Chapter Thirteen
Walker
I’m staring at her. I shouldn’t be.
But she moves with a grace that's almost hypnotic, her smile lighting up the room and hitting me like a mean right hook to the face, because that smile is not aimed at me. She slides two shots of whiskey across the polished bar to a pair of young men who are watching her like she’s the only woman they’ve ever seen. One of them leans in and says something that has her cheeks turning a soft shade of pink.
A low growl rumbles in my throat, my fingers twitching with the urge to beat those looks off their faces. It takes effort to keep my feet planted where they are, to not act on the possessive impulse clawing at me from the inside. I want to tell them she's off-limits, that they're playing with fire, but instead, I force my attention away. I scan the rest of the establishment. A strange sensation thrums through the air, alerting my senses to something not quite right.
“Another round, Walker?” Liam asks the person before him, his voice smooth like the top-shelf liquor he pours.
“Keep 'em coming,” the regular murmurs as I keep a watchful eye out.
Liam is the kind of guy who doesn't have to try; women just gravitate toward him like moths to a flame. I watch, half-amused, half-annoyed, as Cara sidles up to a booth with a man who has been watching her. She's all curves and confidence, bending forward just enough to offer a generous view down the front of her shirt to the man sitting there. His eyes take the plunge, and if I didn't know any better, I’d say Cara just winked at him.
“Subtle as always, Cara,” I say under my breath.
She's playing a dangerous game, but then again, we all are in this place where the night never seems to end, and everyone is looking for something more. Something like what I see in Isla's eyes every time our gazes lock—a yearning for something genuine amidst the pretense and free-flowing liquor.
Shaking my head, I push off from the bar and start pacing back and forth, but not before casting another glance at Isla. She's pouring another drink now, unaware of the effect she has on me—on us all. And as much as I try to deny it, I can't help but feel drawn to her.
“Everything good here?” I ask Liam as I pass by, my voice steady despite the intense desire for Isla that rages through me.
“Smooth sailing, boss,” he replies with a knowing look. He's seen enough to read between the lines, to understand the silent battle waging behind my stern facade. He also knows better than to overstep and keeps his thoughts to himself.
“Keep it that way,” I say, my words more for myself than him. Keep it cool, keep it controlled. That's how I've survived this long. That's how I'll keep surviving, even as every glance from Isla threatens to burn my self-control to the ground.
I watch as Cara walks behind the bar, her shoulder colliding with Isla’s, a deliberate and harsh move designed to start a fight. I don’t even hear the noise, but I see the exchange even as I pretend to be looking elsewhere.
Isla's stance firms, her jaw setting like concrete as she whirls to face Cara. My fingers twitch against the polished wood of the bar, itching to intervene. But I hold back and observe in silence.
“Stay out of my way. Some of us are trying to keep customers happy,” Cara says, her voice filled with venom.
Isla’s lips press into a flat line, but she doesn’t respond.
I will, though. “Hey, Cara, this is a bar, not a strip club. Please stop showing them everything.”
The gasp that follows from Isla is loud in the sudden silence, then low chatter begins to swirl around us.
“If you're jealous, just say that,” Cara says, turning her attention to me with a look that tells me she truly believes I’m jealous of the guys who get to look down her shirt.
“Trust me, if I was jealous, you'd know.” The words roll off my tongue, cool and steady. Surprise flickers across Cara's face before I shift my gaze away. I’m not interested in her theatrics.
Liam catches my eye, his expression almost disbelieving. His silent question is clear—why stoke the flames? But he doesn't understand. Cara's little games are wearing my patience thin, and I'm done.
As the dust settles and Cara retreats, I turn my attention back to the floor, my gaze always drawn to Isla. She moves with grace, unaware of the power she holds, her delicate scent drifting to me as she passes. It's floral, subtle, and intoxicating.
Then, like a snapped string, she slips. Time slows, every detail is magnified—the way her arms flail, her sharp intake of breath, the sudden hush that falls over the room.
Instinct takes over. I lunge forward, my arms wrapping around her just in time. Her body presses against mine, soft and warm. We're a tangle of limbs, a perfect fit.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, more to myself than her.
Her eyes lift to meet mine, wide and shimmering, full of heat and excitement. For a moment, we're suspended in time, the noise of the bar fading into nothingness. I struggle to tamp down the desire coursing through me, the primal urge to claim her lips, to make her mine in every way imaginable.
Holding Isla in my grasp, her slight form molds to the hard lines of my body, fitting like she's custom-made just for me. A surge of protectiveness wells up as I lock eyes with her. “If you keep winding up in my arms, I’m going to think you belong there,” I growl.
