Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
What the fuck am I doing?
I should step back, put distance between us, walk away, go downstairs, do anything except stand here in this dark hallway with Isabella wearing nothing but a towel.
But I can't move. I won’t fucking move.
She's looking at me and moonlight from the window catches the water still dripping from her hair, catches the curve of her collarbone where the towel slips just slightly, catches those hazel eyes that have been destroying me for four years.
"You should get dressed."
My voice comes out rough and wrong, betraying everything I'm trying to hide.
"Uh… Y-yeah."
She doesn't move though, and neither do I.
The space between us is too small, maybe two feet at most, close enough that I can smell the soap on her skin, close enough to see the rise and fall of her chest coming fast and uneven, close enough to reach out and touch if I let myself.
Don't.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
"Enzo—"
"Go, Isabella."
"I don't want to."
I grunt, running my hands through my hair. "You don't know what you're saying."
"Yes, I do."
"No." I shake my head even though she probably can't see it in the darkness. "You're scared. You had a panic attack. You're grateful I talked you through it. That's all this is."
She makes a sound in her throat, somewhere between disagreement and frustration.
"So go before—"
"Before what?"
Before I stop being able to control myself. Before I cross this space and put my hands on you. Before I find out if you taste as good as I've imagined every night for the past four years.
I don't say any of that.
She takes a step closer.
One step. That's all. But now there's barely a foot between us and I can feel the heat coming off her skin, can see the pulse in her throat beating fast and frantic, can see her knuckles white where she's gripping the towel like it's the only thing keeping her together.
"Isabella." Her name comes out like a warning. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what, Enzo… how am I looking at you?”
Like you want me to touch you. Like you're daring me to. Like you know exactly what you're doing and what it's doing to me.
My control is slipping and I can feel it fraying at the edges like a rope pulled too tight. Four years of keeping my distance. Four years of lying to myself. Four years of pretending I don't want her.
All of it unravelling because she won't step away, won't make this easier, won't stop looking at me like I'm the only thing she wants.
"You need to go get dressed."
"Make me."
The challenge in her voice does something to me, snaps something deep in my chest that I've been holding closed.
My hand moves before I can stop it, reaches out and cups the side of her face.
Her skin is warm and soft and still damp from the shower.
She flinches.
The movement is small and instinctive, but I feel it like a punch.
I start to pull away, to take my hand back, to apologize for crossing a line I swore I'd never cross.
But then she does something I don't expect.
She leans into my touch.
Her eyes close and her head tilts just slightly, pressing her cheek into my palm like she's been starving for this.
And she sighs.
The sound is soft and breathy, somewhere between relief and something else, something that sounds dangerously like a moan.
Every thought in my head goes silent.
All I can hear is that sound, all I can feel is the warmth of her skin, all I can see is the way her lips part just slightly.
My thumb moves on its own, brushes across her cheekbone, down to the corner of her mouth.
Her eyes open and find mine.
The moonlight catches them and I can see everything. The fear. The want. The confusion. The same war I've been fighting for four years reflected back at me.
"Enzo." My name is barely a whisper.
"I know." I whisper back.
"I hate you."
"I know that too."
"But I can't—" She stops and swallows hard.
"Isabella—"
Her breath catches and I watch her chest rise and fall faster.
My hand is still on her face, my thumb still tracing the line of her jaw, and I should stop, should drop my hand, should walk away.
But I've been lying for four years, pretending, acting like she means nothing.
And I'm tired.
So tired of fighting this.
She's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters, like four years of hurt and anger don't exist, like I didn't destroy her on that porch.
My other hand moves and finds her waist, and the towel is soft under my palm but I can feel the curve of her hip beneath it, can feel her warmth.
She's not wearing anything under this towel, of course.
The thought sends heat straight through me.
"Isabella." Her name sounds like a prayer and a plea. "You need to tell me to stop."
"What if I don't want you to stop?"
"Then we're both going to regret this."
"I don't care."
Her hand comes up and covers mine where it rests on her face, her fingers small and delicate as they wrap around my wrist.
Not pulling away. Just holding on.
I move my hand from her waist and slide it up her side, slowly and deliberately, feeling the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the softness of her skin through the towel.
