Chapter 11
After stepping foot into the penthouse, I get the feeling he hasn’t really invited many people over.
Either that, or he’s a clean freak. Everything about this place is cold and untouched.
It’s more like a show home than a home. The couches are pointed toward the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the gardens, and the kitchen to my left is bigger than mine at home, the white French cabinets exuding class and elegance.
Suddenly, I’m very aware that I’m in my client’s home.
He moves about the space comfortably, the white dress shirt taut over his broad shoulders. I stand awkwardly in front of the bench as he unbuttons his shirt, turning around and handing me a glass of water.
The words get stuck in my throat at the sight of his bare chest, the bars through his nipples glinting in the soft yellow light of the kitchen, sending a charge of electricity between my thighs.
“How’s your hand?” he asks, placing the glass of water on the bench when I don’t take it.
I shrug, inspecting the bandage. “It’s fine. When can I leave?”
He motions to the door. “I’m not holding you against your will, Isla.
” The pulse between my legs is unlike any need I have felt before, especially when he leans over the counter, the honey-brown around his irises maddeningly hypnotic.
“If you’re so sure you can handle yourself, you’re free to leave. ”
Am I?
Confident that I could handle it?
Is he lying?
Am I actually free to leave?
Or is he just testing me to see if I’ll go?
The door is right there, in reach. If I were to take a few steps, all I’d have to do is open it and walk out, but what is waiting for me out there? The more pressing question is, what is keeping me beside Malik?
“I don’t have any clothes here,” I say, glancing around the room to the staircase that leads to the upper level.
“Follow me.”
And I do, falling in step behind him, captivated with the way his body moves—deliberate, athletic, and steady.
At the top of the stairs is another open space with a large king bed, black silk sheets neatly tucked into the corners, and the full expanse of the wall is covered in glass, overlooking the city on the other side of the building.
The lights twinkle down and across the city through the full-length windows, and all I can do is stare.
I love apartments. I always wanted to own one myself, but decided against it because Adrian wanted a house.
“It’s stunning,” I whisper aloud, the thoughts escaping my lips involuntarily.
“I know.” When I look at Malik, he’s staring at me, his shirt discarded sometime between us walking up the stairs and now.
“Look.” I sigh, taking a step toward him. “I don’t want this to be awkward between us. At the fountain—”
“Have you always had panic attacks?” he asks, taking a seat on the edge of his bed, the material of his trousers stretching around his thighs.
When I don’t answer, he smiles.
“Are you scared of me, Isla?”
“No.” My response is clipped, and his grin grows wider.
He stands and walks over to me, my back pressing against the glass behind me. “But I make you nervous, don’t I?”
“Shouldn’t you?” I ask, forcing myself to keep calm and control my breaths.
He stares at me, fighting himself as his eyes bore into mine. I watch his beautifully curved cupid bow move when he speaks, and I wonder if he’d want me to kiss him again.
“What happened at the fountain?” he asks, and I squirm beneath his intense stare.
“I get these headaches,” I concede, and his brows pull in, forming a faint line between them.
“They started after I…after a traumatic incident. I don’t remember exactly what happened, and I’ve been to many doctors, but all they can tell me is to manage my pain with medication.
I haven’t been taking them lately because they make me feel numb.
They make me pliant, and I don’t want to be in that state. ”
He nods, the scent of tobacco and spice like a comfort to me.
Leaning forward, his lips almost brush mine until I realise he’s reaching inside the cupboard next to me, pulling out a shirt.
“It’s not much, but I bet it’s more comfortable than that dress.
” He hands me a black cotton shirt and I peer up at him, the dark lashes accentuating his olive tanned skin, matching his midnight hair.
“Your favourite colour,” he whispers over my lips before he turns, heading toward the stairs and stopping in his tracks when I speak.
“Judge Gordon Knight will never meet with Ezra.”
“No.” He blinks back at me, the same foreboding smile present on his mouth. “But he’ll meet with his daughter.”
He leaves me as I clutch his shirt in my hands, lifting it to my nose to inhale a deep breath of him. “Damn it,” I murmur to myself, expecting to hate his smell.
After I’m dressed, I head downstairs and into the living space, spotting my phone on the coffee table. Picking it up, I sift through the missed calls and messages, skipping the emails altogether.
I dial my father’s number and wait for him to pick up. He never picks up on the first ring, so I’m surprised when he answers.
“Isla.” His tone is always flat, like he’s in a constant state of indifference. “It’s late.”
“I’m aware.” I clench my non-wounded fist beside me. “Let’s meet at Heston’s tomorrow for brunch.”
