His hands find my face.
Then his mouth is on mine.
The desperate, strangled noise I make is immediate, like it’s been trapped in my chest for the past two months along with the desire to feel his lips against mine again.
The length of his entire body presses into me, all the hard lines of it fitting against mine like it was made for him. He thrusts his tongue past my lips, taking whatever he wants. Demanding it. I’m more than happy to surrender to the rough and certain way he pins me against the door. His kiss isn’t gentle. He devours me, tongue and teeth and heat, the kind of kiss that makes my knees buckle.
By the time the intensity of the kiss slows, we’re both breathless. He leans his forehead against mine, his breath warm and uneven.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice deep and raw. “I’ve been dying to do that again.”
“Me too.” I realize I’m smiling like an idiot, but I don’t even care or try to hide it. “I wasn’t sure if you actually wanted to—”
“Oh, I want to. I was scaredyoudidn’t.”
We hadn’t spoken it aloud since that night by the bridge, and hearing him admit it again sends relief rushing through me.
He kisses me once more, slower, not as urgent. He takes his time, deepening it. It’s exploratory, reverent. He’s tasting me, learning me all over again, and it feels like he’s erasing every day we spent pretending not to want this.
“Fuck,” he breaths, dropping his hands and pulling back with a shaky exhale. “We should probably talk. I just put on a kettle. Would you like some tea?”
“A kettle?” I grin and arch a brow. “How old are you?”
“Watch it,” he growls.
The sound goes straight to my cock, and I’m sure he can tell by the way my face flushes.
“Haven’t you heard? Kettles are in again.” He turns and motions for me to follow him further into the house. “Besides, it’s an electric one.”
He winks at me over his shoulder, and I swear my heart forgets how to beat properly.
Has he always beenthisfucking sexy, or is it because I’ve been denying myself these kinds of thoughts for the last two months? Either way, I have no interest in trying to make them go away. Instead, I let my gaze linger on his ass as we enter his kitchen.
I take a seat on one of the stools by the granite countertop island as Isaac opens a cabinet and takes out two mugs. The space is warm, glowing from under-cabinet lights and smelling faintly of cedar and Earl Grey.
My bottom lip ends up between my teeth as my gaze roams up and down his body while he places tea bags in the mugs and pours hot water into them from the black electric gooseneck kettle. Every movement is deliberate, careful. Controlled. It’s such a stark contrast to the way he kissed me two minutes ago.
Then a knock at the front door brings my private show to an abrupt end.
Isaac’s hand freezes midair. He sets the kettle down, the faint hiss of steam filling the silence between us. He looks at me, brows furrowed.
“You did come alone, right?”
I have no idea what’s with the suspicion, but it slices right through my chest and makes my stomach sink. “Of course.”
“Stay here.”
He leaves the kitchen, and I can’t even enjoy the view of him walking away as dread settles in my gut because…
What the hell was that about?
The moment I hear the front door open, I expect to hear voices, not the unmistakable sounds of a scuffle. A dull thud, a grunt.
Then a furious shout.
“You son of a bitch!”
My body goes rigid.
