7. Roman
Iwalked back to my office in the south wing, trying to imagine what Isabel was making of me leaving the handkerchief there for her. She told me the one I gave her at the bookshop had been carefully put with her one pair of French silk underwear.
It was in the penthouse after her third glass of champagne, when Isabel was confessing to that and to all kinds of other things. Whispering confidentially that she’d never had the kind of orgasms she had with me. Why was that, she wanted to know.
I could have told her that my orgasms with her were very new to me too. There was the relentless intensity that crawled from the center of my being before hot rippling waves flared outward, erupting into a pulsing release that never seemed to end. And that when she came with me, her velvet walls clenched around my cock, siphoning every last drop from my orgasm.
But I neglected to divulge any of that to her because I didn’t know the answer to her question. How did two people have such an all-consuming connection, that it seemed impossible to get enough of one another?
I hoped the audio feed might reveal more detail about Isabel’s reaction in the library, but it seemed she wasn’t about to confess any personal feelings to my father, even if he was in a coma. Her response to my overture of spending fifteen minutes together in the library each morning would remain a surprise until tomorrow.
I was more than willing to wait and see if or when she was ready to forgive me.
I could have simply told her I didn’t send Steven to the penthouse, but that was just an empty apology. Steven was doing his job, and I was so consumed with my own misery that I didn’t even consider that his obsession with keeping me in line might lead to inadvertently throwing Isabel into the lion’s cage.
I should have anticipated that, but I didn’t. What I wanted was for Isabel to decide whether the misery I’d put her through was forgivable. It was as simple as that. Only then would it be possible to move on, one way or the other.