7. Isabella
Chapter seven
Isabella
T he clock on my office wall ticks louder than a time bomb, mocking me as it hits 8 p.m. My fingers fly over the keyboard, the last of the financial projections blurring into an angry dance of numbers and dollar signs. Adrian’s documents are spread out like a shrine to my wasted Friday night.
“Redone. As requested,” I mutter to myself, hitting save with more force than necessary. He wants precision? I’ll give him perfection wrapped in spite.
I pull out my phone, snapping a quick video to prove my diligence. The clip shows each page, crisp and error-free, ready for his royal inspection. With a few taps, I send it off to Adrian, along with a text that might as well read, “Here’s your precious paperwork, Your Highness.”
A sense of satisfaction bubbles up at the thought of leaving early, too—just like he did. But before I can savor the moment, my phone vibrates with his reply.
“Hand-deliver them. To my home.” His message is accompanied by a digital pin-drop that might as well be a middle finger from the universe .
“For real?” I scoff at the screen, half-tempted to print out the text just so I can shred it.
Instead, I gather the documents, stacking them with a slap against my desk. A bitter taste coats my tongue, the flavor of resentment mixed with the ink of freshly printed pages.
“Fine. If it’s a personal delivery he wants, it’s a piece of my mind he’ll get.” I snatch my workbag, slinging it over my shoulder like a medieval flail, ready for battle.
As I march out of the office, my heels click a rhythm of impending confrontation. I’m not just going to drop off these papers; I’m about to deliver a monologue worthy of a courtroom drama. Adrian Cole, prepare to meet your match.
The moon is casting a golden glow over the manicured lawns of Beverly Hills as I drive through Adrian’s gated community ten minutes later. His neighborhood is as posh as they come, with sprawling estates that scream old money and new Botox. My finger hovers over his contact in my phone before I press it, voice steady, “It’s Isabella. Open up.”
“Coming right up,” his smooth baritone replies through my car’s Bluetooth, and the iron gates swing open like arms welcoming me into the lion’s den.
I pull into the driveway, my modest sedan dwarfed by the grandeur of Adrian’s understated mansion. It’s beautiful in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes—modest for a billionaire, yet still a testament to his success. The lawn is a shade of green that’s probably patented, and I can’t help but grudgingly admit that he keeps his property looking good. Probably has an army of gardeners on speed dial.
Gathering my bag and the cursed documents, I kill the engine and step out, heels clicking on the stone driveway. I make my way to the front door, my pulse a mix of anger and anxiety. I press the doorbell, listening to the echo of some classical tune that probably costs more than my rent.
Adrian opens the door, tall, dark, and infuriatingly handsome. He scans me from head to toe, a hint of something suspicious in those deep, dark eyes. “Isabella. Come in.”
“Hmph,” is all I muster, striding past him with the type of confidence I reserve for work. But as soon as I enter, my bravado wavers. His home is stunning—modern furniture that screams expensive, walls adorned with art that’s probably not just for decoration. Every piece is upscale yet functional, and the place gives off an aura of warmth that unsettles me.
This feels like a home, not just a house. And it’s the last thing I need when there’s a tiny, unplanned Cole-King merger happening under my blouse.
I’m still fuming about this morning’s showdown. He implying I wasn’t up to snuff on the merger—that stung more than I care to admit. And here I am, in his fortress of solitude, clutching the fruits of my labor like an olive branch I never intended to offer.
“Nice place,” I say, unable to stop the words from dripping in sarcasm. “Did you decorate it yourself, or is there a secret interior designer you keep chained in the basement?”
Adrian closes the door behind us, a smirk playing on his lips. “Thanks, I’ll take that as a compliment, regardless of how hard you tried to make it sound otherwise.”
I don’t bother responding. Instead, I stand there amidst the plush surroundings, holding onto my paperwork like a shield, ready for battle but secretly wondering if this could have been something else—if circumstances were different, if we were different. The thought irks me more than I want to admit, and I push it aside, locking it away.
