Chapter 18
CECILIA
Walking into Isabella’s room feels like the spread of a high-end design magazine collided with the quiet aftermath of an elite athlete’s career.
Everything is beautiful and deliberate: warm wood, soft textiles, windows open to the dark outline of the mountains, but threaded through it are pieces of a life lived at impossible speed.
On her dresser there is a framed credential from one of the Games, half-hidden behind a lamp. Hanging on the wall in a very creative way, there’s a pair of worn skate guards, and if I were to guess, they are probably the last ones she used before retiring.
There is evidence everywhere that excellence happened here, even if she refuses to center it during this phase of her life.
When I turn around, Isabella is waiting at the foot of the bed, half-clothed, breathing heavy. The tension we carried from the bar hasn’t faded; it’s condensed, sharpened in the dark of her room.
“You don’t hesitate much,” she says, almost like she’s surprised at how forward I’m being.
“I’ve hesitated enough for a lifetime.”
Her eyes soften at that, just for a second.
Then she steps forward and her hands find my waist, warmer now, more certain. I let mine slide up her arms, over the curve of her toned muscles, until my fingers brush the back of her neck.
“Last chance,” she says softly. “We can still pretend this was just a drink between colleagues.”
I smile against her mouth.
“Do you want to do that? To pretend?”
She kisses me before I can say anything else.
It’s deeper than in her office. Hungrier. Her hands move over my sides, down, then back up like she’s memorizing me through fabric and the little amount of skin that is bare. I answer with equal intention, pulling her closer, feeling the steady heat of her body against mine.
When she walks me backward, it’s not urgent, like time is against us. It’s deliberate.
I sit at the edge of the bed and she steps between my knees without breaking the kiss.
Isabella’s hands slide along my thighs, slow enough to make my breath stutter. I pull her down with me, and she laughs softly against my mouth, that warm, unguarded sound from downstairs threading through everything.
“You’re trouble, Princess,” I murmur, and it’s almost as if she melts on top of me.
“You followed me home.”
Her fingers trace along my collarbone, then lower.
The room narrows to skin and breath and the quiet sounds we’re trying not to make, even if we are alone in this huge house in the middle of the Rockies. There’s nothing frantic about it, though. No rush to get anywhere. Just the slow unraveling of restraint we’ve both been holding all night.
Her mouth leaves mine only long enough to look at me, like she’s trying to decide whether this is still reckless or something else entirely. I don’t break her gaze.
“You’re staring,” I breathe in between kisses. Isabella tilts her head to the side, giving me more access to the long column of her neck. Her brown hair slips forward, dark strands falling around us like a curtain, softening the room until it feels like we exist inside our own tiny world.
“I am,” she answers, not apologizing. Her gaze drags slowly over my face, my mouth, the space between us. “You’re unfairly beautiful.” Her voice is lower now. “It’s so fucking distracting.”
I huff a soft laugh. “That’s rich coming from you.”
She shakes her head once. “No. I know what I look like to people. But you—” Her fingers tighten slightly at my waist. “You don’t.”
Her hands slide from my waist to the inside of my thighs, thumbs tracing slow, intentional lines upward. She’s mapping my body—curious, attentive—and the patience of it sends a sharp rush of heat through my body.
I inhale sharply.
She notices immediately and smiles into my skin, almost triumphant. She continues moving her hands and her mouth curves against mine, pleased in a way that feels dangerously intimate.
“You’re very responsive,” Isabella murmurs.
I laugh under my breath, though it comes out uneven. My fingers itch to touch her in return, but I’m caught watching how certain she is, how completely at ease she is in this moment, guiding us forward with a confidence that makes me want to follow wherever she decides we’re going tonight.
Her fingers pause, resting at my waist, grounding instead of pushing farther, and somehow that restraint is worse. Every one of my nerves feels awake, waiting for permission neither of us has spoken out loud.
My hands slide into her hair, guiding her closer. The kiss deepens again, slow, unhurried, full of intention.
I sit up enough to tug my top over my head, and the second I see her reaction—the audible intake of breath, the subtle curl of her lips and the way her eyes linger through my body—something low and urgent tightens inside me.
“Jesus,” she exhales under her breath, eyes slowly dragging back up to mine. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”
That confidence makes me dizzy.
She leans down again, but this time her mouth doesn’t go to mine.
It drags along my jaw, slow and firm, down the column of my throat.
I inhale sharply when her teeth graze just below my ear.
Isabella’s hand presses flat to my sternum, and before I can think better of it, she pushes me back onto the bed.
“Oh, fuck, Isa,” I murmur, because the nickname slips out before I can stop it.
Her answering sound is low, pleased. One hand settles at my waist, steadying me as if she already knows I’m losing my balance in this—how easily she dismantles the careful walls I’ve put up around everyone.
I thread my fingers through her hair and pull, and she makes a soft sound against my stomach that goes straight through me.
She lifts her head slowly, eyes darker now, focused entirely on me. Her lips are red and swollen, and I can see the want in her gaze. There’s no hesitation left in her expression, only intent.
“Well,” she muses, voice rougher than before, “that’s new.”
She presses another kiss just below my ribs, unhurried, and my hands find her shoulders automatically, feeling the strength there, the steadiness she carries even when she lets herself soften. I slide my palms down her arms, then back up again, relearning her through touch instead of distance.
Her skin is soft against my callused hands, and it throws me off for half a second—the contrast of it, the way she feels solid but soft and entirely within reach.
I trace the line of her arm slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere, just feeling her out, how her body shifts under my palms as she reacts to my touch. Her breath changes first. Then her shoulders. Small things, but I notice all of them.
Isabella lifts her head just enough to look at me, her hair falling forward, brushing against my stomach, and the sensation is enough to pull a quiet sound out of me before I can stop it.
A second later, she’s unbuttoning my jeans, zipper moving slowly down and the sound reverberating around the room.
“Is this okay?” she asks, and her mouth curves a little once I respond with an audible intake of breath. “So composed.”
I slide one hand up to the back of her neck, fingers tangling lightly into her hair, not pulling—just holding her there, keeping her close. She exhales against my skin, and I feel it everywhere.
“Yes,” I finally say, but neither of us moves.
For a second, it feels like the word just hovers between us. Isabella studies my face like she’s confirming, like she needs to see it again in my expression before she trusts it. I nod, almost frantically, and she reacts, pulling my pants and underwear down my legs.
My breath catches as her hands tug, stripping off my clothes and leaving me bare on the bed. Her expression makes my stomach tighten, and I can see Isabella’s pulse on her neck, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” she says quietly.
I shake my head before she’s even finished.
She removes her pants, kicking them somewhere in the direction of the door and finally standing to her full height in front of me. Her patient stance pulls a low breath out of me that I don’t bother hiding.
“Okay,” she murmurs.
And then she moves. The corner of her mouth curves when she hears my breathing hitch, and suddenly she’s hovering over me, hands on either side of my head, looking straight into my eyes.
My pulse stumbles hard enough that I feel it everywhere at once. Any semblance of control I had a minute ago is gone.
“Still composed, Coach?” she asks.
“Not even a little,” I admit.