29. Chapter 29
Chapter 29
R osie stood behind the door, heart thudding against her ribcage like it was trying to escape.
One knock.
Two.
Then silence.
Isaac had shown up fifteen minutes early.
Of course he had.
She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled through her nose. Steady, Rosie. You asked him to come. This is just a conversation. Nothing more.
But her fingers still trembled as they reached for the knob.
The door opened with a soft creak.
And there he was.
Isaac fucking Rayleigh.
All black t-shirt, worn jeans, boots heavy on the sunbaked concrete. His black hair was a mess of ocean-ruffled curls, pushed back from his face like he’d run his hand through it too many times. His jaw was freshly shaved, that strong, stupidly perfect jawline she used to imagine tracing with her lips.
Those brown eyes flicked up—and then softened when they landed on her.
Time stalled.
It always did.
He didn’t smile. Just looked at her like he was checking for cracks, trying to see what mood she was in. What damage he’d done. What damage he could still undo.
“Morning,” he said, quiet.
“Hey,” she replied, leaning casually against the doorframe like she hadn’t just clenched at the sound of his voice.
God. Why did his voice always do that?
She folded her arms. That helped. Kept them from shaking. Kept her from reaching for him.
Isaac’s gaze dropped for a half second—she saw it. The quick flick over her outfit. Just high-waisted jeans and a tucked-in white tee, bare feet, hair down and air-dried, a little too wild from the heat. She wasn’t trying to impress him. But the way he looked at her…
That flutter. That goddamn flutter.
She buried it.
“So,” she said. “You made it.”
“Always do. Ready to go?”
“Yeah, just one more minute.” Rosie bit the inside of her cheek. “Come in.”
He stepped inside, and suddenly her apartment felt too small. The ceilings too low. The kitchen too narrow. His body always took up too much space. Or maybe it was just the way her body reacted to his—heat crawling up her neck, settling in her chest, lower.
“I just have two bites left and we can rock out,” she said.
She walked ahead of him, gesturing to the tiny kitchen nook where she’d laid out inspirational cookbooks and her best attempt at clean aesthetic. Concrete floors, secondhand chairs, an old IKEA table she’d scrubbed down until the wood grain came back to life.
“You wanna just stay in? Talk here?” He asked.
Finishing her oatmeal, she sighed. “Fine.”
Now he was standing in the middle of her kitchen like he’d lived there for years. Like it wasn’t weird. Like they hadn’t done what they did.
Rosie moved around him, her bare feet quiet on the concrete floor. He smelled like sun and soap and whatever aftershave he used that should be illegal.
Get it together.
She pulled the coffee tin from the cupboard, scooped out two heaping spoons into the French press, then boiled the water on the stove. Isaac stood by the counter, arms crossed, watching her like she was the one on display now.
“I’m surprised you drove up yesterday. How are you feeling?” she asked without looking at him.
“Better now.”
“Easy tiger.” She rolled her eyes and poured the hot water over the grounds. She hated how easily he made her smile—hated it even more when he wasn’t trying.
When the coffee was ready, she poured two mugs. Added two creams to his without asking.
She knew how he took it.
He noticed. Of course he did.
“Still remember that.”
She slid the mug toward him. “Muscle memory.”
He leaned against the counter, sipping. “Good memory.”
She didn’t answer. Just sipped her own, standing on the other side of the kitchen like the six feet between them might save her from herself.
“How’s the new place?” he asked, eyes sweeping the tiny apartment. “Seems nice.”
“Yeah, it’s nice having somewhere to call home. My own space.”
“Fair.” He nodded, glancing around. “Echo Park suits you.”
She cracked a smile despite herself.
“How’s your mom?” she asked after a pause. “You stayed at home last night?”
He shot her a look. “Yes, home. Not out with any blonde models.”
“Isaac.”
He grinned, carrying on. “Mom’s good. Still trying to get me to move home and make grandkids.”
“San Diego isn’t too far.”
Isaac shrugged. “Signal Hill’s got better tacos.”
