I laughed. "Fair enough."
When we reached her building, I pulled to the curb and cut the engine. An older brownstone, well-maintained but nothing extravagant.I got out and walked around to open her door, but she was already standing on the sidewalk.
She paused before walking away, her hand still on the car door. I stood there, my own hand on the frame, waiting. The streetlight caught the gold flecks in her eyes, and for a moment, we just looked at each other.
"What are we doing?" she finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I studied her face, the vulnerability there surprising me. "Do you want me to walk away?"
Her answer was unexpected. She grabbed my collar and pulled me down, her lips crashing into mine with a desperation that matched the hunger I'd been fighting. I backed her into the car door, my hands finding her waist, feeling the silk of her dress and the warmth beneath it.
"You drive me insane," she gasped when we broke apart.
"Good," I growled, my mouth at her neck. "Because I haven't stopped thinking about you since the first interview."
Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me back to her mouth. I kissed her deeply, tasting champagne and that familiar sweetness I remembered from Miami. When she moaned against my lips—the same sound she'd made three years ago—I nearly lost control.
"We're not doing this in a parking lot," I muttered, forcing myself to pull back.
She blinked, reality returning to her eyes. For a moment, I thought she'd refuse, but then she nodded.
I opened the passenger door, helping her back into the car. This time, when she slid into the seat, there was no hesitation. No practical excuses about Calabrese or cab waits. Just want, raw and undeniable.
I closed her door and walked around to the driver's side, my hands gripping the wheel harder than necessary as I started the engine.
"My place," I said. Not a question.
"Yes." Her voice was breathless. "Your place."
The ride to my penthouse was electric. Our hands brushed on the console between us, but neither of us reached to hold. The tension built with each mile, with each red light, with each stolen glance.
I stood in the dimly lit penthouse, the marble walls gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier. The air was thick with anticipation, a tension that had been building for three long years.
My heart pounded in my chest as I heard the click of the door, the sound echoing in the vast space.
As she stepped into the room, her presence filled the space, her curvy figure accentuated by the tight dress she wore. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her skin glowed in the soft light. I felt a surge of desire mixed with a hint of anger. Anger at myself for letting her go, for not recognizing her sooner. But mostly, I felt an overwhelming need to have her, to reclaim what we had shared that one unforgettable night.
"Isla," I said, my voice deep and commanding, yet laced with a vulnerability I rarely allowed anyone to see. She turned, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, time stood still. The air crackled with the electricity of our unspoken connection.
"Cassian," she whispered, her voice soft yet steady.
I could see the conflict in her eyes—the weight of whatever she was hiding. And I felt my own conflict: should I tell her I knew? That I'dknown who she was for weeks? That I'd been waiting for her to tell me the truth?.
We were two people bound by a night of passion, separated by almost three years and the lies she'd told to get close to me again.
I took a step toward her, my movements deliberate, my eyes never leaving hers.
"You've been avoiding me," I stated, more than asked.
She bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the floor, and I knew I was right. "Why?"
"It's complicated," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
I closed the distance between us, my hand reaching out to tilt her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze.
"Nothing is complicated between us, Isla," I said, my voice firm. "Not anymore."
Her breath hitched as I leaned in, my lips brushing against hers. It was a gentle touch, a question, and an answer all at once. She didn't pull away, and I took that as my invitation.
