“On your way home tonight…” I purposely say home, so she knows where I am taking this, “… have Hugo stop by your apartment to collect some of your things. Catherine purchased toiletries and a handful of clothes for you, but you’ll be more comfortable with your belongings here as well.”
“Isaac, I… ah… I can’t move in with yo—”
I silence her by pressing my index finger against her pouty lips. “My bed.” I replace my finger with my mouth. “My house,” I mutter against her slightly parted lips. “My rules.” Her mouth gapes open when I lash her lip with my tongue before growling, “Mine.”
Her knees almost give out when I drag my tongue along the roof of her mouth, intermingling her fresh minty breath with my coffee-laced one, but since she wants to be an equal contributor to our relationship, she pulls back before I’m close to getting my fill, then murmurs against my mouth, “We have a lot to discuss, Isaac, but sharing a residence won’t be on the agenda any time soon.”
“Why not?” I’m not tiptoeing around her rejection. I want answers, and I want them now.
She spreads her hands across my chest, assuring me the anger in my tone isn’t necessary before confessing, “Because there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Which I’ll have more opportunity to unearth while you are here with me.”
Isabelle exhales a sharp breath before muttering, “And what happens if you don’t like what you hear? I’ll be heartbrokenandhomeless.”
“I’m not a cruel man, Isabelle,” I snap out, confident that’s where her worries stem. “Last night was…”
When I cannot find a reason for my unusual brutality, Isabelle thrusts my search in another direction. “It was beautiful and perfect and everything I could have ever wanted.” She steps even closer to me until her chest is flattened against mine. “You are everything I’ve ever wanted, Isaac.”
“Then it’s settled. You’re staying here with me.”
“Isaac—”
“No,” I bark out, interrupting her before she can spill a single lie I see brewing in her eyes. “I accept you need to work. I understand your reservations about the newness of our relationship, especially after the way I behaved last night, but we’re not guaranteed a certain number of breaths. We don’t know how much time we get between the dash on our eulogy printout, so even with this making me sound like a sentimental schmuck, I will not hesitate to say you are who I want. If I only get you between eight and eleven every night and for an hour each morning, so be it. I will take that. But don’t ask me to accept less, Isabelle, because that is not a request I can adhere to.”
My confession floors her, but it has nothing on the shock that bombards me. I am not a man who expresses his feelings. I didn’t cry during the bone marrow transplant that saved my life nor when Ophelia died. And when she confessed her love the day she died, I wanted to gloat more than ensure she knew I felt the same way. But none of those previous reactions come close to trying to explain the hold Isabelle placed on me when she fell to my feet. They’re unexplainable.
As is Isabelle’s response when she launches herself onto her tippytoes so she can seal her mouth over mine. While dueling her tongue with mine, her hands shoot down to my belt buckle. From the way she is acting, anyone would swear I confessed my undying love for her. In a way, I guess that is understandable since that is pretty much what I did.
“Ten minutes, Isaac,” she huskily whispers against my mouth while yanking my cock out of the tight restraints of my trunks. “And I mean ten minutes this time.” She slides her thumb over the crown of my cock to use a bead of pre-cum as lubricant before saying with a quiver, “If you don’t learn the meaning of a quickie within a month, we’ll be living off food stamps.”
I almost tell her I own four food banks in the state alone, but the locking of our eyes tells me she wouldn’t care if I told her I was a billionaire or a pauper. Nothing but my dick is on her mind, and I’d be an ass not to give her what she’s craving since she just unknowingly agreed to my suggestion we live together. She said, ‘we’ll be living off food stamps.’ That implies we’re a unit. We are on the same team.
It makes her mine.
After stopping the frantic pump of her hand, I do a final nibble on her bottom lip before taking a giant step back. Isabelle whines, but before a single protest can escape her lips, I nudge my head to my desk, then mutter with a smirk, “Bend over the desk. Ass high in the air. Legs—”
“Open wide,” Isabelle fills in before doing as requested. My smirk merges to a genuine smile when she mumbles under her breath, “I knew I wore a skirt for a reason.”
I love her babbling almost as much as I’ve fallen for her.
52
Four weeks later…
Ismirk like the arrogant businessman I am while sending a message to Isabelle.
Me:Did you make it to the office on time?
With my personal life taking up more time than my business aspirations the past four weeks, I’m spending the morning in my home office. I have a handful of errands to complete before meeting Nick at the Dungeon to hand over the check for his new house. He stayed in the neighborhood he wanted but has agreed with my request to commence interviews for a full-time bodyguard. Rise Up’s success requires extra caution, not to mention the fact he is my little brother.
My smirk merges into a genuine smile when Isabelle’s reply pops up on my phone’s screen.
Isabelle:No. But Hugo rear-ended someone on the way, so I had a good excuse.
I’m still laughing when a second message pops up.
Isabelle:It’s also the perfect excuse for the throb in my nape.This morning was perfect, Isaac. As are you.
