Chapter Three
Brantley
Stepping inside Isla's tiny off-campus apartment is like taking a peek inside her mind. Family photos line the walls. Keepsakes—the things that matter the most to her—are carefully displayed on shelves between plants and pretty flowers. Stacks of books march across bookcases in orderly rows, arranged by height and color. Bright rugs line the floor, with equally as colorful throw pillows spilling life and light into the cozy space.
"It's not much," she mumbles, fidgeting at my side. "I stay with my parents most nights. But when I have class, it's just easier to stay close to campus."
I cut my eyes in her direction, shaking my head. "My place is a barren wasteland compared to this, little bird. It's perfect."
That fucking smile. Jesus. It's psychotic how much I want to taste it right now.
Until tonight—until her—I'd never even kissed anyone. Even blackout drunk, the thought of anyone touching me made my skin crawl. Guess that shit happens when you spend half your life like a whipped dog, unsure if that raised hand means affection or pain. But the anxiety isn't there with her. The feeling of impending doom and the need to escape when someone gets too close don't exist.
Touching her feels natural.
I didn't even have to think about it outside of Memphis's bar. I saw her standing out there, dressed like sex, looking for trouble, and all I could think was, 'Oh, hell no. She's not fucking going in there.' There wasn't a chance in hell I was letting her stroll into a bar full of bikers who'd eat a sweet little thing like her alive.
Reaching out to stop her was instinctive, automatic.
When she reacted how she did and elbowed me, I expected a jolt of panic. That's usually what happens. Someone puts their hands on me, and I flip the fuck out. But the panic never came. Instead, all I could think about was making sure she didn't feel the same fear. And the fact that my balls ached because she knew enough to protect herself. That's sexy as hell to me. She should know how to protect herself. She's too damn beautiful to be defenseless in this world.
I wasn't calm, though. Fuck no. I felt the exact fucking opposite of peaceful and easy when my hands were on her out there. It felt like a shot of adrenaline surging through my system. It felt…right. That's a dangerous feeling. She's dangerous.
Which is precisely why I shouldn't be standing here right now. I know a thing or two about addiction. Been there, done that. And this beautiful little goddess is quickly becoming my new vice. But I'm standing here anyway. Because, goddammit all, the fact that she knows about my past and still looked me in the eye and told me that it was okay if I had fallen off the damn wagon, has me feeling things I shouldn't. And so does the fact that she knows what it's like to be in my shoes, picked apart by someone meant to protect you.
She shouldn't know how that feels. Out of everyone I've ever met, she deserves it less than anyone. She should know nothing but love, nothing but peace. Especially at the hands of the people meant to protect her.
No wonder Mac Sterling is so goddamn protective of her and her twin sister. In his shoes, I'd be the same damn way.
"Um, would you like something to drink?" she asks after a moment, peering up at me from those baby blues. "Obviously not alcohol. But I have tea. And probably water."
"Probably water?" My lips twitch. "You're confident you have tea, but you only probably have water?"
"Shut up." She rolls her eyes at me, practically squirming from foot to foot. "Of course I have water. I meant I probably have it in a fancy bottle since that's probably what you drink."
"You think I'm too fucking fancy for tap water?" I ask, genuinely amused.
"I don't know. Maybe." Her shoulders bounce in a shrug. "You look like you're probably too fancy for tap water."
I stare at her for a moment. Jesus Christ. She's cute as hell. "Your father is one of the richest men in this state, little bird. I'm just an asshole who had the misfortune of inheriting a record company. I think if either of us is too fancy for tap water, it might be you."
"I'm not fancy, Brantley." She rolls her eyes at me again. "And my dad's money is his money. It isn't mine."
"Yeah?" I grin at her. "Does he know this?" I do not get the impression that Mac Sterling is the kind of guy who views the world through the same lens as her. In fact, from what I know about the man, everything he does, he does for his wife and kids. They are his world. If she's rejecting his money to be independent, I'm guessing he's not on board with her plan.
She opens her eyes wide and glances around us with her face scrunched up as if to make her point. "I'd certainly hope so since I paid for everything in this apartment by myself, even when he tried to boss me into letting him help."
