I’ve never been this way before. Well, except that one time, but Isabelle and Ophelia couldn’t be more different if they tried. Comparing them would be like comparing chalk and cheese. They’re on entirely opposing ends. Ophelia caught my eye. She was determined, strong, and her consciencedidn’t pang when she turned me down, whereas Isabelle fascinates me. Her dabber ability to mumble under her breath, the gleam in her eyes when she peers at me, and the fact she sees me as a mere man has me responding in a way I would have never thought imaginable.
I’m a guarded, reserved man… until Isabelle’s attention is directed my way.
In case you’re wondering, that isn’t happening right now. The wheels of my SUV have barely churned for half a mile when a faint snore trickles into my ears. Isabelle’s head is resting on my shoulder. Her arm is hooked around my waist, and her leglooks desperate to straddle my lap.
I’d aid its endeavor if it didn’t make the high rise of her dress even more scandalized. The stiff, red material sits so high on her thigh, I’m confident the slightest movement will award me a peek of her panties.
Since they’re not something I want to see without consent, I tug down the hem of her dress before shifting my eyes to the scenery whizzing by the window.
With the hour still early for a Friday night, it takes almost thirty minutes to reach my apartment. I wait for Hugo to pull in front of the elevator banks in the underground parking lot of my building before jogging around to assist Isabelle out.
Hugo scrubs at the stubble on his chin when Isabelle’s head lolls to the side from me lifting her into my arms. Genuine concern for Isabelle is seen all over his face. “Boss—”
“I won’t need you for the rest of the night,” I interrupt, my tone stern. I’m not angry he’s looking out for Isabelle, I’d be furious if he didn’t. It’s his belief I can’t take care of her that frustrates me the most. She may make my astuteness nonexistent, but I’m not a monster. I know the difference between right and wrong.
Bedding an inebriated woman is wrong.
“Return in the morning, then I’ll drop you off to collect your car at the nightclub’s lot.”
Hugo lifts his chin in thanks, but the worry in his eyes remains. It may even double when I stride toward the elevator bank.
After shifting Isabelle’s weight to my right, I press my thumb to the security dashboard in the elevator panel to summon the cart. My imprint is the only key needed to access the penthouse apartments on the top level, and it commands the elevator immediately to the underground parking lot.
I enter the cart, select my floor, then spin to face the front. Hugo is still standing where I left him. He’s no longer scrubbing his stubble. His focus has shifted to a knot in his neck. Even spotting my watch doesn’t force his lips to follow the prompts of his brain. He remains as quiet as a church mouse, only breathing out a curse word when the elevator doors snap shut with Isabelle and me inside.
With Regan moving back to Texas a couple of months ago, my walk down the corridor separating our penthouses is done in silence—ifyou exclude Isabelle’s feeble snores. They’re not the thunderous ones my grandpa made every Thanksgiving when he fell asleep in front of the television with food-stained clothes and the football blaring out of the television. They’re faint and, for some inane reason, quaint.
My long strides have me reaching the main bedroom within a couple of seconds. After placing a dozing Isabelle on one side of my bed, I take a step back to admire the rarity. There have been multiple times in the past two months I was convinced this would never occur.
Isabelle’s glossy dark brown hair glows against my dark sheets. Her red dress looks even more blistering since it’s shimmering off the mirror above my head, and the faintness of her cheeks has the begs of her lips ramping up to a level I’m not comfortable with.
I’d give anything to taste them.
Anything at all.
While fighting the urge not to touch her, I stare at Isabelle for several long minutes. I’ve never tended to an inebriated person before, so I’m a little perplexed about what to do.
When my rake of her body lands on her feet, the obvious stands out like a sore thumb—I need to make her more comfortable.
After carefully removing her sky-high shoes, I set them down at the end of the bed before striding to the walk-in closet. I scan the room, striving to find a suitable article of clothing for Isabelle to sleep in. Since my apartment is only used for ‘business’ matters, the items in my closet reflect this. It’s full to the brim with designer suits, dress shirts, and polished shoes.
My dilemma is elevated when I discover a shirt I wore running last week dumped in the hamper. Catherine must have forgotten to include it in the dry cleaning. Although it hasn’t been laundered, the thought of Isabelle wearing my shirt in my bed had me snatching it up before a cognitive thought can pass through my head.
I don’t know whether to be pleased or frustrated when Isabelle fails to protest my pulling my shirt over her head. I’m glad even in her near unconscious stateshe trusts me enough to dress her, but what if I were any other man? Would he have kept his eyes on the headboard while lowering the zipper on her strapless dress? I doubt it. He would have ravished her skin with his eyes, and then perhaps he may have added other parts of his body into the mix when his itch wasn’t scratched by the enticing visual.
The thought has me lifting Isabelle into my arms with more aggression than necessary. I tug down the bedding, my brisk movements slowing when Isabelle murmurs my name under her breath. It isn’t a panicked, apprehensive mumble. It’s full of yearning and want, like she too is struggling.
While growling in frustration, I place Isabelle under the bedding, pull it up until it’s under her chin, then hotfoot it to the bathroom. I’m in desperate need of a cold shower before I do something I’ll regret in the morning.
For years, my tastes have leaned toward blondes. However, I can’t deny my attraction to Isabelle. She is too alluring to deny, and she has my shrewdness wavering.
By the time I re-enter my bedroom, Isabelle is alert and awake. As her teeth catch her lower lip, her confused eyes bounce around my room. Her unsteady footing to my bedside drawer exposes she’s still under the spell of alcohol, so I won’t mention the gasp she releases when she yanks open the drawer I’ve been meaning to clean out.
Women award me their panties for a job well done, and although I have staff who could take care of them for me once they leave, I don’t pay them anywhere near enough to demand they touch unsanitary panties.
Upon sensing she’s being watched, Isabelle pivots around to face me. Considering her level of intoxication, I’m surprised she remains on her feet. “They’re not clean underwear, are they?”
With my interest more piqued than annoyed, I shake my head.