Her breath hitches, and a flicker of pain shadows her gaze. It's a stark contrast to the warmth radiating off her skin, which is now pressed so intimately against me. Her eyelashes flutter, her attention flitting down to my lips before snapping back to hold my stare. It's a silent confession, a whisper of shared longing that hangs heavy between us.
I take in the subtle quiver of her pulse at the base of her throat, a delicate beat beckoning me closer. The vibrant green of her tank top clings to her curves, accentuating every dip and rise of her figure. The subtle, yet perfect arch of her breasts pulls my attention, but I don’t dare look with her watching me. My fingers itch to trace the lines of her, to explore the softness hidden beneath that thin fabric. And those lips—full, pink, tempting—beg to be kissed until we're both gasping for air.
The heat of her body seeps into me, confusing my senses. She inhales sharply, and it's like an invitation. The neckline of her shirt dips, granting me a glimpse of the swell of her breasts, the creamy expanse of skin that my whole body craves. My gaze lingers, not afraid of her knowing I want her now, noting the pebble-hard points pressing against the cloth, betraying her body's reaction despite the black bra strap playing peekaboo at her shoulder.
“Are you okay?” I ask, though what I really want is to lean in and taste the sweet spot where her heartbeat flutters like a trapped bird under my watchful eye.
“Y-yes,” she says, but her body tells a different story—one of passion and need mingling with uncertainty, a potent mix that has me teetering on the edge of self-control.
In this charged moment, surrounded by the clamor of the bar, everything else blurs. There's only Isla, her warmth, her scent, and the unmistakable excitement that simmers in the space between us.
Her exhale tickles my neck, the sound dangerously close to a moan and leaving me gathering every bit of self-control so I don’t lose it, throw her over my shoulder, and carry her home like the cave man I feel like I am in the moment. I’m not aware of the world around me—there's only Isla, her breath a delicate touch that stirs the air between us. I drink in the sight of her—lashes dusting her skin, cheeks flushed with a rose-tinted glow that speaks of desire and innocence.
“Careful now,” I say as every fiber of my being rebels against the thought of releasing her. My arms cradle her close, a protective circle from which I can't imagine letting her escape from. She's perfection personified, and I have no right to be touching her, let alone thinking thoughts about what I’d like to do to her if we were alone right now.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice a soft tremble that dances down my spine, igniting a passion that only she can satisfy.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, delicate yet desperate, as if I'm the only thing keeping her upright – and I just might be. I should set her free, but my hands, arms, and mind betray me, one hand pressing against the curve of her backside, feeling the warmth of her through the black jeans that mold to her form. They're soft, these jeans, yet they amplify the contours of her body, contours I ache to explore.
“Are you steady?” I ask. I’m mostly making an excuse for continuing to hold her, as if I’m afraid she might fall when I let go. But if she says yes, I'll have to let go, and the very thought tightens my grasp.
“I think so,” she says, her voice unsure as if she worries she might fall… or she wants me to keep holding her. Her eyes are warm like hot chocolate on a cold winter day, deep and dark, begging me to do things that keep me rooted in this spot, trying to ferret out all her secrets. I can sense her reluctance to leave my arms in the way her body molds to mine, a perfect fit that feels impossibly right. The weight of her in my arms feels like coming home, and I wonder what could be if I just dared to cross that line.
“Okay, good,” I say. The words are a lie, because nothing about this feels good. I don’t want to let go, and her grip on me doesn't loosen. Neither does mine on her. We're locked in an embrace that we don’t seem to know how to exit. My gaze traces her collar bone, loving the way she looks today, even in her casual attire. I can see she’s wearing makeup, but only a touch. She’s so fresh-faced and perfect I want to ruin that innocence.
“Really, I'm okay,” she says, her tone more insistent this time. But her breath catches as my hand caresses the small of her back, tracing patterns that weren't meant to be drawn in such a public place while she regains her footing. I love the need in her eyes, love knowing she’s affected by me, by my presence.
“I’m glad,” I say, my voice rough with hunger. For another heartbeat, we remain frozen, our bodies bound by the tingling electric current that pulses through us both. But duty calls, and with a reluctant strength, I ease her away from me just enough to look into her eyes.
“Be more careful,” I say, the command almost sharp. But instead of taking the words to heart, she nods, her cheeks growing more red. And as my arms open just enough to let her take a single small step away, an unexpected and unwelcome chill seeps into the space she occupied, leaving me cold and wanting more than I could ever take from her. But that doesn’t mean I don’t plan on trying.