"Ah," I murmur, glad to know I was right about her dad. And impressed that she's making the effort at all. Most kids born with a silver spoon in their mouths don't even bother reaching for independence. Isla clearly isn't one of them.
I'm not really surprised. She's a goddamn treasure. Every damn thing I learn about her just seems to sink me deeper under her spell. I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like her—so completely na?ve in every way but fiercely independent and wise at the same time. It's a hell of a combination.
"So…do you want the water or not?"
"No." My smile grows. "I don't want your fancy water, baby. But thank you."
"Okay." She shifts from foot to foot again, clearly nervous about having me in her space. And then she peers up at me from those baby blues again, chewing on her bottom lip. "You don't like your company?"
"I didn't say that."
"You said you had the misfortune of inheriting… Oh." She grimaces. "You mean because your father died. I'm sorry."
I shove a hand through my hair, sighing. "That makes two of us."
"Sorry he died or sorry you inherited the company?"
I shrug instead of answering because the truth? Well, that's fucking complicated. More complicated than I think she might be ready to hear right now. It's a good question though. One I've asked myself more than once since he died. Am I sorry he's gone? Fuck no. Does that make me a shit human? Possibly. Maybe. I don't fucking know.
Shit, guess that's complicated, too.
"My bio-mom is out of prison," she says, kicking off her heels. She glances over at me, her lips pursed. "I've spent a little time with her because I have questions. Bella thinks I've forgiven her, but I haven't really. I don't think I'll ever be ready to do that." Her shoulders bounce in a helpless shrug. "I guess I just want to know that she actually means it when she says she's changed and that she won't ever ruin our lives again. If the punishment didn't work, what was the point, you know?"
"Yeah, I get that, baby," I murmur. "But you're allowed to move on whether she's changed or not. It should hang over her head, not yours."
She nods thoughtfully. "You're allowed to not be sorry he's gone."
Shit. How the fuck does she read me so well? She barely even knows me, yet she sees shit no one else has like she's reading lines from a page. It's unnerving how quickly she's picked me apart and seen the shit I try like hell to hide.
"Don't think the rest of the world would agree with you on that one, baby," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets. If I told them how I really felt, it'd only confirm what they already think—that I'm responsible for what happened to him. That's the last thing I need right now. It's the last thing my mother needs.
Isla stares at me for a moment, clearly thinking about something, before she tips her head to the side. "What did you mean outside? When you said you shouldn't come in, I mean?"
"I meant that I'm not the kind of guy you need to be associated with, Isla. The last thing you need is a motherfucker like me fucking up what you've got going for you here."
Her brows furrow as she falls silent, processing my answer. And then she sighs. "That answer is really depressing, Brantley."
"Depressing?"
"Yeah, depressing," she says, weaving through the room like a restless little fairy. "You've been listening to what people say about you for far too long because you actually believe it. That's depressing."
I follow behind her as she moves through the room, picking things up and then putting them right back down, giving herself something to do, I think.
"The truth isn't always rainbows and butterflies, baby. Maybe you haven't listened to what they say well enough if you think it is," I suggest. "They aren't wrong about me."
"Were the men who killed your dad your dealers?"
I scowl at her.
"Was Bellamy murdered in your place?"
"Jesus Christ, Isla," I growl.
"Didn't think so," she says, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. "Everyone has a past, Brantley. Everyone makes mistakes. You stopped making yours four years ago, but you're still paying for them. At some point, you have to decide the scales are even. If you wait for someone else to do it for you, you'll be their whipping boy for the rest of your life because they won't ever let you forget who you were."
I eye her silently, taken aback by the vehemence in her voice.
"We were gossip for a long time," she says quietly. "Every damn chance someone got, they'd remind us that our bio-mom was in prison, like we were supposed to apologize for the things she did. But she did them to us, not to them. Eventually, we had to decide where the line was and what we would and wouldn't allow." She pauses. "And we had to figure out that what she did to us wasn't our fault, no matter what we did." She meets my gaze, her expression somber. "What happened to you wasn't your fault either. And no matter how much you drank after the fact; you didn't drink yourself into deserving it."
"Jesus," I rasp, striding across the room toward her.
"And you don't deserve to keep paying for the way you dealt with what he did to you," she says softly. "It's not up to the world to decide when enough is enough. That's your choice to make."
