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She reaches up into the cupboard and brings down the bottle before carefully pouring two drinks while I watch from behind her, barely able to stop myself from pressing myself against her back and feeling that luscious ass against my aching hard-on.
Maybe I just need a quick fuck.
There are plenty of willing women around, some I’ve even fucked on and off over the last few years. And yet none of them arouse the same response in me that Isla does.
And that’s exactly why I should move away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ISLA
His presence is so huge that despite him not making a single noise, I know the second he stands and moves after me.
The whole reason I stood up to get another drink was to put some distance between us. Because things are changing, and I’m not sure it’s for the best. The way he looked at me when we first arrived in Chicago is a stark contrast to the way he’s looking at me now, and I can’t pinpoint the moment it started changing.
I fell asleep on the couch last night on purpose, because I didn’t want to risk waking up the way we did yesterday morning, and yethemoved me. And not only that, he stripped me and dressed me in his clothing. He saw me naked. Without my consent.
I should be throwing shit, not pouring him another drink.
I turn around, clutching a glass in each hand, intent on confronting him about last night. It can’t happen again, and I need to make that abundantly clear.
But he’s closer than I expected, and as soon as I turn, I run straight into his hard body. I take a step back, desperate to putsome distance between us, but the counter presses into the base of my spine, trapping me between the marble and Doc.
I crane my neck to look up at him, but nothing could prepare me for the look in his eyes. The darkness is molten, and instead of an endless abyss, for the first time, I see the man beneath the persona he’s built for himself.
He reaches between us, plucking the glasses from my hands and returning them to the bench, but he never allows any space to come between us.
“Doc,” I warn, but neither of us miss the hitch in my voice.
His huge hands settle on my hips as he presses closer until I can feel every hard inch of him. And I meanevery inch. I may not have a lot of experience with the lower region of the male anatomy, but I know this thing could break me in half before I could take a single breath.
Stop thinking about fucking him, you hussy,I reprimand myself, but it doesn’t work. Not when the intoxicating scent of leather washes over me and his warmth sets my body alight.
Before I can get out another word, his lips come down on mine and there’s none of the composure he showed at the wedding.
This kiss is feral. His lips move against mine with a ferocity I’ve never felt, his teeth nip at the tender pillows, and his tongue demands entry until I’m forced to relent.
But instead of pushing him away, which I know I should, my hands fist the front of his t-shirt and pull him closer, desperate for more.
I lose all sense of time as he takes what he wants from my mouth, grinding his hardness against my lower belly.
Every low groan from his throat spurs me on. Every swipe of his tongue has me melting further into him. And every bite makes me pull him closer.
I’ve kissed plenty of guys. Some would say too many. But I’veneverbeen kissed like this. I’ve never been kissed like my lips are the difference between life and death for the other person, and I’m drunk on the feeling.
Doc’s hands lift from my hips, and he pushes my jacket off before he immediately reaches for the hem of my shirt, pulling me out of my daze.
I press my hands into his chest and tear my lips from his, greedily sucking in air. “We can’t do this,” I whisper into the space between us, not trusting my words to come out even.
“Why not? We’re two consenting adults.”
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s too close. I can’t think when he’s touching me like this, when I can still taste him on my lips and feel the ghost of his fingers digging into my hips.
I duck out from between him and the counter before even trying to formulate a response. “Because there’s already a massive imbalance in this relationship. I’m a burden to you. You’ve been forced to marry me, and forced to have me in your home. Do you think sex is going to make that any less complicated?” I ask. “And that’s not even mentioning the fact you’ve consistently avoided me since I got here. If I’m awake, you’re not here. You can think all you want about me, but I’m not about to become a convenient fuck for a man who can’t stand my existence.”
His face twists, and immediately I regret every single word that just left my mouth. Did I interpret it wrong? Has he been sending me signs that he, in fact, does not hate having me here?
Without a word, he turns on his heel, only stopping for long enough to pick up his leather jacket from the back of one of the dining chairs and to shove his wallet, keys, and phone into his pocket before he’s out the door, leaving me with the taste of him on my lips and an aching heart.