She snorted. “Lies.”
Another beat of quiet. Then—
“You crushed it at the show,” he said, tapping his fingers along his mug. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”
“Successful?”
He gave her another look. That I’m going to kill you look.
Rosie grinned and looked down. “It went okay.”
“You’re underselling it.”
“I’m trying to be modest.”
“You’re trying not to gloat.”
She looked up at him, smiling again a little. “Maybe.”
He tilted his head. “Greg Taylor looked proud.”
There it was. That flicker of something in his eyes. She ignored it.
“I guess he is,” she said softly. “He believes in me.”
“Good,” Isaac said.
Rosie tilted her head. “You know, I’m very surprised to see you here on a workday. Even with your injury, I expected you’d be doing something on base.”
“I’ve been surprising you a lot lately.” Isaac grinned, then flexed his shoulders like he couldn’t sit still. “But, yeah, I fucking hate being off work.”
Rosie raised a brow. “You, hating rest? Shocking.”
“I’m not built for lying around.”
“Your ribs are.”
He exhaled a laugh, wincing slightly. “Still sore.”
“Chris told me about the accident,” she said carefully. “And, once again, I was surprised I didn’t hear it directly from you.”
He didn’t meet her eyes. “Didn’t want to make it a thing.”
“But it was a thing.”
“Yeah. I’m fine.”
She didn’t say I was worried. She didn’t say I almost called. She didn’t say I still haven’t figured out how to stop caring.
Instead, she poured herself more coffee. Avoided his eyes.
Silence stretched between them, long and full of all the things they weren’t saying.
She stood by the window, sipping her coffee. The ceramic mug was warm in her hands, grounding her as she stared out into the slow bloom of morning light. Echo Park was still quiet at this hour. Just the low hum of the city beginning to stretch. A dog barked in the alleyway. Someone’s wind chime moved in a faint breeze.
Rosie wrapped her arms tighter around her waist, her coffee halfway to her lips, then stopped. Her chest felt too tight, trying to pretend she wasn’t still in love with a man who might never give her anything real.
She inhaled. Exhaled.
This was it. The moment. Time to end it.
She turned slightly, still facing the window, speaking into the glass like it could shield her.
“Isaac,” she said, steady. “I told you I loved you. I want you to understand how much I meant that.”
Behind her, he was still leaning against the counter. Silent.
“But I also told you,” she continued, her voice thickening, “that I can’t handle drama or heartbreak right now. I have to be focused. Laser focused.”
She swallowed, staring at a hummingbird flitting near a cactus on the neighboring balcony.
“And yet you showed up. Did you know what that would do to me? Did you intend to fuck me up?”
Still no answer. Just his breath behind her. Steady. Calm.
She lifted the mug again, then placed it on the windowsill with shaking hands.
“Look, I needed to tell you in person,” she said, her voice quieter now, “that this needs to stop. Whatever’s been going on. I don’t know why we slept together, but—”
A mistake, she meant to say.
But she didn’t get the words out.
Because he was there. His chest pressed against her back. His arms coming around her waist. Big hands wrapping over hers. Taking the mug gently and setting it down beside hers.
“Isaac,” she said, a warning in her voice, but her breath hitched as his lips brushed the top of her shoulder.
He didn’t say a word.
He just kissed a trail—bare, slow, reverent—up her shoulder, to the curve of her neck, his breath catching on her skin.
She shivered. Closed her eyes.
This was the problem.
His mouth on her jaw. His hand at her waist. The heat of his body melting into hers.
“Isaac,” she whispered, twisting slightly in his arms, “This is important.”
“I know,” he said, kissing the space behind her ear. “I’m listening.”
“No, you’re not,” she said, her voice sharp now. “You’re doing the thing. Again. Trying to charm me. Melt me to your will. And I—”
He turned her slowly, hands firm but gentle, cupping her jaw. He tilted her chin, forcing her to look up at him. The way he studied her face was unlike anything ever before. The intensity. The concern.
