Isabelle #3
But then his hand shoots out, gripping my chin, tilting my face up to his. His touch is rough, possessive, and heat floods through me at the contact.
"You want to know the truth?" His voice is low and dangerous.
"Fine. Yes, I want you. I've wanted you every fucking second since I left your hotel room in Ibiza.
I want to pin you against the wall and fuck you until you can't remember your own name.
I want to make you scream the way you did that night, want to feel you come apart around me again and again until you're begging me to stop. "
My breath catches in my throat at the admission that he does want me, that the detached coldness is all a facade. My entire body is trembling with need, with the force of his words. "Then why don't you?" I whisper.
His grip on my chin tightens, and I see the desire burning in his eyes, raw and undeniable.
But then he releases me and steps back, and the loss of his touch feels like a physical wound.
"Because getting involved with you would be a mistake," he says, his voice carefully controlled again.
"Because I need to focus on keeping you alive, not on fucking you.
And this situation is complicated enough without adding that to the mix. "
"That's bullshit." I'm shaking with anger and frustration and desperate, aching need. "You're lying."
"Maybe." He turns away, heading for the bathroom. "But it's the only answer you're getting."
The door closes behind him, and I hear the lock click into place.
I stand in the middle of the small living room, my hands clenched into fists, my body thrumming with unfulfilled desire.
He wants me. He admitted it. But he's still keeping his distance, still refusing to touch me, and I don't understand why.
Because getting involved with you would be a mistake.
The words echo in my head, and I realize with a sinking feeling that there's something he's not telling me. Something about this situation, about who he is, about why he's really helping me. Something that makes him believe touching me again would be a mistake.
Or maybe he thinks it was a mistake all along. Maybe he regrets all of what we did together.
That thought feels even worse.
I sink back down onto the couch and bury my face in my hands, trying to calm the racing of my heart.
This is insane. All of it. I should be focused on the fact that people are trying to kill me, not on whether the man protecting me wants to fuck me.
But I can't help it. Because the truth is, I've never wanted anyone the way I want Julian.
Never felt this kind of desperate, consuming need that makes everything else fade into the background.
And the fact that he wants me too but won't act on it is driving me slowly insane.
That night, I lie in the double bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to Julian move around in the living room.
He insisted I take the bedroom, said he'd sleep on the couch.
I didn't argue, too exhausted to fight about it.
But now, hours later, I can't sleep. My body is wound tight with tension, every nerve ending on fire.
I keep replaying his words in my head—I want to pin you against the wall and fuck you until you can't remember your own name—and heat pools between my thighs at the memory.
I hear the bathroom door open, hear his footsteps moving across the small apartment. And then I hear the sound of the couch creaking as he settles onto it. I should go to sleep, because soon we'll be on the move again and I'll need my energy.
But I can't stop thinking about him. I can't stop imagining what it would feel like if he came into this room right now, if he gave in to the desire I saw burning in his eyes earlier.
I'm aching all over, my skin sensitive as if with a fever, burning for his touch.
I bite my lip, glancing toward my suitcase and the vibrator tucked inside it, but he'd hear that.
I don't even want to risk getting up to get my dildo, and him hearing the creaking floorboards and coming in to check on me.
After his rejection, I'd be completely humiliated if he knew I was so wound up that I have to get off or I won't be able to sleep.
I wonder if he is, too. If he's on the couch, hand under the blanket, working his cock while he fantasizes about me. While he thinks about what we did in Ibiza, what we could be doing right now.
My hand goes to my nipple, pinching it through the thin silk of my tank top.
My silky, expensive sleep clothes have felt ridiculous every night in these shithole places we're staying, but I couldn't help wondering if Julian looked at me and wanted to touch me even more, seeing them.
Now, I roll the silk over my tightening nipple, feeling my clit throb with need as my other hand slides down my stomach, into my panties.
I'm already wet, my body responding to the fantasy playing out in my head.
I imagine him pushing open the bedroom door. Imagine the look on his face when he sees me touching myself. Imagine him crossing the room, his hands replacing mine, his mouth hot against my neck.
My fingers find my clit, and I bite back a moan, my hips lifting off the mattress.
I'm so sensitive, so desperate for release, that it only takes a few strokes before I'm trembling on the edge.
I think about the way he felt inside me.
The stretch and burn of his cock filling me.
The way his hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise.
The sound of his voice when he told me to beg.
I think of him in my mouth, his cum on my face.
How he was still hard for me after he fucked me up against that door.
How he wanted me again and again and again.
I remember him calling me pretty girl. Telling me to take his cock. The feeling of his tongue against my clit. The sight of him on his knees with his mouth between my thighs. Him eating me, fucking me, again and again…
My orgasm hits me hard and fast, pleasure crashing through me in waves. I press my face into the pillow to muffle the sounds I'm making, my body shaking with the force of it. It courses through me, making me clench my thighs together, my pussy clenching on nothing and aching to be filled.
When it's over, I lie there in the darkness, my heart pounding, my skin flushed and damp with sweat as I realize with a sinking feeling that it's not enough. That touching myself while thinking about him only makes the ache worse, makes me want him more desperately than before.
I roll onto my side and stare at the closed bedroom door, knowing he's just on the other side. So close and yet completely out of reach.
The rejection stings. The distance hurts. But more than that, I'm frustrated. Angry. I know he wants me just as badly as I want him, and he's choosing to deny us both for reasons he won't explain.
I close my eyes and try to sleep, but all I can think about is the heat in his eyes when he admitted he wanted me… and the cold distance he put between us immediately after.
I'm caught between wanting him and his rejection, between the danger hunting us and the safety I feel in his presence, between fear and desire, and the unknown stretching out in front of us.
And I have no idea how to make any of it stop.