Chapter Twenty-Five
Izzy
Blake scared the crap out of me, which made me lose my squat and fall onto my backside.
But Lord, the way he’d said it.
The way he’d said it.
He’d said the words through gritted teeth like he meant them so hard. And his intense expression didn’t soften as I smiled at my own klutziness. His mouth was firm, his eyes so fierce that I felt the look from head to toe.
“You mean graceful,” I teased, because I was not equipped to receive incendiary compliments from someone like Blake.
“Wrong,” he said, crossing the room to stand above me. He held out a hand to help me up, and when I let him pull me to my feet, he held on to my hand and didn’t let go. “You are so fucking pretty that I have a hard time not staring. Obsessively. Every second that I’m with you.”
“Phillips,” I said, blinking and hoping I didn’t sound as flustered as I felt, “you just can’t say things like that to me.”
“Why not?” He dropped my hand and ran a knuckle over my cheek, killing me with eye contact as his body seemed to hover in front of me, surrounding me, as his scent snaked around my head and made me hyperaware of his closeness.
My eyes closed of their own volition, and I swayed just the tiniest bit before forcing them open and being too honest. I didn’t know why my voice came out as a whisper when I said, “Because it makes me want to believe it.”
“Believe it, Shay,” he said, his voice quiet as he stepped closer. “Your face is all I’ve thought about since you scalded my chest with your latte.”
“ Amy’s latte,” I corrected, my heart beating a little faster as his hands wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer. I swallowed and said, “Does this mean you don’t regret the elevator sex?”
“Regret the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me?” His eyebrows slammed together, and he looked at me like I’d insulted him. “Of course not. Do you?”
I couldn’t stop myself from beaming up at him as relief settled over me like a soft blanket. “Not even a little bit.”
“Good. Now, Izzy, I am more than happy to take you home,” he said, lowering his head to give my neck the softest kiss. “But if you’re interested in a sleepover, nothing in this world would make me happier.”
“What about a lotto win?” I asked, moving my head so he had better access. “I bet that’d make you happier.”
“Wrong,” he growled, scraping his teeth against my skin. “I want you more than millions, though it’s quite likely I’d regret that decision in the morning.”
That made me smile and put my hands on the back of his head. “World peace would surely make you happier.”
“You can’t pin world peace on me,” he said with false indignation, his fingers unbuttoning the top button on my pirate blouse as his tongue licked over my throat. “World peace would of course be sublime, and I would choose it over you because I’m not a selfish monster. But all I want tonight, Isabella Clarence, is this.”
“I cannot believe you remember my middle name,” I said around a laugh.
“It’s so bizarre that it’s unforgettable.” He unbuttoned another button. “Just like you.”
I stepped back—well, as much as he’d let me—and said, “Well, before I can decide on the sleepover, I’m going to need to see Mr. Chest’s chest.”
His hands stopped moving on my buttons, and his head came up. “The chest is a deal-breaker?”
“No, but I just really want to see it,” I said, feeling on more solid footing when we weren’t being serious. “I feel like once we start getting busy, I’ll be too distracted to look.”
“Did you just say getting busy ?” he asked, reaching over his shoulder to grab the back of his shirt.
“It’s better than the alternative.”
“Which is?” He pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor.
“Doing the nasty—holy shit ,” I said through clenched teeth before my mouth literally dropped wide open. Mr. Chest’s chest was absolute perfection .
“ The nasty is not an alternative at all,” he said, reaching out to return to his previous unbuttoning task.
“How about banging ?” I asked, setting my hands on his sternum and slowly sliding them up toward his shoulders. It was sinful and wrong that he should look so beautiful. It’s like they supersized his hot genes when the universe was stringing him together or something.
He was a freak, honestly.
“Too pedestrian,” he said. “We’re better than banging .”
“Please don’t say making love ,” I objected, watching my fingers move over his sculpted pectorals. “That’s so disgusting.”
“I would never,” he said, flicking open my remaining buttons. “Do I look like a douche?”
“You look like a sex dream,” I said, then sucked in a breath when he leaned down enough to drop a hot kiss on my cleavage.
“As do you.” He raised his head, his mouth in a mischievous grin. “This proper bra is incredibly hot, by the way.”
