12 - Adrian
There. Black jeans despite the heat, that leather jacket she wears like armor.
The way she moves makes my chest tight with want, all that controlled grace, that careful distance she maintains from the world.
She's studying a window display two shops down, completely absorbed.
I push off from the wall and move into her path, timing it so we'll collide right as she turns.
The impact is perfect. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make her stumble. My hand catches her elbow, steadying her while the shopping bag swings between us. Her body against mine for just a second. Christ, even that brief contact makes me hard.
"Isa?" I let surprise bloom across my face, warm and genuine. "What are the odds?"
She pulls back slightly, that automatic distance she maintains, but her shoulders relax when she recognizes me. Her scent hits me — clean soap and warm skin — and the want lands low and hard, the urge to press my face to her throat and stay there.
"Adrian. You shopping?"
"For a friend, actually." I lift the bag, the lie rolling off my tongue sweet as honey.
Inside is a dress I bought this morning, having tracked her Saturday routine for months, measured to her exact size from years of observation.
Black silk, understated elegance, the kind of thing she'd never buy herself but can't refuse as a borrowed favor.
"Birthday gift. She's impossible to shop for. "
Isa's gaze flicks to the bag, then past me to Ariele's art deco facade. The restaurant gleams in the afternoon sun, all curved glass and gold accents.
"Have you eaten?" I ask, casual as breathing. "We could grab something."
She actually laughs, a rare sound that makes my chest tighten. "At Ariele? They're booked months out. Nice try though."
"Can't hurt to ask." I shrug, already moving toward the entrance. "Come on, worst they can say is no."
She follows, probably just to watch me fail. The concierge stands behind his podium like a guardian of exclusivity. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me.
"Mr. Marín," he says warmly, and I watch Isa's eyebrows rise at the recognition. "Welcome back. Your table is ready, as always."
"Perfect timing," I say, playing it like this is spontaneous luck rather than a reservation I made weeks ago, the day after she first mentioned Lisbon. The concierge's welcome is genuine. I've cultivated this relationship for years, just for moments like this.
"Of course. Right this way." He gathers menus smoothly, his smile professional and knowing. "Will you need anything from our private collection?"
"Just the regular menu today, thanks." I turn to Isa, whose expression has shifted to suspicious amusement. "After you."
She doesn't move. "Adrian, I'm not dressed for this place."
Which brings me to the dress. I make a show of considering, then snap my fingers like inspiration just struck. "Actually, this might work." I lift the shopping bag. "It's probably your size, and my friend won't even know I bought it yet. You could borrow it, change in their powder room?"
"You want me to wear your friend's birthday present?"
"She won't mind waiting another day," I say, not really a lie since the ‘friend’ doesn’t exist. "You'd be doing me a favor, showing me if it works on an actual person."
God, the way she weighs her pride against her curiosity, like watching her decide whether to let me closer or push me away. Every micro-expression on her face is a masterpiece I want to frame and study and own.
"Fine," she says. "But you're explaining to your friend why her new dress smells like someone else's perfume."
The dress fits her like I knew it would.
My cock hardens at the sight. Black silk painting every curve I've memorized but never touched.
Christ, the things I want to do to her in that dress.
The ways I want to mark her as mine while she wears something I chose, something I bought knowing how it would cling to her hips, her breasts.
She's walking around in my fantasy made real, and she has no idea.
Mine. The word pounds through me with each heartbeat. She's wearing my choice, my gift, my silk against her skin. Every man who looks at her tonight is looking at something I dressed her in. The possession of it makes me dizzy with want.
She emerges from Ariele's powder room transformed but trying not to show it, the black silk skimming her body in ways that make my mouth go dry. I included a pair of heels in the bag, but she's kept her boots, a stubborn bit of herself that makes me want her more.
The dining room opens before us in tiers of cream and gold, orchids on every table, windows overlooking Biscayne Bay. Our table sits in the corner I requested, intimate but not obviously romantic. She settles into her chair, still slightly suspicious, like she's waiting for the catch.
"Wine?" I ask, and she nods, some of that rigid control loosening.
