3. Isabella
Chapter three
Isabella
I push the last bite of my well-dressed salad around the plate, eyeing it like it’s a legal brief I can’t figure out how to close. Amelie is sipping her wine with that air of French nonchalance she wears better than her Hermes scarf.
“So,” she prods, circling back to the conversation we’ve been nibbling at all evening, “let’s get back to why on earth Adrian Cole would hire you if you two mix like oil and water?”
“Masochism?” I offer, dumping my fork alongside the wilted greens. “Or maybe because his dad would’ve snapped me up in a heartbeat, had I not been a year into law school when he passed?” I shrug, battling the unease that tickles my spine whenever I think about the job offer that came out of nowhere.
“Adrian’s partner Leo emailed me out of the blue,” I continue, swirling the dregs of my Chardonnay in its glass. “Just a few days after I quit my first job. It was serendipitous. Too serendipitous.”
“Or,” Amelie counters, her brow arched in that way that says she’s about to lay down some truth, “he knows you’re brilliant. Even a place like Cole & Sterling doesn’t hand out jobs to just anyone—friend of the family or not.” She pauses, a smirk playing on her lips. “Though, from what you’ve said, Adrian does sound like an insufferable jerk.”
“Insufferable is putting it mildly,” I scoff, grateful for her support but not ready to let Adrian off the hook that easily.
We laugh, sounding like a couple of hyenas cackling, over the absurdity of my professional life, and decide to call it a night. Bistro Laurent’s ambiance fades as we step into the brisk evening air, heels clicking on the pavement like a time bomb counting down to tomorrow’s dread.
“Speak of the devil,” I murmur as we round the corner, because there he is—Adrian Cole, in all his tailored suit glory. Except now that evening has rolled around, he’s now donning a black coat and red scarf. He’s standing outside the restaurant, looking infuriatingly handsome with his laptop bag slung over one shoulder and a phone pressed to his ear.
“Is that him?” Amelie’s eyes widen just as Adrian turns around.
Call me crazy, but I think I might spot the faintest hint of a smile when his eyes fall on me.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. I try to focus on how much I loathe him, using it as a shield against the fact that, without the confines of the office walls, he actually looks ... no, I refuse to go there.
“Let’s get out of here before I’m tempted to commit a crime,” I whisper to Amelie, half-joking, half-serious. The less I have to deal with Adrian Cole outside of billable hours, the better.
“Evening, ladies,” he says, ending his call and slipping the phone into his pocket. I force myself to ignore the dimple that dares to make an appearance when he smirks—it’s probably patented anyway.
I nod curtly. “Mr. Cole.”
“We’re outside of work. You can just call me Adrian.” His eyes flick to Amelie. “Is this your friend? ”
“Oh, right. Amelie, this is Adrian, my new boss. Adrian, this is Amelie, my best friend.”
Adrian extends his hand for Amelie to shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine,” Amelie replies, but there’s a hint of sarcasm in her tone that, as her best friend, is difficult to ignore. “So, Isabella. Did you still want to get drinks?”
“Honestly, I’m so beat. I could sleep on a bed of nails.” I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand. The last thing I need is alcohol blurring the edges of my already frayed nerves.
“Suit yourself. It’s not like you have a big day tomorrow or anything—” Before Amelie can finish, Adrian chimes in, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips.
“Actually, she does. The Henderson case, remember? Or do you not check your messages after work?” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of ... something. I squint at him, suspicion pricking my skin.
I dig through my purse, pulling out my phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from Adrian, timestamped an hour ago, announcing he’s passing the Henderson case to me. “You’re giving this to me?” My voice is a mix of disbelief and quiet gratitude.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he says, as if he’s doing me a favor.
“Mind? No, I—thank you.” The words taste strange, foreign on my tongue. Thanking Adrian Cole isn’t in my usual repertoire.
“Great. So no drinks then,” Amelie interjects, her words laced with humor.
“Actually, I’ll need the case files for tomorrow,” I muse aloud, more to myself than anyone else. “I left them in my office.”
“Of course you did.” Adrian rolls his eyes theatrically. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the office. ”
“Are you sure, Isabella? I can go with you instead. Our Uber’s going to be here in less than a minute,” offers Amelie, concern creasing her forehead.