I draw to a stop in front of her, fucking shaking. But she isn't finished annihilating my world with that sweet voice and passionate tone. Of course she isn't. I don't think this girl is capable of stopping herself from knocking down my walls. She's a fucking wrecking ball of light.
"And maybe you're wrong about who and what I need in my life," she says. "Maybe the things I need more than anything are the things that make me feel alive." Her gaze rolls over my face, something fierce and wild in her eyes. "And maybe, just maybe, Brantley Hill, you're starting to feel like one of those things even if you shouldn't."
"You scare the shit out of me, Isla Sterling," I mutter, dragging her into my arms. My goddamn hands shake as I cup her face, tipping her head back until her eyes meet mine. "Just so we're clear about that."
Her bright smile is worth the confession. "Yeah? You kind of scare the shit out of me too, Brantley Hill," she whispers. "I wasn't supposed to like you."
"Oh, yeah? What was the plan?"
"You were going to help me bring my sister home, and then I was going to go back to my life, and you were going back to yours." Her soft laugh has my dick throbbing. "That ship feels like it sailed before I ever walked into your office the other day."
"I'm not helping you look into the men responsible, baby," I growl, my lips inches from hers. "You look just like your sister."
"She looks like me. I'm older," she stubbornly insists.
"Doesn't matter which of you came first. The point is, you're identical twins. And if they're willing to murder my father in a parking garage in front of her, do you really think they're going to stop to ask for your ID to confirm they've got the right twin before they pull the trigger?"
Fear whispers through her expression…but not nearly enough of it. She's considered the possibility that she could be mistaken for Bella before now. And it still didn't deter her.
Jesus Christ.
"I have to find out who did it," she whispers. "If I don't, my dad won't ever let her come home. She's my twin. Bringing her home is worth any risk."
"Goddammit," I growl, spearing my hands into her hair. I want to tell her no again. Flat out refuse, even if it means she hates me for it. That's the safe, sane thing to do. But…I know a thing or two about risking everything to protect someone you love. My life is a fucking trainwreck because I've been doing the same damn thing—risking everything, keeping quiet—to protect my mother.
So I don't tell her no. I don't say anything.
Instead, I kiss her again, claiming her mouth like it's mine to take. And right now? In this moment? It feels like mine. She feels like mine—even if I'll never be good enough for her. I want to be that man. Christ, do I ever. So for this moment at least, I let myself pretend I am.
My tongue teases along her bottom lip until she parts for me with a sweet little gasp, granting me entry. I groan, pulling her closer. Even with her body pressed tightly to mine, the panic doesn't come. My lungs don't close up. All I feel is the way she squirms against me, panting. All I want is her writhing in ecstasy.
I nip her bottom lip before slipping my tongue into her mouth to tangle with hers. She gasps again, her hands flying to my hair.
The way she tugs sends lava churning through my veins.
I boost her up into my arms, ready to fucking devour her.
"Brantley," she whimpers, her legs wrapping around my waist.
I growl, burying my face in her throat, trying not to lose my mind at the feel of her grinding against my cock. Her hot little pussy is right there—right fucking there.
"Stop me before this goes too far, Isla," I grit out, nipping and biting the soft skin of her throat, trying like hell to taste every inch of her I can get my mouth on.
There's still no panic. There's only her and the need raging through my veins in an inferno. I want her wild for me. I want…Jesus. I want her beneath me, coming apart around me, more than I want my next breath.
I've never wanted a drink more than I want her crying out my name. Matter of fact, I can't think of anything I've ever wanted more than I want to know what she sounds like shattered and satisfied because I made her crack.
"No," she whimpers. "Don't stop, Brantley."
I should anyway. Of course I should. She barely knows me. Her father will kill me. My life is a goddamn mess. She deserves better. There are a million reasons this shouldn't happen. But none of that stops me from spinning us until I'm lowering her to the couch beneath me.
She arches, mewling like a greedy little kitten when I rock my hips so my cock grinds against her pussy. Her dazed eyes meet mine, the pupils blown wide.
Goddamn. She's beautiful when she's horny.
"You really should have stopped me," I mutter, nipping her bottom lip. "I might not stop at all now. Not with you looking at me like that."
"No objections here," she moans, throwing her head back. "You look pretty good yourself."