Releasing her is the last thing I want to do, but reality snaps back with the murmur of voices around us. Each inch of distance between us feels like a mile.
My fingers unclasp from around her waist, and immediately, I miss the feeling of her in my arms. I mask the extra time holding onto her with a show of concern for her balance, my hands hovering as if to catch her if she stumbles again. But she doesn't falter; she's steady on her feet.
A flush creeps up her neck as she hurries to turn back to her duties, but she hesitates. There's a shift between us now, and in the aftermath, my mind races. How can something so simple as catching her change everything?
“I'm so sorry, I should have been more careful,” Isla whispers, her gaze locked on mine. Her eyes, wide and shimmering, betray a tremble and something that sends a jolt through me—a cocktail of longing and want.
“Shh,” I say, reaching out without thinking. My finger presses gently against the softness of her lips, silencing her apology. I feel the thrum of her pulse beneath my touch, a rapid beat that matches my own racing heart. She inhales, the hollow at the base of her throat deepening as her lashes lower as if she’s looking at my finger touching her face.
She leans ever so slightly into my touch, her body unconsciously looking for mine, and I breathe in the scent of her—the subtle floral smell mingling with the warmth and damp of a woman who is all kinds of amped up. The urge to taste her is overwhelming, to draw her in and savor the sweetness I know will be there.
“Careful is the last thing I want you to be,” I say, my voice a low growl that seems to surprise her as she considers what I might mean.
My finger lingers a moment longer on her lips before reality pulls me away – we’ve already been here too long. And while it may have all happened in a moment, every second it drags out, we’re raising eyebrows and sparking whispers. Yet even as we part, that static electricity remains, popping and crackling across my skin.
I shake my head, trying to refocus. But Isla's image is seared into my thoughts, a constant, welcome – if distracting - presence. I'll have to do something about this—about her. The question is what , and the answer puzzles me as I watch her disappear into the room of patrons, taking pieces of me with her.
*
The clock ticks, the sound almost mocking. As I shift on my Egyptian cotton sheets, sprawled across my king-sized bed in a luxurious apartment that feels empty, I wonder if she’s still awake or if she’s sleeping. Sleep evades me, chased away by the vivid memory of Isla's warmth pressed against me.
I toss and turn restlessly, the image of her smile haunting the edges of my consciousness. She fit perfectly in my arms, like the final piece of a puzzle I didn't know was missing. My mind races with strategies and scenarios, all aimed at one goal: winning Isla's heart. Not just getting her into my bed – that’s not enough. I want her to love me.
The orchids I'd sent were a classic move – elegant, understated, but not enough. They were supposed to bring a moment of hope, to signal my intentions, yet here I am, wracked with uncertainty. The flowers are just a prelude to the plans I’ve been considering for her. The problem is that I’m not sure what the best direction to win her hearts is. Then, things click, and I know exactly what to do next.
“Time to step it up,” I say to myself, throwing off the covers and pacing the dimly lit room. The city lights glimmer through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but they're dull compared to the spark I've seen in Isla's eyes.
A plan begins to form, solidifying with every step I take. I need to make a gesture that speaks louder than any flowers ever could—a declaration that can't be ignored. Now, what would speak to Isla? What would reach into her world and pull her into mine?
I have some ideas, and a slight smile crosses my lips as I rake a hand through my hair. It's not about the money or the flash; it's about the message, the emotion, the raw honesty. It's about showing her that she's more than just a passing want, that she's managed to burrow under my skin and claim a piece of my hardened soul.
I want to give her experiences. I want her to feel my desire, my yearning, all translated into something tangible. A date that defies expectations, one that strips away the layers of the billionaire facade and reveals the man who craves her touch, her laughter, her presence.
She’s not like the other women I’ve spent time with, I don’t have to temper her expectations because she’s after my money and not me, per se. No, I have a feeling Isla couldn’t care less about how much I’m worth.
Her feelings for people seem more tied up in how they treat her and others.
Excitement courses through me as the pieces fall into place, a plan so daring it might just work. Or it might crash and burn, but the risk... the risk is worth it if it brings Isla closer.
“Get ready, Isla,” I say, catching my reflection in the window, nodding back at me with steely determination. “I'm not holding back anymore.”
Tomorrow, I’m going to make sure to start this plan. I don’t have an exit strategy – which is very unlike me - but I’m good at thinking on my feet, and this will be no exception.
I need to start making her mine, because being without her other than at the bar, feeling her in my arms for fleeting moments only… it’s torture. I need her until I can get her out of my system, out of my blood.
I don’t know how I’ll do that part yet, but I’ll focus on what I do know how to do – seduce her and make her mine.