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“I love sex, Isla. I love sex, and I love fucking women. And I’m damn good at it,” I tell her. “I’m not trying to be cocky, but I could do things to you that you’ve only read about, I promise you.” My dick thickens in my sweats, and I shift on the bed. “There’s something so purely animalistic about a good fuck. About the sudden, uncontrollable urge you feel when you’re so attracted to a woman that all you want to do, all you can think about, is being deep inside her, giving her the best fuck of her life.”
I watch as her chest rises and falls quickly, the sharp inhale making her cleavage spill out of her robe even more.
“Bordeaux?” she asks.
“Yeah?” I answer, my chest heaving just thinking about what I’d do to her if I could. If she would let me. I’m sick and tired of trying to force myself into not wanting this woman. I can’t deny the energy between us.
“You said you like fucking women, so that means multiple. Does that mean you never see yourself in a relationship? I mean, you say you aren’t a relationship man, and you don’t think you’d be good at it. Plus, you love fucking women. What does that mean for you in the long run? Do you want to be alone forever?”
I don’t ever think about this question because I don’t want to think about being alone in fifty years when I’m not as marketable and fuckable as I am now. I won’t be the rockstar, the young, single guy who is appealing anymore. I’ll be old and lonely. I know this.
“I think that, for the right woman, I’d give it all up. I think that if you’re with the right person, they fulfill those desires in ways you’ve never been fulfilled before. There’s no need to be fucking multiple women because that person is enough, more than enough, for you.” I tell her this, but I don’t tell her that the more I get to know her, the more I think I want the woman I’m describing to be her.
* * *
We spend nearly two hours asking each other silly questions after I got all serious on her about my shitty parents. Despite the questions being surface-level, like our favorite colors and foods and if we had pets growing up, I still feel like I’ve gotten to know her on an entirely new level tonight.
“Tell me about your favorite person,” Isla says, looking at me with a sparkle in her eye, like she’s thinking of her own favorite person.
“I’ve got a few favorites,” I tell her. “Frankie, obviously. And then the band, Declan, Miller, and Flynn. My best friends.”
I miss those assholes. The only part I miss about touring aside from the fans is seeing them every single day. I never get tired of them.
“You’ll like Declan. She’s got a super hard exterior, but she’s the mushiest, cheesiest woman ever when you get to know her. She plays bass for RD. Then there’s Flynn, our crazy ass drummer. He’s sensitive and nice and ever the fucking romantic when he’s in a relationship. But don’t tell anyone I said he’s sensitive, especially not him. Miller plays the guitar, too, and he’s a tough one. Lots of walls to break down with that guy but once you do, you’re in for life.”
One thing I’ve always worried about when it comes to maybe, possibly doing the whole relationship thing one day is what people will think of my friendship with Dec. She’s like a sister to me, but I know how women can be with other women, but the look in Isla’s eyes doesn’t tell me jealousy is her style.
“What about you? Who is your favorite person in the world?” I ask her.
She thinks for a moment, but then says, “Veronica. Ay bendito, that girl gets on my nerves, but I swear she would take a bullet for me. And I’d do the same. Plus, I don’t really have anyone else I’m close to. I don’t have a friend circle or anything. I’ve just been keeping my head down and doing my schoolwork.” Isla perches against the headboard of the hotel bed. Her hair, once up and perfectly tied back from her face, now spills down and around her shoulders. “Can I ask you a more serious question?”
“You can ask me anything,” I tell her. Why the hell not? She already knows one of my biggest secrets. I have big-time mommy issues. And, I suppose, daddy issues to boot. I’m a real catch.
I want to ask why she doesn’t have friends because who doesn’t have friends? She’s definitely someone I see as a loner type, but no friends to talk about? I’m surprised.
“Did you mean what you said earlier when we first got to the hotel?” Her words linger in the silence left as I try to think of the right words to describe my feelings for her. I know exactly what she’s talking about, and of course, I meant what I said. Her mind is as beautiful as her body. The alcohol swarming in my stomach gives me a false sense of security, liquid courage.
“Of course, I meant what I said, Isla. I don’t talk about my feelings for the fun of it.” I watch as she takes it in, really digesting my words. I can’t help but wonder if she’s still doubting me. “You’re different. You don’t give a shit and that’s intriguing enough on its own, but you are also undeniably beautiful, you have fucking bomb taste in music, and you are feisty as all hell. Normally women are on their best behavior around me, developing fake personas they think I want. You were yourself from the moment you met me, and you never tried to make me think you were someone other than yourself. You are raw and real and fucking perfect.” There. It’s out. I don’t care what she thinks about me after this. I cannot take one more second of Isla not knowing exactly how I feel about her.
Her face softens, that same rosy tinge appearing on her cheeks from earlier, and I smile at how cute she’s become. How vulnerable she looks in this bed with me, fresh out of the tub, with no makeup and no clothes and nothing protecting her from me seeing who she really is.
“I didn’t want to like you, Bordeaux Daniels.” She scootches closer to me on the bed, closing any and all remaining distance between our bodies. “I never expected to like you. And it isn’t because of him.” She flinches at the mention of Manuel, like it physically hurts her to talk about him now. “I was feeling like this before any of that happened. There’s just something about you that’s hard to ignore, no matter how much I want to. It’s like I can’t not like being around you.” She brings her face toward mine, and I smell the champagne residue lingering on her tongue. With our mouth mere inches apart, she adds, “It doesn’t hurt that you are devastatingly sexy.”
I bring my hand to the back of her head and rest it at the nape of her neck.
“I like you, Isla Robles.” I lean into her and nuzzle her nose with mine. I don’t know where the fuck it came from, but it feels right and I’m gonna go with it. “I really, really like you.”
She makes the first move, bringing her lips to mine, and I swear to all things holy, I feel our universes collide together. Her lips are soft, voluptuous, mixing champagne and vanilla Chapstick. I inhale her breath, allowing the warmth of her skin on mine to envelop me. I deepen our kiss, needing more of her, and now, but she pulls her lips from mine slowly, and I don’t make any attempts to force anything on her, despite every inch of my body begging for her.
“I like you, too, Bordeaux Daniels.” She nuzzles her nose against mine. “I guess I see why the world is slightly obsessed with you. You’re not so bad after all.”
Twenty-One
Isla
Ardor (n.) warmth and affection
associated with romantic feelings.