There’s a pause as I hear the shuffling of paper coming from his end, no doubt working late into the night.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, and panic flourishes in the form of rashes over my arms. I never call him, especially not at this time of night.
“Does something have to be wrong for us to meet for brunch, Dad?”
He sighs audibly. “I have a very busy morning tomorrow, Isla.”
Just when he’s about to blow me off, I berate myself for saying, “Fine. I need your help, okay? Will you just meet me?”
I can almost hear the “I knew it” in his voice when he speaks next. “I’ll be there at eleven.”
He hangs up, not waiting to hear if I have anything more to say, and rage builds its familiar brick wall alongside the hate I’ve harboured for him all my life.
I clasp the phone hard in my hand, annoyed that I have to beg my own father to meet me for brunch, and wince at the sting coming from my wound.
The phone clatters to the tile floors as blood blooms beneath the white bandage.
“Shit.”
Malik’s presence clouds me again as he reaches for my hand. “You need to stop being so careless.” His voice is like a soft caress over my injury.
I don’t speak, letting him unwrap the bandage as his eyes skim over me, analysing and calculating.
“You need to let me fix these stitches,” he says, examining the damage I’ve done.
Groaning, I toss my head back. “I’m going to need something stronger than water for that.”
He leaves momentarily, and he’s back with a glass of what I assume to be whiskey. He offers it to me and I down it in one go. When he takes a seat on the sofa, he pats his thigh, and I can’t help the giggle that escapes me.
“You want me to sit on your lap?”
“What, are you afraid you might catch feelings?” His damn smile is back, and I reprimand myself for feeling even the slightest flicker of giddiness at his flirtation. “It’ll be easier for me, plus you’ll have a chance to bite me if I hurt you.”
I think about that for a moment, what it would be like to have his skin, his muscles in my mouth, then I realise I have nothing but a thong beneath this shirt. He will feel everything.
“I promise my stitches don’t leave scars.”
I’m not afraid of scars. I’m afraid you’ll swallow me whole.
I take a seat on the solid muscles of his thigh and gasp as soon as he shifts me over to his middle. He’s not hard, but I can feel him beneath my ass. Heat rushes straight up to my cheeks, and as luck would have it, I’m thankful he can’t see me.
“Now, I need you to stay still.” He dabs a cotton ball that’s been soaked in antiseptic onto my wound, my palm burning at the contact. I twist myself around in his lap to nestle my head into the crook of his neck and immediately regret it.
His formidable body is like a furnace, and as the needle pierces my skin, I groan into his neck.
“I can’t believe I’m living through this twice now,” I complain, pressing my eyes shut.
“Shhh.” Another sting, followed by the movement of silk on my skin, makes me nauseous.
I wait a little longer, trying desperately to bring my mind out of the situation and somewhere else, but all I can think about is his body on mine. The smell of danger on his skin and the sound of protection in his voice.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Bite down on my shoulder,” he orders, and when I don’t obey, I think he makes the needle hurt on purpose.
“Ouch!” I bite down hard, and his body tenses.
I’m sure I’m going to leave teeth marks, but I don’t stop.
Breathing through the pain in my hand, I loosen the tension in my jaw just as the sting gradually subsides.
My tongue moves on its own, tracking its way to his collarbone and up toward his jaw.
I feel him place the needle down before his arms are around me, turning me around to face him completely, my legs straddling him.
I’m about to kiss him when he speaks.
“You can take a tattoo needle, but you can’t handle this?
” he jests, his arms splayed out, resting atop the sofa.
Annoyed, I begin to climb off him when he grabs me and knocks me back onto the sofa, his large, inked body hovering over mine.
My shirt rides up, the material too loose on my figure, exposing the large tattoo on my thigh.
“I’m not going to argue with you.”
“Why not?” he murmurs, tracing my jaw with his lips, teasing me. “Isn’t that your job?”
“I’m great at other things too,” I say, breathless at his proximity.
“Mmhmm, I bet you are. I’d wager you have many talents that include the use of your pretty mouth.”
His vulgar words send a shockwave of arousal through me, and I want to kiss him again. I crave his mouth on parts of my body that haven’t felt this alive in years. With merely a sentence, he’s able to resuscitate me, but he holds back.
He doesn’t kiss me.
Is it because I’m his lawyer?
He pauses as his eyes close and a soft groan leaves his lips.
“You need rest.”
I need you to fuck me into a comatose sleep.
“Yes,” I breathe, sitting up. “We should both get some rest.”