I order a Sancerre I know she'll like, crisp and cold. The first sip makes her close her eyes briefly, and I file that expression away with all the others I collect. Her lips on the glass, the way her throat moves when she swallows. Every detail feeds the hunger that's been growing for years.
The waiter describes specials in reverent tones while she studies the menu, that constant vigilance still present but softening at the edges. The silk shifts against her skin when she moves, and I have to grip my wine glass to keep from reaching across the table.
By the second glass, she's less guarded than usual, though still herself. Isa never truly relaxes, not completely. The wine loosens something in her shoulders, makes her lean back in her chair instead of perching on its edge. "I can't believe they just had a table."
"Lucky timing," I say, the lie comfortable as an old sweater. Everything about this afternoon has been orchestrated, from the collision to the dress to this exact table where the light catches her face just right.
The food arrives in waves. Oysters she didn't know she wanted, perfectly seared scallops, duck that melts on the tongue.
I watch her experience each dish, the way surprise flickers across her features when something exceeds expectations.
She's still Isa, still contained, but there's something softer about her on her day off, away from La Sirena's chaos.
"God, this is good," she says, actually moaning slightly at the chocolate soufflé I insisted we order. The sound goes straight to my cock. That little moan, the way her eyes flutter closed. I want to discover what other sounds she makes, what it takes to draw them out.
"You deserve good things, Isa." The truth slips out before I can catch it.
She looks up sharply, but I'm already shifting the conversation. "How's the passport renewal going? Still planning the great Lisbon escape?"
Her face darkens immediately. "Still processing, supposedly. But the delays keep piling up."
My chest tightens with dark satisfaction I'm careful not to show. "Processing?"
"They keep asking for more documentation.
Different forms every time I call." She drains her wine glass, frustration clear in every line of her body.
The pulse at her throat jumps with irritation.
"First it was proof of residence, then employment verification, now they want tax records going back three years.
It's like they're making it up as they go. "
I make sympathetic noises while privately savoring this moment.
The endless delays she's describing? I orchestrated them three weeks ago.
Paid the right people to lose forms, demand unnecessary paperwork, create endless loops of bureaucracy.
Every obstacle she's facing exists because I placed it there.
The sabotage bearing perfect fruit while I sit here offering comfort for the very trap I built.
"That's infuriating," I say, refilling her wine glass. "The bureaucracy in this city is insane. They make it impossible on purpose."
"Exactly." She leans forward, trusting me with her frustration. The movement makes the silk cling differently, and I have to force myself to maintain eye contact. "It's like they don't want me to leave."
They don't. I don't. The thought fills me with possessive pleasure.
"I'm sure it'll work out," I say, knowing it won't. "These things just take time."
"And fucking Daphne," Isa continues, the wine making her slightly more talkative than usual, though for Isa, that still means measured, careful. "She keeps trying to reorganize the bar when I'm not there. Moved my tools yesterday."
The complaint is minor, typical territorial bartender stuff, but it gives me an opening. "Want me to kill her for you?"
The words come out light, playful, the kind of joke that makes people laugh nervously.
But inside, I mean every syllable. I'd end Daphne before sunset if Isa asked.
Would make it look like an accident, maybe something with those ballet tendons she prizes so much.
Anything to remove even the smallest irritation from Isa's world.
Isa actually snorts. "Right. Gunner would rage if you touched his ballerina."
"Gunner's rage doesn't scare me." I shrug, absolutely sincere beneath the casual gesture. His fury would be inconvenient, sure, but not insurmountable. Nothing is, when it comes to her.
"You're ridiculous." She shakes her head, but she's almost smiling. "If you want to murder someone for me, kill my stalker."
The words land like ice water in my veins.
She says it casually, riding the dark humor of the moment, but then her face shifts.
The wine hasn't made her careless. Isa is never careless.
But it's given her permission to voice what she normally keeps locked down.
She leans forward, voice dropping. The change makes my stomach clench. Dread, arriving early.
"I haven't told anyone this, but… someone's been following me. For weeks."