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She remembered just in time, on the brink of crying his name into his mouth, she knew a plea wouldn’t be far behind. He kissed her and she felt her anger eroding, leaving only desire in its place, hot and urgent, insistent for indulgence. She wanted him to keep kissing her.
She’d never felt like this before. She’d only been with two men – a boyfriend in high school and then Andrew, who she’d dated for a few years. Long enough to get to know him intimately, to feel comfortable with him, and she’d never once felt this. It was as though she was being ignited, cell by cell, as though he was sparking a fever in her blood, a tsunami of heart-pounding desire that was ravaging her system and yet for all there was a drowning, apocalyptic, terrifying slipping sensation, she couldn’t get enough. Alarm bells were sounding in her brain but they were impossible to hear above the rushing of her blood.
Her fingers held his chest as though that grip alone could save her from being subsumed by this, yet even that wasn’t enough, because beneath the grip of her fingers was the warmth of his chest and the solid thumping of his heart, a heart that hammered in unison with hers, so in that way they were perfectly, completely in synch.
His kiss was not gentle.
It was demanding.
Fierce.
And she bent to it in every way. Her body clung to his, her soul submitted, resistance be damned. Need stirred within her, primal and consuming, and everything she was demanded more. More of him, this, the maddening feelings that were throbbing through her. She made a whimpering noise deep in her throat – all she was capable of – as she held tight. It was the smallest noise; nothing, really, but suddenly he stopped kissing her. He stayed where he was at first, close to her, breathing her in, bodies pressed, but then he moved quickly, stepping back as though she were suddenly radioactive.
His face showed emotions she didn’t comprehend – dark, almost tortured.
“I don’t want to do this.”
That wasn’t true. She’d felt his desire whipping through the room with the same frantic intensity as her own.
“Liar.”
His jaw moved as he ground his teeth together.
“I won’t do this,” he corrected throatily, his features implacable, his eyes holding hers, showing the seriousness of his intent. “Get the hell out of here, Isabella.”
Her lips parted, and out of nowhere, tears stung her eyes. She blinked furiously, refusing to give into them.
“Are you deaf?” He snapped. “Get. Out.”
She was tempted to turn tail and run from the room. God knew it was what her humiliated heart wanted. But the same spirit of antagonism that had fired through her initially was still exploding in her cells – even more strongly now. “I was right. You are afraid.”
“Of you?” He drawled mockingly. “I don’t think so.”
“No. Of living. Of feeling.”
In response, he turned his back to her, facing the fire once more. His expression was a hard line, his profile set. She stared at him, waiting for something, though she couldn’t say what. Finally, when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to say anything, she stalked from the room with her spine ramrod straight, refusing to let him see that she was anything but furious.
He’d tasted alcohol on her breath and now the empty wine glass confirmed that she’d been drinking. Which went some of the way to excusing her behaviour, but what of his? Why the hell had he challenged her the way he had? Why the hell had he kissed her?
He pressed his palm to the wall beside the fire, staring at his hand with a locked jaw and a sense of utter disbelief.
He wanted her gone. He needed her gone. But one look at the window showed him that it wasn’t possible. The weather was against him, the storm only gaining momentum, so he knew there was no help in sight. He’d have to find a way to live under the same roof with her, God help him.
5
THE NIGHTMARE CAME FOR him again that night, but it was intensified by what had happened. Isabella was there too. Not in person, just her eyes, and yet he knew it was her: watching him, judging him, silently hating him as he did himself for what he’d allowed to happen.
He woke early, and didn’t bother trying to fight it. Reaching for his phone, he loaded up his emails then went through the motions of triaging them before giving in to curiosity and heading to the YouTube app. He typed her name with a sense of resignation, resenting his curiosity, resenting his attraction, resenting the hell out of her.
Her YouTube channel was evidently a raging success. She had over ten million subscribers, and her content was engaging and funny. He watched her make a croquembouche then take it to a wedding. Apparently the bride and groom were enormous fans of hers. They cried.
He dropped his phone to the bed beside him with a grimace of disgust. He hated easy emotion. He especially hated the over-sharing of easy emotions on the internet. And he hated people who were bubbly and perky and light-hearted, like Isabella.
Except she wasn’t really like that. Her online persona was all sugar and honey, but in reality she was contemplative and watchful.
He reached for his phone, loading another video. This time, she was cooking a vegan moussaka. He didn’t even want to think about what Yaya would say if he suggested such a thing to her. He watched the video though, and found a reluctant smile lifting one corner of his lips when Isabella tried the moussaka at the end and gave it a six out of ten. “It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but I’d be lying if I said it wouldn’t be ever so slightly improved with a bit of real cheese,” she laughed, and winked, her manner casually flirtatious, effortlessly likable.
Cristo.