“Was it a mistake?” He asked quietly. “Tell me, did it really feel like one?”
Her throat bobbed. Her eyes burned. She hated how soft he looked right now. How close. How much she wanted to lean into him, into all of it.
“I don’t trust… that you want me for the right reasons. That this isn’t just another whim.”
Isaac’s hand slid to the back of her neck. He rested his forehead against hers.
“I don’t trust you to love me back,” she whispered.
“I know.”
Her breath caught.
But she couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
She was still mad. Still hurt. Still halfway to breaking.
They stood there, in the quiet sunlit kitchen, her pressed between the window and his chest. And then—she could feel his breath before she felt his mouth. He dipped his head, slow, deliberate, his lips brushing hers like it was the first time all over again. And maybe it was. Maybe this time counted more. Meant more.
Because when he kissed her now, it wasn’t hungry or rushed. It was slow. Focused. A promise in motion.
Rosie’s fingers curled into his shirt on instinct, holding herself upright as her knees wavered.
He kissed her like she was the last steady thing in his world.
When he pulled back, just a breath between them, his voice was rough. “I want you, Rosie. That’s what I know.”
She blinked up at him, her heart thudding. “You want me now… really? After all these years. Why now.”
He closed his eyes like the words struck bone. Then opened them again, fiercer. “I’ve wanted you for a long fucking time. I just didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know I was allowed to.”
Rosie swallowed hard. Her body was already leaning into him, but her heart was screaming for distance. Protection. Her skin wanted him. Her soul didn’t believe him.
“I know,” he said. “I know. But you need to know… I’m not here for an easy fuck, or a fling, or… whatever the hell you think I’m doing. I’m here now. Tell me what you want and I’ll be it. I’ll try to be it.”
She shook her head slowly, afraid to let the softness in. “You said you don’t fall in love.”
His jaw flexed. His hands cupped her face again, holding her steady.
“I don’t. I haven’t,” he said. “But I’ll give you everything else.”
That undid her. Not because it was the perfect answer—but because it wasn’t. Because it was honest. Because he wasn’t pretending to be anything more than a man trying his hardest, and for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like someone was selling her a fantasy. He wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t perfect.
But maybe, just maybe, he was real.
Rosie’s voice cracked when she finally said it. “Don’t break my heart, Isaac.”
His thumbs brushed her cheeks, soft. “Then don’t run from me, Coco.”
And then he kissed her again. He kissed her like a man trying to rewrite the past.
Rosie didn’t want to give in. She didn’t want to forget everything she was trying to say, everything she needed to protect herself from. But the second Isaac’s mouth covered hers, she was lost.
Her back hit the bed ten feet away before she realized he’d even lifted her. He was strong—of course he was—and the way he handled her, the way he touched her, like she was something sacred and something forbidden all at once, undid her.
He hovered on top of her, pining her down on the bed. His lips found her jaw, her neck, the place just beneath her ear that made her body light up like a struck match.
“I don’t know how to say the right things,” he said against her throat, voice rough, low. “But I’m trying, Rosie. I’m trying.”
Her heart pounded as his hands slid under her shirt, slow, reverent. She let him pull it over her head, let his fingers trail down her sides like he was trying to memorize every inch. And then he pulled off her bra, her jeans, her panties. Until she was naked underneath him—perfect porcelain skin with soft breast and pink nipples.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered, brushing his lips along her collarbone.
“I know,” she whispered. “You do this to me.”
His thumb dragged gently over the underside of her breast, cupping it. He dipped his head down, licking her nipples. Sucking each, one at a time. She twisted underneath him, moaning and tangling her hands in his hair.
“How many nights?” he pressed. “How many nights were you lying somewhere, thinking about me?”
“Isaac—”
“Tell me,” he said, grinding into her, taking her breast in his mouth, massaging the other. “I want to know everything.”
She closed her eyes. “I used to dream about you.”
“What did I do in your dreams?”
Her cheeks flushed, her breath catching.