“Let’ s just get this over with,” I snap, the weight of the documents in my hand feeling heavier than ever.
“Want something to drink?” Adrian’s voice pulls me back from the edge of my spiraling thoughts.
“Planning to bribe me with alcohol now, Cole? Nice, but I have to drive home.” And let’s not forget the whole being pregnant thing.
He raises his eyebrows, a half-smile quirking up. “I meant like, water. Or juice. I have a lot of boxed juice.”
“Water’s fine,” I mutter. The image of flinging water in his face if he pushes my buttons too hard flickers across my imagination, offering a brief, satisfying distraction.
He saunters off to the kitchen, and I’m left alone amidst the opulence of his living room, which is as tasteful as it is infuriating. It feels like him—understated on the surface but screaming success and power underneath. I shift uncomfortably, feeling out of place yet oddly drawn to the warmth radiating from the sleek furniture and artful decor.
“Where’s Caleb?” I ask as I take a seat on the smooth leather of the sofa. Immediately, my eyes catch on a pile of work documents casually strewn across his coffee table. And there they are. The original documents I had slaved over for hours—no, days—just sitting there as though they’d been waiting for me all along.
“With my mom for the weekend,” Adrian calls out from the kitchen. “She picked him up about an hour ago.”
The blood in my veins turns to ice, then fire. When Adrian returns, holding out a glass of water with that infuriatingly charming smile, something inside me snaps.
“Seriously?!” I explode, shoving the papers at him. “All those extra hours! For what, Adrian? Your little power trip? ”
“Isabella, let me expla—” He starts, but I can’t, I won’t let him finish. Instead, he simply sets the water down on the coffee table beside the documents as I give him a taste of my mind.
“Save it. You wanted to see me dance, is that it?” I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my anger boiling over, unchecked and fierce.
And then, without warning, he steps closer and kisses me. It’s impulsive, unexpected—a collision of lips that sends shockwaves through my system.
When he pulls away, my eyes widen in disbelief, staring into his dark ones that seem just as stunned.
“Sorry,” he breathes, the word vibrating against my mouth, “I just … didn’t know any other way to make you stop talking so you could hear me out. I—”
But before he can say another word, something inside me flips. Anger, frustration, weeks of pent-up tension—it all morphs into a wild, reckless energy that propels me forward. I kiss him back with an intensity that surprises us both, the documents long forgotten between us.
Heat pulses between us, a tangible thing that wraps around my senses, drawing out the anger and replacing it with raw need. Adrian’s lips are insistent against mine, his hands firm as they press me into the wall of his living room.
“Adrian,” I gasp, but it’s less of a protest and more of an acknowledgment of this uncontrollable force between us.
One of his hands slides under my blouse, and I shiver at the contact, my skin burning where he touches. His body is firm against mine, and I can feel him—hard and wanting—as I hitch my leg around his hip, inviting him closer.
The scent of him floods my senses, and it’s intoxicating. It’s been two months since I’ve allowed myself to even think about being this close to him again. But here we are, and damn if I’m not going to take my time savoring it.
In a show of strength that sends another thrill through me, Adrian lifts me effortlessly. The world tilts as he carries me upstairs, each step he takes hammering in the reality of what’s happening. We’re going there again—crossing lines, breaking rules. And as much as my mind screams that this is a bad idea, my body isn’t just on board; it’s leading the charge.
We reach his bedroom, and any thoughts of protest evaporate. It’s sleek, modern, probably costs more than my entire apartment, but right now, it’s just the backdrop to whatever this is between us. He sets me down on the bed, a soft landing that contrasts with the urgency of our kisses.
“Isabella,” he breathes, a sound that is both a question and an answer as he crawls over me, his weight a welcome pressure. “You’re too sexy for words.”
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him closer still, deepening our kiss until it’s all I can taste, all I can feel.
His hand finds its way through my hair, tangling in the long strands as if he’s trying to memorize the texture. My own fingers trace the contours of his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath his shirt.