“Positive,” I assure her, though I’m not sure I am. Being alone with Adrian is like juggling knives—exhilarating until you get cut.
She gives me a skeptical look but nods as her Uber stops at the curb. “Be safe then. Text me when you get home. Adrian, great to meet you again.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” he counters, mimicking her sarcasm from earlier.
Amelie’s cheeks flush a shade of rosy pink as she gets into the backseat of her Uber. The traitor.
The Beverly Hills sidewalks are almost deserted, the click of my heels a staccato rhythm against the pavement. Adrian walks beside me, his hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored suit pants.
“Why the Henderson case?” I blurt out, unable to contain my curiosity any longer. “I mean, this morning you practically chewed me out for less.”
Adrian’s gaze doesn’t waver from the path ahead. “I was harsh,” he admits with a sigh. “First days can be brutal. There’s a lot you’ll need to learn about how we do things.”
I duck my head, cheeks warming with a mix of pride and embarrassment. My fingers twitch at my sides, resisting the urge to fidget. “I’ll get the hang of it. I’m not afraid of a little hard work.” That’s an understatement—I thrive on impossible challenges.
“Clearly.” His tone is dry, but when I glance up, there’s a hint of something softer in his eyes.
The night air is crisp, making me pull my coat tighter around me. In response, Adrian exhales loudly, as if my attempts at warding off the cold are personally offensive to him. He unwinds his scarf—a luxurious blend of wool and cashmere—and drapes it over my shoulders without asking.
“Los Angeles may not freeze over, but it gets colder than most people expect come nightfall,” he lectures.
The scent of tobacco and vanilla wraps around me, both comforting and unnerving. I should thank him, but instead, I bristle. “For your information, I am 27 years old. Not seven. I know how to dress myself for the weather.” The words snap out sharper than I intend.
He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by my outburst. “Of course you do.”
I don’t wait for any further commentary. Pivoting on my heel, I stride toward the office building with renewed purpose. It’s not just the cold I’m trying to escape—it’s this confusing proximity to a man who oscillates between infuriating and ... whatever this new, scarf-lending behavior is supposed to be.
I clutch the fabric, fighting the urge to toss it back at him, and press forward. The sooner we can get those files and go our separate ways for the night, the better.
***
“Is this a filing system or a crime scene?” Adrian quips, surveying my scattered papers and opened law books with mock horror as we stand in my office.
“Mind your business, Cole,” I snap, heat creeping up my neck.
He laughs, a deep rumble that makes something twist uncomfortably in my stomach. “Your business is my business,” he reminds me, smugness oozing from every syllable.
“Ugh!” Frustration surges, and I pivot too quickly, my heel catching on the edge of the rug. Time slows as I start to fall backward, but Adrian’s reflexes are quicker, his arms wrapping around me, stopping my descent.
“Clumsy,” he murmurs, but there’s no bite to it.
“Overbearing,” I retort, our faces inches apart. Then, as if pulled by some magnetic force beyond my control, our lips crash together. It’s rough, hungry, a clashing of wills, and I’m lost in the storm.
I can’t stop myself. My hands, traitorous and eager, slip into Adrian’s suit jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He shrugs it away without breaking our kiss and it lands on the floor with a soft thud—a casualty of our sudden, unexpected passion.
My fingers trace the contours of his chest through the crisp white shirt, and I’m rewarded with the solid feel of muscles that have only ever been outlined by tailored suits until now. Curiosity had gnawed at me about what lay beneath his professional armor. And damn, reality does not disappoint.
With an ease that sends a shiver down my spine, Adrian lifts me by the hips, his touch scorching through the fabric of my skirt as he sets me atop the cold surface of my desk. The papers underneath me crinkle in protest, but I couldn’t care less.
My legs circle around him, pulling him closer, and I can feel him—hard and insistent against me. A moan escapes my lips, low and needy, as he trails kisses down my neck, each one a promise of things to come.
“Adrian,” I gasp out, half in warning, half in plea. But who am I kidding? There’s no turning back.
Button by button, he opens my shirt, his fingers brushing against my skin, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. He presses a kiss to my chest, just above the swell of my breasts—a tease, a torment—and then his mouth is on mine again, demanding, commanding, drawing me deeper into this whirlpool of want.