His hand dragged slowly down her bare stomach, drawing circles lower and lower until he found her wet pussy. “Did I touch you like this?” he asked, eyes locked on hers. “Did you want me to?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
He exhaled like that was the only answer he needed. And then—
“Did you ever touch yourself… thinking about me?”
Her eyes flew open, startled.
His voice was a whisper now, hot against her breast. “Tell me the truth, Coco.”
Her breath hitched.
“Did you ever imagine it was my tongue or my cock between your legs?”
“Yes.”
“God, Rosie,” he said, kissing her hard. “You don’t know how hard that gets me.”
His hand slipped lower, and her hips arched into him, desperate, needing.
“You know,” he said against her skin, “you’re not hiding from me anymore.”
Rosie gasped as his hand slid between her thighs, parting her, finding her soaked and trembling. Her hips bucked into his touch, helpless.
Isaac watched her face, eyes hooded, dark. “That’s how long you’ve wanted me, huh?”
She opened her mouth to argue—but he pressed two fingers into her, slow and deep, and her retort died in a moan.
“Take your clothes off,” she said softly.
Her voice didn’t shake.
He didn’t ask if she was sure. Didn’t smirk like he usually would. He just obeyed.
Slowly.
First, his fingers hooked under the hem of his t-shirt, dragging it up and over his head. His tattoos shifted with the motion—black ink over tan skin, alive in the light. She’d seen them before. Countless times. But never like this. Never with this ache in her chest. Never while she was lying here, naked, wanting him.
Next came the button of his jeans. The zipper. The soft drag of denim down thick thighs. He kicked them off at the ankle.
Only his black boxer briefs remained.
Rosie sat up slightly, propped on her elbows, lips parted.
She’d seen this man dripping wet out of the ocean, shirtless in the summer heat, bruised and sweating after long runs. She’d seen him at his rawest, his messiest, his funniest, his most guarded.
But this? This was something else entirely.
He was beautiful. Strong, lean muscle wrapped in reckless skin. Tattoos trailing down his arms. That V at his hips, cutting hard into the shadows. He was healing—slowly. The bruising on his side from the accident still dark, but his body hadn’t lost an ounce of its power.
And he was hers, in this moment.
He slid the waistband of his briefs down, revealing the full length of him. Hard already. Beautiful. Her breath caught.
She didn’t move.
She just stared, drinking him in like a woman dying of thirst.
And something in her chest cracked open.
Because this wasn’t just sex.
This wasn’t just attraction.
She was in love with him.
She always had been.
And she always would be.
“Show me,” Isaac said, voice rough with want. “Show me what you used to do when you thought about me.”
“I can’t.”
“Show me. Now.”
Rosie froze, her heart thudding so loud she could hear it echo in her throat. She parted her thighs further, showing him all of her pussy. She slid her fingers down her clit then back up again, drawing a moan from her lips as her head fell back. It was so crazy, so intense just having him watch her touch herself in front of him.
He was hovering over her—bare, flushed, his dark eyes wide and raw. There was no teasing in them now. Just hunger. And something else. Something deeper.
She swallowed.
“Come for me,” he growled.
“Help me.” Her thighs shifted against the sheets, her skin tingling from the heat of his gaze. Her breath came fast, shallow. But she didn’t break eye contact.
Instead, she reached for his wrist.
Guided him.
Down.
Isaac let her.
His hand settled between her thighs, warm and steady, and her own fingers followed—guiding his touch, teaching him the rhythm she’d kept secret all these years.
Her voice was a whisper. “Like this.”
Isaac’s lips parted as he watched her.
She lay back slowly, never letting go of his hand, her body fully exposed to him now—spine arched, breasts rising with each breath, her skin flushed from neck to thigh.
“I used to think about your hands,” she whispered. “Your mouth.”
His fingers moved with hers, mimicking her pace.
“I used to close my eyes and imagine you saying my name.”
Isaac groaned—low and wrecked.