She shivers and her eyes flutter closed.
"Cold?" My voice is barely above a whisper.
"No."
"Then what?"
"You. Touching me. It's—" She stops and opens her eyes. "Don't stop."
Christ.
My hand keeps moving up her side, to her shoulder, her neck, and I can feel her pulse under my fingers racing and frantic.
Same as mine.
I lean in just slightly, close enough that I can feel her breath on my face, close enough to see the exact moment her pupils dilate.
"Do you know what you're asking for?"
"Yes."
"I don't think you do."
"Then show me."
The words break something in me, some last thread of control I've been holding onto for four years.
I lean in closer until our lips are almost touching, so close I can taste the space between us, so close that one more inch would change everything.
Her breath hitches and her hand curls into my shirt, fisting the fabric like she's afraid I'll pull away.
One more inch. That's all it would take. One more inch and I could find out if she tastes as good as I've imagined, if her mouth is as soft as it looks, if kissing her would ruin me the way I think it will.
One more inch.
"Where are you two?"
Rafael's voice cuts through the darkness, loud and completely unexpected, coming from downstairs.
We both freeze.
"Been calling for five minutes. I'm outside, let me in."
I step back fast and the loss of her warmth feels like a physical ache, like something vital being ripped away.
Isabella's eyes are wide and her chest is heaving and she looks as wrecked as I feel.
"Rafe's here."
My voice comes out rough. "I heard."
"You should get dressed."
"Right."
She reaches out and takes the phone from my hand, turns on the flashlight, and the sudden brightness makes us both squint.
"I'll be down in a minute."
She walks into her room, my room, and when I move, the door closes behind her. I am left standing alone in the hallway with my hands shaking, my dick hard, my heart racing and every nerve in my body still screaming for her.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn't. That's the problem. I wasn't thinking at all.
I head downstairs and force myself to focus, force the image of her in that towel out of my head.
It doesn't work.
I open the front door and Rafe is standing there with a bag in one hand and that familiar smirk already spreading across his face.
"Took you long enough."
"What are you doing here?"
"Matteo sent me with supplies. Clothes, weapons, the usual." He walks past me into the cabin and drops the bag on the floor. "Also, I'm taking the bike back and leaving you the car. More practical for getting around if you need to move fast."
"Fine."
He turns and looks at me and I can see him reading my face the way the bastard always does.
Then his smirk widens.
"What?"
"Nothing. You just look..." He stops and the smirk turns into a full grin. "Tense."
"I'm fine." I snap.
He only chuckles. "Right. Sure, you are."
Behind us, the lights flicker once and then come back on at full power, flooding the cabin with light that makes me blink.
Footsteps on the stairs and Isabella appears, fully dressed now with her hair still damp but her face carefully composed. But I can see the flush on her cheeks, the way her eyes won't quite meet mine, the way her hands are trembling just slightly.
"Rafael." She nods at him.
"Sweetheart." He looks between us and that smirk is still firmly in place. "Did I interrupt something?"
"No," we both say at the exact same time.
I’m going to kill him.
"Right." He draws the word out like he doesn't believe us for a second. Then he turns to me, so that only I can hear him. "So you two are still pretending nothing's going on?"
I glare at him but he just smirks wider, clearly enjoying himself.
"Why are you here, Rafe?"
"I told you. Supplies from Matteo." He says now louder and nods at the bag on the floor. "Clothes for both of you, food, couple of guns, ammunition, everything you might need for an extended stay."
Rafe is watching me with that knowing look, reading my face, seeing everything I'm trying to hide.
"You know," he says casually but again quiet enough that only I can hear, "if you're going to eye-fuck each other across every room, you might as well actually fuck and get it out of your system."
"Rafe—"
"I'm just saying. The tension is painful to watch."
Isabella's looking between us with confusion on her face but she doesn't say anything.
Neither do I.
Because he's not wrong.
I can't stop looking at Isabella, can't stop thinking about how close we just came to crossing a line we can't uncross, can't stop my hands from shaking with the memory of her skin under my palm.
I almost kissed her.
I almost crossed every line I've ever drawn.
And the worst part?
I want to do it again.