“An optical illusion that really makes my… you-know-what pop.”
“That’s it,” he said, grabbing my waist and tossing me over his shoulder as if I were…well, something one would carry on their shoulder. I squealed, staring at his muscular back as he said, “If you call your breasts a micro-penis one more time…”
“I didn’t say it that time,” I said, overcome with giggles as my silky shirt slid off my upside-down torso entirely and dropped onto the wood floor. “And whatcha gonna do, Phillips?”
“Not sure,” he said, his arm tightening across the backs of my legs as he started walking. “Tape your mouth shut, maybe?”
I couldn’t stop laughing as he walked through his bedroom doorway, and I said around a cackle, “But then you’ll be denying yourself the magic of my mouth, Mr. Chest, and you don’t want to do that.”
I meant it as a lighthearted tease about kissing, but realized it sounded filthy.
Blake stopped his forward motion and set me back on my feet a little roughly. His hot eyes were burning every little bit of me when he said, “Your mouth is the very best part of you, Iz.”
How did he do that? How did he manage to say things that made my heart swell up in my chest? I tried defusing the moment with “I’d say same, Blake, but those abdominals—”
“Izzy.”
I stopped rambling. “Yeah?”
“No jokes.” His eyes were just above mine, the planes of his face the center of my existence as he said, “I’m trying to tell you that I—”
A huge crash cut him off, the sound of ceramics shattering from the other side of the doorway, making both our heads turn in that direction.
“What was that?” I asked, suddenly hyperaware of my shirtlessness.
“Fucking cats,” he growled, putting his hands on my upper arms and repositioning me just a little. His eyes were all sex as he moved his face closer so his nose touched mine, and he said, “Stay right here and don’t move, Shay.”
“I’ll do what I want, Phillips,” I said, ruining my attempt at sass with my inability to not beam up at the man.
His mouth twitched and he said, “If your shirt is back on when I return, there’s going to be hell to pay.”
“Not scared,” I said as he walked out of the room, and then I lost it yet again when he held up a hand and flipped me off without looking back.
No, I wasn’t scared, I thought as I watched him go into the kitchen.
I was terrified.
Blake
“Watch the claws,” I muttered under my breath as I swept up the broken remains of a glass bowl. I was holding both of the little shits in one hand so they didn’t step on any of the shards, and the broom in the other hand as I attempted to sweep up their mess. My reflection in the refrigerator mocked me.
Dress pants, no shirt, two cats— fucking cool, bro.
And talk about your shitty timing; I’d finally had Izzy smiling again. I was tempted to just ignore the crash and hope for the best, but then I remembered Goodyear’s circle walking and didn’t want to be responsible for bloody paws.
Fucking cats.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I knew beyond a reasonable doubt that I was not going to check it. An email from the office would destroy my resolve to ignore work until Monday and hope for the best.
But the damn thing buzzed again.
And again. And yet again.
“Fuck,” I growled, propping the broom against the pantry and pulling out the phone.
But it wasn’t an email. It was a text. Multiple texts.
From Izzy.
Izzy: I’m taking a poll. Are you between the ages of 20 and 40?
What the fuck was she doing?
I responded: Yep.
Izzy: Is your name Blake Phillips?
Yep.
Izzy: Okay so random poll question—are you still nervous?
I glanced toward the bedroom but couldn’t see more than the doorway.
She was so weird—I never knew what the hell she was talking about—but for some reason, it made me fucking out of my mind over her. I was obsessed with the unpredictability of her brain.
I answered honestly: No .
Izzy: Oh.
A second passed.
Izzy: Yeah, me, either.
I wasn’t letting her off the hook. I texted, Why are you nervous?
Izzy: So I’m not nervous exactly, maybe just shy…?
I reached down and scratched between Goodyear’s ears and texted, It’s ME. Last week you FaceTimed to prove to me you can do the Napoleon Dynamite dance. If you can do that on camera, you cannot be shy .
Izzy: I think that’s the problem—us, in your apartment after a “date,” is new. Not at all like us in our normal habitat.
I stood. Replied, I get it. So…?
Izzy: So if we’re going to knock boots when you come back, perhaps we should text a little, to remind us of our Iz/Blake friendship roots.
I was smiling again, like a damn fool. You want me to text you before I sex you?