“Rosalie,” he said like a vow, bending to kiss the swell of her breast, her ribs, her stomach.
She gasped at the feel of it. Of him. Of the way her body was open now, honest in a way her words had never been.
She’d never shown anyone this part of her. Never trusted anyone like this.
Only him.
Always him.
And Isaac watched her like she was his salvation. Like this was the holiest thing he’d ever seen.
She was trembling.
Her hand was still between her thighs, Isaac’s palm pressed over hers, their fingers tangled. Every stroke, every pulse of pleasure surged through her nerves like lightning.
He was watching her like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Like he’d burn it into memory for the rest of his life.
Her chest rose and fell, lips parted. “Isaac…”
That one word—his name—came out wrecked and fragile and pleading.
He shifted suddenly, his body moving lower, strong shoulders easing between her thighs, his lips grazing her wrist as he gently moved her hand away. Taking over. He licked her clit, dreamy, circling. Soft, slow, unbearably gentle at first, just the heat of him and his tongue parting her. Then firmer. Focused.
“You know I used to think about this,” he said, voice low, rough, like gravel under velvet. “Before I ever kissed you. Before I ever touched you. I used to think… what the fuck would it be like?”
She swallowed, unable to look away.
“I’d be on some op halfway across the world,” he went on, licking slowly, purposefully. “Sand in my boots. Saltwater in my lungs. But my head?” He hovered over her now, bracing his arms on either side of her, face inches from hers. “It was full of you.”
“Isaac…”
“I’d picture you exactly like this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her thigh as his fingers found her soaked pussy. “Your skin. Your mouth. Wondering if you’d be soft. If you’d taste sweet.”
His lips grazed her clit again. She arched toward him involuntarily. Wanting more. Needing.
“And you know what I hated the most?” he said, licking kisses down her clit, to the sensitive spot just beneath her hood that he was coming to know. “I knew you weren’t mine. I knew you were off-limits.”
She could barely breathe as he licked her clit faster, then again, rougher. He flattened his tongue and increased the pressure. The pace. Her fingers curled into the sheets. Her hips lifted instinctively.
And then—
His tongue was doing magical things.
Rosie let out a sound she didn’t recognize, her head falling back into the pillow. She was already on edge—already so close from touching herself with him watching—but now? His shoulders holding her thighs open. His mouth tasting her pussy like she was the most decadent thing he’d ever touched.
“Isaac,” she gasped, her voice broken.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t let up. He growled softly against her, like he was the one unraveling, like the taste of her was undoing him.
And maybe it was.
Because she could feel the way his hands gripped her ass, her hips, the tension in his forearms, the rhythm of his mouth—hungry and desperate and so, so good.
Her fingers threaded into his dark hair, tugging, anchoring herself to something—to him—as her whole body tightened, wound up, and began to break.
“I can’t—” she whimpered, and he hummed against her, the vibration sending her spiraling.
Pleasure surged. Bright and violent and hot. She shattered, her back arching, thighs clenching around his head. Isaac held her through it, drinking her in, not stopping, not until she was twitching and breathless, her body sinking into the mattress like her bones had melted.
She blinked up at the ceiling, heart pounding, chest heaving, completely undone.
And when he finally rose, face flushed, lips glistening, dark eyes full of heat and something dangerously close to love—
All she could do was reach for him until he was hovering on top of her again, caging her in.
“You’re killing me,” he said, dragging his mouth again up the line of her throat. “I think I’ve been dreaming about this since I was sixteen.”
His cock, heavy and hard, pulsed at the entrance to her pussy. Her legs trembled. She didn’t want to hear that. Didn’t want to need to hear that. And yet her body arched for him, pressed into his cock, desperate and unashamed.
“I need you inside me.” Rosie said. Her breath caught as he looked up at her again, eyes full of hunger and something else—something dangerous.
“What do you need?”
“Your cock,” she moaned, trying to catch him with her thighs.
“Good girl,” he said. But he still held himself over her, teasing the entrance to her pussy with his throbbing cock head. “Tell me what I did to you.”
