Twenty-Nine
Isla
I jolt awake into darkness.
Before my eyes have a chance to adjust, scent gives my location away. Faint notes of citrus detergent cling to the sheets, but it’s the forest-crisp trace of Theo that wraps around me.
I’m not in my best friend’s room—my makeshift home for the past week.
No .
I’m in his brother’s bed.
And it smells like us .
Multiple orgasms. One unforgettable mistake.
A smug, contented pulse flickers low in my core, purring that the slip-up was worth it. Clearly, that part of me hasn’t checked in with my heart. Not that I blame it—I’ve also resolved to ignore that pesky little organ until this vacation ends.
My whole future is shifting. The least I can do is enjoy this snow globe fantasy for a few more days. Finish the year off with a bang— no pun intended —then start fresh.
No distractions. No regrets.
A firm grip on reality.
The spot beside me is empty, but the pillow is still warm. I run my fingers over the imprint Theo left behind, resisting the urge to bury my face in it and chase his heat.
To prevent myself from barrelling toward highly unhinged territory, I scan the dim room for something to wear.
My gaze snags on the Cotton & Chaos shirts, now folded in neat piles on Theo’s desk.
Leave it to the meticulous control junkie to turn our post-coital crime scene into a branded lifestyle shoot.
On the nightstand beside me, dead center in my line of sight, is the custom top.
Theo’s.
I slip it on, pretending I’m acting out of mere convenience. I mean, the thing is right here. And so much more comfortable than my dress.
Who am I to shun practicality?
The luxurious fabric envelops me, caressing places that are still sensitive. Sore.
His .
Three tiny letters, yet they trigger a decadent kind of thrill in places that hold memories of his hands. And his mouth. Also—
The click of the bathroom door puts an end to my spiral.
Theo leans in the doorway, bare-chested, dark gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. The grooves of his muscles catch the light, guiding my gaze to the deep V carved down his abdomen. The lines vanish beneath his waistband in a very suggestive, thoroughly distracting manner.
Forcing my attention to safer territory, I fixate on his damp hair. It’s brushed back from his face, save for a few wayward strands clinging to his forehead.
He looks freshly showered. And I can’t help but stupidly wonder if the goal was to scrub me off.
Isn’t that exactly what you want?
I search his eyes, but they’re too busy examining his name on my chest.
The smile that cuts across his face is devastating. It confirms my hopes—and fears.
He didn’t rinse me off. He’s still wearing me.
“You were sleeping so soundly, but I was worried you’d get uncomfortable.” He holds up a hand towel. One side of it is noticeably damp. “Spent the last five minutes debating whether to wake you…or handle things myself so you could keep resting.”
At his words, my eyes widen and my thighs clench. Heat floods my cheeks as I shift my hips, focus zeroing in on the mess between my legs.
I’m sticky in a way that should feel gross.
It doesn’t. Instead…it’s a major turn-on.
As for the image of Theo cleaning me while I sleep?
Yeah . That flips a switch, too.
Not one a more rational version of me would ever entertain touching. No . This impulse is rooted in some instinct straight out of prehistoric times.
Which is ridiculous. Life in that era was riddled with more than its fair share of arousal-dousing problems.
Hygiene. Shelter. Basic human rights.
Under no circumstances should I be getting excited over the idea of Caveman Theo .
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, stepping closer. “Your face is on fire.”
“Cavemen,” I mumble, dazed.
He leans in, knuckles digging into the mattress, trapping me between his arms. “You’re thinking about other men while lying in my bed?”
“ Cave men,” I clarify. “They’re extinct. Your jealousy is highly unnecessary.”
“I’m not jealous,” he murmurs, breath hot against my ear, “but I am suddenly feeling territorial.” Every word soaks through my skin. “You always manage to pull on the most primal parts of me. Parts no one else gets through to.”
The swish of fabric is my first clue Theo is robbing me of the comforter’s safety. Cool air kisses my legs a second later.
“ So …your preference?”
“What?” I pant, then remind myself to breathe.
“For next time.” Without breaking eye contact, his knuckles brush the inside of my knee, gently nudging it open.
“Wake-up call?” The towel, still warm, begins to climb up my thigh.
“Care for you while you sleep?” He drags the cloth between my legs, and my hips buck in response.
“Or should I leave you dripping while you dream about me?”
My lips part, but I seal them shut in time to stifle the rogue moan rising in my throat.
I’m not sure what makes me blush harder—discovering this kind of dirty talk is my undoing, Theo’s hand in the intimate act of caretaking between my legs, or his assured use of next time .
“I can do it!” I snap, plucking the towel from his hand and escaping to the bathroom like the sheets caught fire under me.
Inside the en suite, I slam the door and brace myself against it, pressing a palm to my face.
My cheeks are burning. My breath is shallow .
And whatever part of me is consumed by the temptation to slide my fingers between my legs to relive memories of last night?
That version of Isla is a liability. She needs to be reined in. Immediately.
A cold shower. An intervention. Possibly a spanking.
No —scratch that last one. The little deviant would probably enjoy it too much.
I flick on the lights and drag myself to the sink. A mini walk of shame—except I don’t feel any shame.
What I feel is… complicated .
And what I look like is suspiciously radiant.
A glance in the mirror reveals a woman freshly fucked yet somehow thriving. My hair has more volume than it’s ever dared to hold, my lips are bright red and kiss-swollen, and my skin is practically luminous. There’s also a traitorous sparkle in my eyes that looks alarmingly close to happiness.
A slogan flashes across my mind like an ad campaign.
Sex with Theo Thorne?
Questionable for the heart. Phenomenal for the body.
My dress and undergarments are folded on the counter. He’s offering me an out. No questions. No strings. It’s an opportunity I should take.
For some inexplicable reason, I do the opposite.
I clean myself up, brush my teeth with a dab of spearmint toothpaste on my fingertip, and adjust the hem of my new shirt.
Then I strut back out, pretending I’m not brainless and bare-assed.
At least my knee-highs are still on.