Izzy: Maybe.
I texted, Okay. So HEY, DIPSHIT, you didn’t put your shirt back on, did you?
Izzy: Is that your pre-sex text?
I responded with It is .
Izzy: I actually just buried myself under your covers as is.
I felt the blood rush from my head. Texted, To clarify—you are half-naked in my bed?
Izzy: Correct. I felt all awkward, waiting for you with no shirt on, so the intelligent next step was to dive and bury.
Blake: That sounds positively canine.
Izzy: I will not make a joke about doggy style.
I tried to focus on my phone and not the images she was putting in my head. I texted, Wise decision, considering your unclothed state and your geographical location .
Izzy: Just because I’m half-nekked in your bed doesn’t mean I’m at your mercy.
It was getting hot in the apartment again. Believe me, I know. May I ask you a question?
Izzy: I’ll allow it.
Blake: How would you like me to proceed? Shall I join you under the sea of blankets, or is there another plan hatching in that cacophonic brain of yours?
Izzy: Confession—the thought of you and I together in this bed makes it hard to breathe.
Something about her confession made my heart twist in my chest, maybe the fact that I felt the same way. I texted, Confession—the thought of you and I together in my bed makes it hard for me to breathe too.
Izzy: Really?
Blake: So hard.
I walked to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway. Izzy was lying on her stomach in my bed, covered by my comforter. Her shoulders and upper back were visible, bare except for the thin black strap across her back, and she was looking down at her phone.
Holy hell, I wanted that so much. Not just the obvious, but the mundane. I wanted Izzy in my bed, scrolling on her phone like it was an ordinary occurrence, all the time.
I texted, I dare you to take off that bra .
I heard her inhale sharply before she responded. Are you in the doorway?
Blake: Yes.
She cleared her throat and texted, I cannot pass up a dare, can I?
Blake: I sure as fuck hope not.
My skin felt hot as I watched her slim fingers reach around her back, unhook her bra, then fling it off the edge of the bed. She raised herself up, onto her elbows, and texted: Better?
My eyes were stuck to her bare back, to her pale, naked skin that set fire to every one of my fantasies.
The reality of Izzy was a thousand times better.
I texted, So much better. Is it weird that I want to lick every bump of your spine?
Izzy: Not as weird as how badly I want to bury my face in your pillow and let you.
Blake: Are you still wearing that skirt?
Izzy: Shhh—my turn, Phillips. I dare you to lose the pants.
I’d never unbuckled and unbuttoned faster in my life. The room was so quiet that the click of my belt buckle hitting the floor confirmed I’d done as she’d asked. She responded with Good boy .
I wanted to ditch the phone and tackle her on the bed, but if this was what it took to get past her nervousness, I would do it. Also, something about it was fucking hot. The vanilla scent of her perfume slithered around me as I texted, I’m gonna need to see that skirt come off, Iz .
Izzy: Confession—It’s already off. When you went into the kitchen, I shed the outer layer.
Blake: So tell me exactly what you’re wearing this second.
Izzy: Tighty-whities and old man socks.
“That’s it,” I said, dropping my phone and charging over to the bed. “I’m coming in.”
Izzy
I screamed—a cackling laugh of a scream—when Blake’s big hand wrapped around my ankle. He dove under the covers and crawled up my body, but the laughing stopped when I felt his hands on my hips, his mouth on the small of my back.
I shivered and let out a sigh that might’ve been a moan as his lips and tongue moved up my spine, his body poised above mine with the space of a breath between us. When his mouth hit the back of my neck, he murmured, “Those lacy black panties are not tighty-whities, for the record.”
I gasped when he bit down on my nape— dear God— and said, “I guess I was thinking of yesterday’s undergarments.”
“Really.”
I could feel the rumble of his voice on my skin, and I wanted to see his face. Needed to see his face. I turned over underneath the bridge of his arms, and the sight of him hovering above me, with his hair tousled, his eyes all heavy-lidded and hot, made me realize it was the first time I’d ever been knocked breathless just from looking at someone.
“Hey,” I said, my voice almost a whisper.
“Hey.” He swallowed.
I rubbed my lips together, trying to think of the right words to say, but he cut me off with a kiss. His lips came down, somehow different—yet again—than every other time we’d kissed.