“I need you,” I whisper against his mouth, my voice a mix of desire and a warning. But who am I kidding? The only thing I’m warning him against is stopping.
“I’m all yours tonight,” he growls as my fingers fumble with the buttons on his shirt, more than eager to get rid of the fabric barrier.
The shirt falls away and I toss it aside without a second thought. Our lips crash against each other again, the urgency undiminished. My hands roam over his chest and abs, tracing the lines of muscle that I’ve limited to only visualizing under his tailored suits these past ten weeks .
“Your turn,” he murmurs against my lips, his fingers already working the buttons of my blouse with deft precision. It slips off along with my skirt, leaving me in my mint blue bra and panties; thank god for matching sets. My pride in my appearance flares briefly before being drowned out by the heat of his gaze.
It’s like we’re doing this frantic dance of push and pull, and I find myself on top, straddling him as I help peel off his pants. They join the growing pile of discarded clothing. Now he’s down to those white boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination, and honestly? I’m not complaining.
Adrian’s hands are everywhere, mapping my body with an eagerness that sends shivers up my spine. He caresses my ass, hips, waist …, and I throw my head back, enjoying the hell out of the feel of his touch. “I love how you touch me,” I admit, breathless.
“I won’t stop then,” he teases, and damn him for making me want to laugh at a time like this.
His fingers slip around to the clasp of my bra. In one swift motion, it’s undone, and the cool air hits my skin as my bra joins the rest of our clothes on the floor. His mouth descends onto my newly freed breasts, suckling and licking, sending waves of pleasure through me. Every sensible part of me has checked out for the night, leaving only raw need in its wake.
“Off,” he commands softly, assisting in sliding my panties down my legs. I should feel vulnerable, bare before him, but there’s no room for insecurity when his dark eyes are alight with desire.
“Sit,” he says, that one word laced with a promise. And who am I to deny him—or myself?
I position myself above his face, and the moment his tongue meets my clit, a moan rips from my throat. My hands find the wall behind him, pressing against it for support as waves of pleasure begin to build from where he’s focused all his attention. This man knows exactly what he’s doing, and I’m just along for the ride—a ride I never want to end.
His fingers dance inside me, a perfect rhythm with the relentless flicks of his tongue. My face presses against the cool wall, my breath comes in ragged gasps. It’s as if every nerve ending is concentrated right there, where his mouth works its magic.
“Keep going,” I manage between moans, my words dissolving into the thick air of the room. “Just like this.”
He hums against me, the vibrations sending another jolt through my body. “I want you to come for me, Isabella. Come hard.” His tone is both commanding and reverent, like he’s both king and worshipper at the altar of my pleasure.
And I’m about to make a generous donation.
My climax barrels toward me like a freight train, no brakes, full speed ahead. Adrian doesn’t falter, doesn’t tease, just drives me home until the world blurs, colors burst behind my closed eyelids, and I shatter spectacularly. The waves of pleasure are so intense, I’m pretty sure they’ve reached tsunami status.
“Oh, god … Adrian, that was …”
“It was something, wasn’t it?” he pants.
As the tremors fade, I collapse onto him, but not before catching that smug, self-satisfied grin with a sloppy kiss. We’re a mess of tongues and lips, a tangle of limbs fueled by pure, raw chemistry. Or maybe it’s just leftover adrenaline. Either way, I’m not done with him yet.
“Your turn,” I pant, reaching down to slide his boxer briefs off with a swift tug. They join the rest of our discarded clothes on the floor, casualties of our little war of lust.
There’s nothing quite like the feel of him, hot and hard, in my hand. I give him a few experimental strokes, earning a groan that could either be from pleasure or the realization that I’ve got him by the ... well, you know.
“Now it’s your turn to come hard,” I whisper, stoking the fire, watching him unravel under my touch. And if I’m being honest, I can’t wait to watch him lose it, to see that composed exterior crack just for me. Because, damn it, I might hate how much I want him, but I absolutely love making him fall apart.