With a plain white shirt I usually wear while running crumpled in my hand, I return to Isabelle’s half of the bed. A reminder as to why I don’t sleep with inebriated women smacks into me hard and fast when the lowering of the zipper in her skirt doesn’t cause the slightest bit of strain to fetter her features. She remains perfectly still, proving, without a doubt, that women under the influence are not capable of rational decision-making.
After raising the bedding to maintain her modesty, I slide her skirt down her slim thighs before shifting my focus to her top half. Although her shirt looks painted onto the luscious curves of her chest, it comes away without too much trouble. After dumping it onto the floor with her skirt, I pull my shirt over her head, tug it down her body, then carefully pull her hair out from the collar.
As stated earlier, I’m not familiar with the protocol for overnight visitors, but I have enough female acquaintances to know wearing a bra to bed isn’t kosher, so with my eyes glued on Isabelle’s gorgeous face, I nimbly unlatch the clasp on her bra, slip the lacy material down each arm, then pluck it out from beneath her shirt.
My nostrils flare in an endeavor to cool my rapidly rising body heat when Isabelle’s rosy-pink nipples bud against her shirt. The material is thick and made from quality cotton, but her body’s response to the scraping of my hand down her stomach makes it seem as if it is as thin as tissue paper.
Walk away, Isaac,I demand to myself, equally frustrated by the thickening of my cock as I am understandable of it.
Isabelle is a beautiful woman. She fascinates me like no one ever has, so not only do her constant denials of her body’s every want have me enthralled by the chase, it also strengthens my determination to win.
I’ve never wanted anything more in my life, and since I don’t understand the words ‘give up,’ I must place distance between us before I do something I’ll regret.
I’m partway across the room when a subtle groan leaves Isabelle’s mouth. It isn’t necessarily a pain-filled whimper, but it isn’t a noise I ever want murmured by her lips while in my presence. I don’t know if instincts or my naturally engrained protectiveness are to blame when I move back to the bed to lift Isabelle in my arms. She slept more restfully in my arms in the back of the limousine than she has the past couple of hours in a bed, so perhaps that’s it? Whatever it is, there’s no uncertainty that the massive groove running down the middle of her forehead relaxes the instant she’s cradled into my chest. She is scared about how her body responds to me, but when she lets go of her inhibitions, her head trusts me as much as her body craves me.
With the sun fallen and Isabelle’s breaths on my neck as natural as me governing a boardroom, the tiredness of a long two months soon overtakes me. I fall asleep with Isabelle in my arms, only waking hours later when a stern knock projects through my room’s door.
After ensuring Isabelle’s legs are covered by the bedding, I instruct my caller to come in. I could answer the door, but since I would have to remove Isabelle from my arms to do that, I don’t. With any luck, the edge of arrogance in my tone will give my unexpected guest the hint it isn’t an appropriate hour for a visit.
Any callousness I’m harboring for my early morning caller is forgotten when Cormack enters the room. With his working hours adjusting to that of a baker the past two months and his sister creating more waves of havoc than pleasure for him of late, his sleep has been as lagging as mine. He looks truly exhausted, like more than Clara’s antics have him burning the candle at both ends.
“Hey,” he greets me before dropping his tired eyes to Isabelle. “How is she doing?”
If it were anyone but him eyeing the top half of her body hidden by nothing more than a plain white tee, I would have freed him of more than his substantial assets, but since it is Cormack, a man I trust with more than my life, I keep conceitedness from my tone while replying, “She’s good. Still sleeping.” When a flare of concern darts through his eyes, I ask, “What’s up? Are you just getting up or going to bed?”
I drift my eyes to the alarm clock to check the time just as Isabelle lets out a painful groan. There’s no suspicion this time around that her murmur was fueled by pain. It screws up her beautiful face and causes her legs to scissor.
“Breathe through the pain, Isabelle…” I suggest while running my hand down her dark locks in a soothing manner, hopeful my touch subdues her as much as it instigates reckless yearning. “Nausea is a common side effect of a Xanax and champagne combination.”