Blake Phillips apparently had an entire dossier of kisses at his disposal and dispensed them with the utmost care. So far I’d had sweet, sexy, and hot, but this one was dirty. Filthy. I’d thought the Billboard Assholes kiss was a sex kiss, but no.
This was a sex kiss.
His mouth was just as hot and hungry, but it had the patience that went along with having all night. It felt like foreplay and tantric marathon sex, all at once, and I stopped thinking and held on for dear life. I brought my arms up and around him, letting my fingers flex into the muscles of his back, needing to bring him closer.
He made a noise deep in his chest—a growl or a groan—as our bodies came together. I could feel every inch of him—chest, stomach, thighs—and I bit down on his bottom lip, instantly impatient for everything his body had to offer.
That was apparently the green light he needed, because it was on . His greedy mouth moved lower, licking down the column of my throat in a way that had me pressing and straining to feel more. My arms fell to the bed when his mouth moved south, because it was worshipful and with the kind of enthusiasm that made me feel like a centerfold, as opposed to the B cup I actually was.
“You,” I said, digging my fingers into his hair, “are delightfully obsessed with my mi—”
“ No .” He delivered a nip of punishment that made me squeal, a squeal that turned into a pornographic moan as his mouth continued the onslaught that was making me wild. How was he so good at that? He only got better as he moved down my body, ridding me of the last scrap of my clothing, kissing every bit of me and making me writhe, tremble, gasp, and scream.
And it wasn’t just that he was skilled at the tasks he was performing or the way I was fairly certain I had an extraordinary hickey on my hip bone. No, it was that everything he did, every move he made—it felt like all of it was exclusive to us in this moment .
None of these things had ever been done before, not like this.
It was magic that existed only for us and this wildly perfect connection.
His fingers slid over my skin, and I felt them where he touched, but I also felt his fingers in the depths of my chest, the racing of my heart, and the heat of my cheeks.
When he kissed my belly, I felt the heat of his mouth on my flesh, and also in the pit of my stomach.
And, God help me, when he finally came back to me and our eyes met, his gaze was so full of adoration that I felt it in the backs of my eyes.
Yes, when this man looked at me, I wanted to cry because I was so into him.
Blake swallowed, opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, and I realized that I was waiting for a profession of love. His flared nostrils and flushed cheeks made him look like a man ready to spit sonnets, and I felt like I couldn’t bear the disappointment of what he wasn’t going to say.
So I grabbed his face and brought it to mine—hard—and tried showing him how I felt by kissing the ever-loving shit out of him, swallowing down the stupid tears that for some reason were really close to the surface.
He sucked in a breath and went even harder, kissing me like a storm, surrounding me with passion that was inescapable and wild, where shelter was nowhere to be found.
I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.
I let go of his jaw, slid my hands down the front of his body, and touched him. Finally. He hissed my name and froze, tension hardening every muscle in that big body. He ground out the words “Holy. Hell. Yes. Iz. Fuck .”
His hands left me long enough to open a drawer and rip into a wrapper, and in a matter of seconds, he was inside my body. I squeezed my eyes shut and felt all of him, so incredibly good and right and full and hot that I was overwhelmed.
But then he said my name.
“Iz.”
I opened my eyes, and he was watching me, looking like every wicked fantasy I’d ever had about him.
I swallowed and said, “Hi.”
That made him smile, the sweetest, most affectionate little grin, and he said, “I fucking love you.”
My chest burned, my ears buzzed, and I wanted to freeze that moment forever.
But then Blake started moving, dominating my body with that sexpertise of his, and I lost the ability to think. I wrapped my arms around him and held on tight as he made me burn. I might’ve blacked out at one point, and I definitely forgot how to form words for a solid ten seconds, but I never wanted it to end.
Nothing in my life had ever felt quite that exquisite.
Well, until fifteen minutes later, when Blake wrapped his body around mine, pulled the heavy comforter over us, kissed the top of my head, and turned out the light.
I felt like I was home.
And just like that, the worries that had plagued me disappeared. It was too late to turn back, so I was just going to listen to Blake.
Don’t be scared, Iz. Just take a deep breath and let yourself fall.
Really, what else could I do, now that I was falling in love with him?