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I laugh and it causes a grin to spread wide on her face. “Hold on now, you can’t just do a quick little thing. A deal is a deal.”
“We never confirmed length, sir,” she says, holding one finger in the air before placing the headphones I just wore over her ears.
Before I can even ask her what she’s singing for me, she starts humming into the microphone, swaying to her own beat, getting lost in herself. Her hair falls around her shoulders and I inch closer to the windowpane, needing to be as close as I can get to her. She’s my drug, the most intoxicating woman I have ever met, and the need to be near her is overwhelming. Her purple top only enhances her perfect, olive skin, and it makes me want to peel it off her and see what she looks like underneath. But first… first, I want to hear her like this, vulnerable and sexy as hell.
Perfection drips from her lips as she starts singing about a woman who is lonely on her own but can’t seem to find the words to make her lover stay. She looks right at me the entire time as she sings, and I can’t remember the last time I felt such a visceral reaction to a woman, or really, to anything or anyone.
Her voice is as angelic as she is, and I honestly don’t know why she hasn’t brought up the fact that she has this talent. It’s unbelievable how she hits all the notes, both high and low and everywhere in between, and it looks so damn easy for her.
She finishes and exits the booth and I’m still standing staring at the space she left.
“Uh, B?” she asks, and her voice breaks me from the spell she’s entranced me with.
The way she’s standing there like she didn’t just go in there and belt out a Lana Del Rey song, quite possibly singing it better than Lana herself, is not lost on me.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a singer?” I ask, pulling her to the couch and sitting down with her, wanting to know everything I haven’t learned yet.
Isla laughs, shaking her head, looking at me like I’m the insane one here. “Because I’m not a singer? I love music, but I’m not a singer. I’m in school and I work at a record shop.”
She bites her lip as I pull her onto my lap. “Don’t be sarcastic. I know what you do. But how could you not tell me you have a voice like that?” I let my hands trail down her back, resting just above her ass, resisting the urge to move them farther down. Not yet.
“It just never came up,” she says. “Plus, I’m happy not being the singer in this relationship.”
Her words hit us both at the same time, clearly catching both of us off guard. Relationship. Are we in a relationship? I don’t know… I didn’t know that. If we are… My brain whirls at the possibility. Do I want a relationship with this gorgeous woman sitting on me? Fuck yes, I do. But can I do this without royally fucking it up? I highly doubt it.
“I was honest when I told you that I don’t know if I’m capable of the whole relationship thing,” I tell her, watching disappointment flash across her face.
“I didn’t mean relationship, relationship,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You know what I meant.”
I nod, not allowing her to go back on her words because I know she wants this as much as I do. I won’t let her stop this now. “I know exactly what you meant, Isla,” I tell her, pulling her closer to me. “I might not know if I’m capable of it, especially since I didn’t have the best role models. But if I’m going to attempt to be worth something for anyone, it’s you. If you’ll have me… I want you in the worst way, the worst possible way, sugar.”
The look in her eyes tell me I’m not wrong. I see equal parts of heaven and hell dance in those big, beautiful eyes of hers, like this could either be the thing to bring us the most happiness in the entire world or the thing that ruins us both.
She presses her mouth to mine and I part her lips with my tongue, needing to taste her, feeling the heat of her skin against mine.
Yeah, this could be heaven, or it could be hell.
But for her, I’ll take my chances.
Twenty-Eight
Isla
Acatalepsy (n.) the impossibility
to truly comprehend anything.
___________
“So, this is your favorite spot?” I ask, really taking it all in for the first time. There’s award-winning records framed on the walls, high-backed leather chairs, and the mixing area. Candles illuminate the room as my eyes try to memorize this moment.
“Kind of,” he admits, his eyes flashing toward the sound booth we both just bared our souls in. “That space in there is my favorite, favorite place. We recorded our first album in this studio.”
I look into the booth where more candlelight flickers beautiful contrasts of light and dark shadows onto the walls. It reminds me of my paintings, how I like to showcase the beauty in the dark, painting dark elements that can be brightened up by soft strokes of light.
“When I go into the booth, regardless of who is in this room, who is waiting on me, hell, regardless of any opinions and without the weight of expectations, it’s just me. I leave it all out here,” he motions around us, “and it’s just me and my music in there. And for those few moments, that’s all that matters. Everything else fades away and it’s just the music. And I have never felt anything that brings me more of a high than that,” he looks from the booth to me, “until I met you, Isla Robles.”
My heartbeat quickens in my chest at his admission. Until I met you, Isla Robles. This feels like a dream, like I’m living someone else’s life. Like, at any second, someone is going to bound through the studio doors and tell me to get out of here, that my time is up. Bordeaux Daniels is every woman’s wet dream, and he is practically whispering sweet nothings to me inside of a candlelit recording studio. There is nothing sexier in this entire world.
