicle before bobbing back in to assist her out. Her smile as she slips her hand into mine exposes the torment I forced myself to endure the past two hours wasn’t necessary. Her expression is still haunted, but the angst her eyes held when I denied her the opportunity to touch me has dissipated.
After silently commending Hugo for making himself scarce, I guide Isabelle into the foyer of my home before veering her toward the kitchen. She watches me with an amused twinkle in her eyes when I remove the chicken soup Catherine prepared this morning and place it into the convection oven. She’s starved, but before she can announce her hunger has nothing to do with food, I transfer the heated soup into a bowl, scoop up a generous helping onto a spoon, blow on it, then careen it toward her mouth.
“Thank you,” Isabelle mutters against the tip of the spoon before opening her mouth to accept the nutritiously rich goop.
We go turn for turn until all the soup is gone then, much to Isabelle’s pleasure, I lift her into my arms and head for the attached bathroom in the master suite. Over the next fifteen minutes, I wash her hair, pamper her skin with the products Catherine purchased specifically for her, then get her dressed for bed.
And as much as this kills me to admit, I thoroughly enjoy every moment. Perhaps even more than Isabelle.
“Not tonight,” I push back with a groan when a second after joining Isabelle in bed, she grinds her mouthwatering ass against the erection I’m striving to ignore. Perhaps if I stop letting my cock rule our exchanges, I’ll maintain a small shred of my astuteness. “You need your sleep.”
A deep, penetrating laugh rumbles in my chest when Isabelle mutters, “You really, really,reallylike me.”
Incapable of denying the truth and not a fan of lying, I whisper, “Maybe,” before cozying up close to her back. “But that doesn’t change anything, Isabelle. Sleep.”
She fights me for almost two minutes before the lulling movements of my chest and the featherlike brush of my hand up and down her arm soothes her into a restful nine hours of sleep.
The following morning, Isabelle enters my office looking refreshed in a snug skirt and buttoned-up shirt. Since we shared breakfast in the kitchen this morning, I don’t reprimand her about not leaving my bedroom in one of my shirts. Her lack of clothing during breakfast turned that requirement on its head. I much prefer when she eats while naked. It makes clean-up a lot more fun, and I didn’t use the shower this morning.
“If I don’t want to get fired, I really should get going.” She sounds hesitant, but I learn a wish of unemployment may not be the cause of her jittery tone when she murmurs, “Did you want to get some takeout tonight? We could eat here or at my apartment.” She stuffs her hands into her pocket before muttering under her breath, “Unless you have plans.” This side of Isabelle is extremely uncommon—the reserved, shy side—but very endearing. “If you do, that’s fine. I can—”
“Hugo will collect you at six. The rest of the arrangements can be left with me.”
She smiles in a way that convinces me I can do no wrong. “Okay.” She shyly waves before spinning on her heels.
She’s halfway out of my office before the grumbling murmur of her name stops her in her tracks. I wait for her to turn back to face me before standing from my chair. Her pulse thrums when I bridge the gap between us with slow, purposeful strides. She looks as torn now as she did when announcing it was time for her to head to work. I can understand why. She craves my attention, but she doesn’t want to come off as clingy. Many women in my past have faced the same issue, but there’s just one difference—I want Isabelle to cling to me. I want it so bad my next set of words sounds more like a command than a suggestion.