Rosie buried her face in his shoulder, half-mortified, half burning as he tested her soaked pussy. Inch by inch, he slowly thrusted in. Teasing. Edging.
“What got you off?” he asked, dark and low, pulling his cock back and rubbing it in slow circles over her clit with maddening precision. “Me on top of you? Beneath you? Fucking you until you couldn’t speak?”
Her fingers gripped his back. “You’d be rough,” she whispered. “I’d imagine you taking control. Pinning me. Making me beg.”
“And?”
“Your hands around my neck. Hard.”
Isaac’s breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “That what you want now?” he asked, voice dangerous. “You want me to make you beg, baby?”
She couldn’t find words. But she didn’t have to. Because the next second, Isaac was shifting, pulling her hands above her head, caging her in with his body, his mouth crashing onto hers—hungry, claiming, endless.
Her fingers clutched at the sharp muscles of his back, dragging down the lines of his ribs, careful where he was still tender but unable to stop herself. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her collarbone as he kissed her there, open-mouthed, wet and hungry.
He thrusted his cock up her pussy, hitting the spot just right. “How many times did you come with my name in your mouth?”
“I can’t—” she managed, flushed, breathless.
“No,” he said, harsher now, voice like gravel. “You’ve had me in your head for years, haven’t you? You’ve wanted this. This—” He thrust into her with his cock again, harder this time.
“Isaac,” she whispered, aching.
He stilled.
Then pulled out his cock—slowly, making her whimper—and Rosie stared at him.
His body was tense, sculpted and straining with restraint. His cock was thick and hard, curved inside her, throbbing. Every inch of him looked carved for sin, and he was looking at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted.
His mouth was on her again before she could catch her breath—hungry, demanding, like he couldn’t get enough. His hands roamed her bare skin, every brush of his fingers a brand, every touch deliberate. She arched beneath him, his weight pressing her into the mattress, grounding her, surrounding her.
“You like this?” he said, voice low, rough with heat as his hands moved to her neck, holding her in place. “You want me to hurt you.”
She bit her lip, trying to hold on to some semblance of control, but he kissed her inner thigh, and it shattered her all over again.
“I thought about you every night,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Every time I closed my eyes. Every time I touched myself.”
Isaac groaned low in his throat, the sound scraping up from somewhere deep, primal. His hand tightened around her throat—not choking, but holding. Claiming. The pressure was just enough to make her pulse stutter.
“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he rasped, voice hot against her skin.
He loomed over her, forearms braced on either side of her head, his eyes dark and blown out with hunger. He didn’t kiss her. He devoured her. Mouth crashing into hers like a storm. His tongue was deep, filthy, relentless.
Rosie moaned into him, arching into his weight, clawing at his back. His cock slammed into her again, hard enough to make the headboard rattle. The pace was brutal now. Unforgiving. Exactly what she wanted. Needed.
“You’re mine,” he growled against her lips, voice low and sharp. A claim. A challenge.
And God, it wrecked her.
“Yes,” she gasped, voice wrecked, hands tangled in his hair.
Then he pulled back, just enough to hover above her, his palm still around her throat. His eyes locked on hers—full of heat, of dominance, of something wicked and wild.
“Open your fucking mouth,” he said.
Rosie’s breath caught. Her thighs tightened around his waist. She obeyed.
He spat, his saliva dripping down straight into her mouth. She took all of his spit eagerly and swallowed without hesitation. The amused groan he let out was almost a snarl.
“Good girl.”
The words lit her up.
She had never been touched like this. Never been claimed like this. Never wanted to be—until him.
Isaac shoved into her harder, dragging her body down the bed with each thrust, his grip shifting from her throat to her hips, anchoring her in place.
Her mind was gone. Her body was his.
And it still wasn’t enough.
She didn’t want sweet. Didn’t want soft. She wanted him like this.
Rough. Possessive. In control.
She wanted to disappear under his weight and be found again in his hands.