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If there was ever a chance for us to have any kind of relationship, I’ve just burned it to the ground.
On autopilot, I move toward the bedroom, stripping off my clothes and throwing them into the hamper before continuing into the bathroom.
I run the bath, tipping some bath salts into the too-hot water before perching on the edge as I watch it fill. I reach for my phone, checking to see if Bree has replied to the three messages I’ve sent her since I got here, but she hasn’t.
Just like I always do, I’ve fucked everything up, and I have no idea if there’s any coming back from it or if Doc and I are destined to live in a marriage where we can’t even look at one another, much less feel anything more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
DOC
It’s not until I get to the car that I realize I don’t have any place to go.
But all I know is that I can’t be in that apartment right now. I can’t be anywhere near Isla.
Every bone in my body knew that was a stupid fucking idea, but I did it anyway. I kissed her. No, that’s not a strong enough word to describe what happened in the kitchen.
I fucking devoured her.
The taste of her was intoxicating. The sweetness, the sin, the little moans that I couldn’t get enough of. It spurred me on, and I was powerless as my body took the helm, leaving my mind in the back seat.
My aching cock is still hard in my jeans, a constant reminder of the mistake I almost made. Fuck. He seems to have missed the memo that we’re not ever getting into that hot little body. And it’s for the best.
It’s an added complication I certainly don’t need.
There’s a good fucking reason I’ve been single all these years. I have no interest in clingy women. One taste of cock and they think you’re in a relationship. They see flowers and kids and wedding bells—all shit I have no interest in giving a woman.
Well, I guess I have given Isla one of those three things, but it wasn’t exactly a choice for either of us. It was a necessity.
There might come a time when Spade loses interest in this little vendetta of his, and Isla can go back to living her life, and I can go back to mine.
But in the meantime, there’s no way we can cross the line we almost just crossed. Not without making everything worse in the long run.
Despite what my dick thinks, a few hours of pleasure are not enough to make up for potentially years of awkward misery.
I pull away from the curb, intent on putting as much distance between me and Isla as I can manage, and for the first time in years, I just drive.
I used to do this shit all the time when I had my Harley, but when living in the heart of a city like Chicago, there’s little use for a car and a bike, and I rarely have the time for this kind of thing. I’m always working. Always doing something,anything, to distract myself.
I drive and I drive until the city fades into the background and the long winding roads become less and less populated, and then I keep driving.
But it doesn’t seem to matter how much distance I put between us, Isla’s all I can think about.
By the time I begrudgingly make it back to the apartment, it’s well past midnight, and I’m sure Isla will be long asleep. But I still check the cameras to make sure.
She’s asleep on the goddamn couch again, and for some reason that has anger beating through my veins in a way that seems reserved for only my little spitfire.
I slam the car door, hoping it will make me feel better, but instead it only seems to spur on my foul mood. All night I waitedfor a call. A gunshot wound. A stabbing. Some poor sucker who got jumped for whatever drugs he had on him. But nothing came. Radio fucking silence.
I can’t even remember the last time that happened. There’s always someone who needs stitches in an organization the size of Frost Industries, but nope, not tonight.
You know what? I probably would have jumped if one of the Saint James men called with stupid questions about newborn noises and food cravings during pregnancy.
Anythingto keep me out of the house and away from the woman that has quickly become the bane of my very existence.
I stomp up the steps, my boots loud enough on the hardwood that I’m sure every motherfucker in this building can hear me. But I don’t care. I honestly couldn’t give a single shit about any asshole who lives here, and they’re far too afraid of me to confront me about the amount of noise I make.
I shove the key into the lock, push the door open, and once again I’m met with the quiet hum of the television.