The more I talk to her, the less pained her face becomes. Within seconds, her breathing returns to normal, and her legs stop wiggling beneath the bedding.
I continue weaving my fingers through her silky hair until the lines marring her beautiful face fully soften, then I divert my focus back to Cormack. He’s staring at me like I have a second head, and the indecisiveness in his eyes is heard in his words. “Ah… I was… umm… thinking about taking Harlow for a ride tomorrow.” He pauses to give himself a stern talking to before he continues, “I can arrange an extra set of bikes if you and Isabelle want to join us.”
My lips lift into a smile. I either smile or berate him for thinking four in the morning is an appropriate time to plan out our day. Furthermore, the eccentricity of our exchange has me wondering if Clara’s bid for the top spot at Attwood Electric is responsible for his tiredness. Perhaps Harlow slotted into his family’s unique dynamic better than anticipated.
Despite the early hour, the contemplation of that is worthy of a grin. It’s been a tough couple of years for Cormack. Grief can be handled in private, but charges so murky your name will be permanently stained by them aren’t as easily forgotten. I’m glad he’s found someone who sees him for who he truly is. He isn’t a billionaire or a trust fund baby wanting to fill his father’s shoes. He’s a brother striving to stop his siblings from facing the same injustices he did and a friend who’s willing to encounter a stern knock to the chin to ensure Isabelle isn’t solely responsible for pushing me out of my comfort zone.
Although I appreciate his offer to include Isabelle and me in his plans today, there’s no way I will ever accept his invitation. “Thanks, but you’re never getting me on those death traps.” I’m not a fan of motorbikes. Ophelia died while protected by a seat belt and a ton of seemingly impenetrable metal and glass, so I can only imagine how inevitable death is when there’s nothing between you and the asphalt but a thin bit of plastic.
I stop recalling the crumbled wreckage Cormack and I stumbled upon while leaving my final underground fight six years ago when Cormack says, “All right. Well, let me know if you change your mind.”
I dip my chin. “I will.”
Not wanting him to see the guilt that I didn’t fight harder for Ophelia, I drop my eyes to Isabelle. I don’t feel responsible for the traffic accident that killed Ophelia. I was miles away and not behind the wheel of the car that was forced over the ravine by a tired driver, but I do accept responsibility for her increase in speed and lack of concentration. If I hadn’t fallen for Col’s tricks, she wouldn’t have been rushing her barely conscious brother to the ER to have the injuries I inflicted on him assessed, she wouldn’t have been on that section of road at that time of night, and she wouldn’t have looked away when CJ commenced choking on his tongue. If she hadn’t done any of those things, she wouldn’t have needed to see the B-double truck that crossed onto the wrong side of the road because the driver was asleep behind the wheel. She would have still been at Buck’s Diner, dipping her French fries into her chocolate milkshake. Ophelia’s death taught me that there’s more than one way to kill a person and that real men take accountability for their actions. Only cowards try and fool people into believing differently.
21
With my mood sour from Cormack’s visit, I shower and get ready for my day at a time I’m usually heading to bed. A lot of acquisitions and business proposals have gone dormant the past couple of months, so once I’m dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, slicked back my overdue-for-a-trim hair, and placed water and tablets onto Isabelle’s bedside table, I trade assets worth millions while waiting for Isabelle to wake.
Regretfully, the early hour she went to bed doesn’t parallel an early awakening. Hours tick over as fast as profits, and before I know it, it’s a little past ten.
While dragging a hand down my tired face, a proposal I’ve been avoiding the past few days catches my attention. It isn’t Callie’s upcoming auction. It isn’t as imperative in nature as being sold, but since it affects the man who’s been at my side for years, I need to give it the due diligence it deserves.
“Has Clara withdrawn her bid yet?”
Regan’s growl sounds down the line before the whoosh of her headshake. “Although she did schedule a meeting with key members this morning. It could either be to announce her withdrawal from the race—”
“Or a last-ditch effort to secure votes.”