In retaliation, or maybe desperation, I reach for his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. My fingers shake with a mixture of anticipation and something else—something wild. Finally, the shirt parts, and I push it from his shoulders, adding it to the heap on the floor.
“God, Isabella,” he growls against my lips, and there’s a hint of surprise in his voice, as if he can’t quite believe we’re doing this either.
“Shut up, Adrian,” is all I manage before our mouths collide once more, in a kiss that feels like it’s been brewing since the day we met—a clash of every heated glance and sharp word we’ve ever exchanged.
His fingers trace the clasp of my white lace bra with an infuriating precision, flicking it open as if he’s practiced this sleight of hand a thousand times. The fabric falls away, tossed carelessly to the floor. His mouth is on me then, hot and insistent, drawing moans from deep within my throat that I’m powerless to stifle.
“Adrian,” I breathe, but it’s lost in the warmth of his mouth as he worships my skin.
Then, his arm sweeps across my desk, sending pens and paper clips flying in a metallic hailstorm.
“Hey!” I protest, but he’s unrepentant, the corners of his lips turning upwards in a devil-may-care smirk.
“It was a mess anyway,” he teases, and there’s that charm, that damn irresistible charm.
I want to argue, to tell him off for being such an overbearing Neanderthal, but his hands are already deftly unbuckling my trousers, sliding them down my legs, and any thoughts of reproach evaporate like mist in the heat of his gaze.
“Spread your legs for me,” he commands softly, and I do, because my body seems to have signed a treaty with the enemy .
His lips press a path down my stomach, setting every nerve ending alight, leaving a trail of shivers in their wake. He kisses along my thighs, and by the time he reaches the edge of my panties, I’m practically squirming beneath him. The fabric is a barrier he wastes no time in discarding, peeling them away to reveal my aching center.
“God, you’re so wet,” he observes with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. I flush, but there’s no denying the slickness he finds there, evidence of my traitorous desire.
He starts at my clit, rubbing in torturous circles that have my hips chasing his touch. And when his mouth finally closes over me, his tongue swirling in a rhythm that should be patented, pleasure rockets through me, sharp and sweet. I cry out, hands fisting in his hair, urging him closer, deeper.
“Adrian,” I gasp, my voice a blend of frustration and ecstasy as his fingers slide inside me. They move with a skill that suggests a man who knows exactly how to play the human body like a virtuoso. It’s maddening. It’s perfection.
“Relax,” he murmurs against the sensitive flesh before his tongue flicks out, teasing and tasting, coaxing my body into a state of delirium.
I scoff inwardly. Easy for him to say.
“Right there,” I urge, my breath hitching as he hits a spot that sends stars dancing behind my eyelids.
“Like that?” he asks, voice laced with smug knowledge as he curls his fingers, relentless in his pursuit of my undoing.
“Exactly like that,” I admit between uncontrollable moans, teetering on the edge of a precipice that promises oblivion in its depths.
Each stroke of Adrian’s tongue and fingers is precise, each swirl calculated to drag out the sweet torture. My climax builds, threatening to consume me whole, until it crashes over me with the force of a tidal wave. I’ve never come this hard, body shaking, voice rising in a pitch that could shatter glass.
“Damn ...” is all I manage to gasp out as he plants an approving kiss on my trembling center.
He leans forward, his lips meeting mine in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. It’s a seal of satisfaction for the pleasure he’s just wrung from my body. As he rises to his full height, there’s a fluid grace to his movements, the kind you wouldn’t expect from a man who spends his days in a courtroom. He unbuckles his belt with a practiced ease, suit pants following gravity’s call to the floor.
I sit up, hands eager to explore what I’ve only admired from a distance wrapped in tailored fabric. His black boxer briefs prove no match for my curiosity, and they’re gone with a swift tug. My palm meets the heat of his erection, and I can’t help but marvel at him—hard, imposing, and all mine for the taking. A soft groan escapes Adrian as I tighten my grip, slow strokes drawing out the anticipation.
“Protection?” I ask, my voice strained with restraint.
He nods once, then reaches for his pants on the ground. “I have it.”