"Oh, yeah?" I grin, leaning down to wrap my lips around one hard nipple through her shirt and bra. I bite down, cum leaking into my boxers when she shouts my name, her heels digging into my ass.
"Brantley. Oh my… Why does that feel so good?"
I lift my head, my eyes locking with hers as shock rips through me. "No one has ever touched you before, have they, little bird?"
"No."
"Ah, goddamn." I lunge for her mouth, kissing her like a wild beast as one hand slides down her stomach, seeking the button on her jeans. "You really shouldn't have told me that, Isla. Now, I have to fucking know…"
"Know what?" she gasps.
"Exactly what you sound like coming apart for me." I pop the button and then inch down the zipper, my eyes locked on her face. "I want your voice to be the one I hear in my dreams, little bird. Only yours."
Her brows furrow and then her eyes fly open wide. "Brantley, are you…?" Her tongue skates along her bottom lip. "You've never–?"
"Nope. Didn't want anyone touching me until a sweet little bird with gorgeous blue eyes and a pretty smile sashayed into my office. Couldn't stand the thought of anyone touching me." I tug her shirt up a little, revealing a tantalizing strip of her soft belly. I lean down, planting my lips against it. "But you aren't just anyone, Isla. You're magic." I nip her skin, slipping my hand into her pants. "Every fucking thing about you is magic."
"Brantley, what…Oh, my god!" Her back bows off the couch, her mouth popping open as a decadent moan rolls from her lips.
I growl, hooking my finger into the side of her soaked panties to tug them aside. My knuckle touches her slit and she moans again. She's so fucking wet. So damn warm.
I twist my hand, running my thumb between her lower lips until I bump against her swollen, needy clit. She makes the sweetest keening sound, rocking against my hand.
"Yeah, just like that, little bird," I murmur, my eyes glued to the pleasure chasing across her face. "Keep fucking my fingers just like that…" I keep my thumb against her clit while I circle her little hole with my forefinger and then slowly push it inside.
She sobs my name, writhing and squirming. Panting.
Goddamn. This is the sweetest torture. My cock feels like it's going to snap in half. My boxers are wet with the evidence of my arousal. I'm desperate to take more—to drag her pants down her legs, free my cock, and drive into her until she's leaving claw marks down my back. The ache in my balls won't abate until I'm buried inside her. But I'm fucking satisfied too. She's getting off on my fingers. She's moaning my name. She's wearing that look because of me.
That's a goddamn powerful feeling right there.
I press a second finger inside her with the first. Her hot little hole stretches around me, her juices gushing around my fingers. I pump and twist, snarling like a fucking beast at how wet she is and how damn good it sounds.
"You going to come all over my hand, little bird?" I ask, fucking her with my fingers—twisting, stroking, slowly trying to drive her over the edge into ecstasy. "You going to soak my hand for me?"
"Yes!" she cries out. "God, yes, Brantley."
I curl my fingers up, seeking out that magical spot…
I groan when I find it. Her hips jerk beneath me, her inner muscles clenching hard around my fingers.
"I…I…"
"I know. I can feel it. You're seconds away from creaming all over my hand like a good girl." I lean down over her again, attacking her breasts with my lips and teeth. "Fucking give it to me, little bird. Give me what I earned."
She shatters with a wail, body bowed, muscles rigid. Fucking perfect.
I work her through it, crooning praises as the sight of her, the smell of her, the sheer fucking satisfaction of knowing I did this to her sends me over the edge with her. My cock jerks in my pants, cum spilling into my boxers in heavy pulses.
I groan, flattening myself over her. I'm careful not to crush her as I rest my head against her chest, listening to the way her heart pounds beneath my ear. Feeling the way she shivers with every aftershock.
"Brantley," she sighs sweetly.
My heart clenches in my chest, the walls around it on the verge of collapsing into ruin because of her. Hell, for her. Because, for some reason, this fierce little goddess chose me for this gift.
It's been a long time—too damn long—since I've let myself wonder if I could ever be worthy. But in this moment, with her beneath me, her breath evening into the deep rhythm of sleep…I let myself wonder. Hell, I let myself hope.
And that's the danger she poses. She gives me hope.
I haven't had that in…well, I'm not sure I've ever had that before now.