I huff. “Of course you do.”
He retrieves his wallet and takes out the condom package, still perfectly intact. “It’s important to be prepared for such a situation. Don’t you agree?”
Without ever taking my eyes off his, I grab the condom from him and remove it from the packaging. “Closer,” I breathe, and he takes a step forward.
My hand is wrapped around his cock in an instant, warming him up so I can slip the condom on. Once it’s securely in place, I press close to his ear, my own voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Don’t hold back.” The words hang between us, charged and heavy .
He tilts his head to the side. “What’s that mean?” He’s all teasing, and I know exactly what he wants to hear.
“Fuck me. Hard,” I urge, leaving no room for doubt or gentle intentions.
His smirk is devilish, filled with promises of everything unspoken. He pulls me to the edge where professionalism is long forgotten.
“Your wish is my command,” he says, humor lacing the lust in his tone. His cock aligns with my still-throbbing center, and I know right then, this won’t be a night easily erased by morning light
He eases into me with a tortuously slow thrust, and I can’t hold back the moan that escapes from my lips. Every inch of him fills me up, stretching me in ways that send pleasure spiraling through every nerve.
“Jesus, Isabella,” he groans against my mouth, his voice rough with desire. “You’re so tight ... it’s like you were made for me.”
I wrap my arms around his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. Our kiss is a clash of need and eagerness, tongues tangling, breaths mingling. He’s massive, and logic says we shouldn’t fit together this seamlessly, yet here we are, moving as if we’re a single unit.
He starts off slow, his hips rolling in deep, languid thrusts that make me want to beg for more. But then he pulls out, leaving me empty and gasping. “Stand up,” he commands, and there’s no resisting the authority in his tone.
I’m on my feet before I know it, anticipation coiling tight in my lower belly. With my head down and elbows propped on the cold surface of my desk, I present myself to him. There’s a pause—a second where the air crackles with electricity—before he slides home once more. This time, there’s nothing gentle about it.
“God, you don’t play fair,” I pant, gripping the edge of the desk as he picks up the pace, harder and faster. It’s relentless, each thrust sending white-hot pleasure zipping through me.
“Neither do you,” he retorts breathlessly, driving into me with a force that has my whole body trembling.
The building pressure is exquisite, teetering on the edge of too much and not nearly enough. And when the dam finally breaks, it’s all I can do to remember my name. The world narrows down to the feel of Adrian inside me, the sound of our combined moans, and the shattering release that rips through me.
We hit our climax together, a symphony of cries and heavy breaths filling the room. As the waves subside, he flips me around, and our kiss is a tender contradiction to the fervor of moments ago.
Silence stretches between us, thick as the tension that knots in my stomach. The air feels different now—charged and heavy with unspoken questions. Adrian’s the first to break it, clearing his throat as though he’s about to deliver a closing argument rather than address our current state of undress.
“The files,” he says, voice rough, “we should ... get dressed.”
“Groundbreaking idea,” I mutter, scrambling for my blouse that’s lying crumpled like my newly complicated life.
As I button up, I can’t help but feel he regrets the whole sweaty, heart-pounding endeavor. And honestly, I’m not sure if I don’t regret it myself, despite the fact that Adrian’s body is something I’ll be daydreaming about during particularly dull depositions.
I stoop to retrieve my trousers, and he bends down as well, picking up the scattered documents along with his tie. The sight of him, all disheveled sex hair and business-like efficiency, sends a conflicting shiver down my spine .
“Here.” He hands the papers to me, eyes averted. “I’ll wait outside until you’re ready. Then I’ll take you home.”
“Thanks.” My cheeks flush hotter than they did when we were ... well, you know. “For the documents. And the ride. Not for—”
“Got it,” he interrupts, and there’s a huff of what sounds suspiciously like amusement. Did I just make Adrian Cole laugh? And we weren’t even arguing?
“Right outside,” he assures, and exits with a swiftness that suggests he’s escaping a crime scene.
With shaky hands, I finish buttoning up my shirt and step into my trousers, mind racing faster than my pulse had been minutes ago. How are we supposed to go back to snarky comments and glares in client meetings after he’s seen the color of my—well, best not to dwell on that.
God, tomorrow’s going to be interesting.