She follows behind me, her mood already brightening just a touch. “I found those at a flea market when I went to New York,” she tells me in a soft voice as I pick up a small blue ceramic elephant with golden tusks. She gestures to the tiger figurine next to it. “This one is from Chinatown in Chicago.” I watch her as she slowly comes back to herself. She feels safe in this space, with me.
Something about seeing her embarrass herself in front of half of Reyfield makes me want to protect her, to keep her safe, to take away every lingering shred of self-doubt. I want to be her fucking hero. Although she'd never ask for one because she's so busy trying to save herself and everyone else.
Beautiful, beautiful girl. Fragile but strong. Broken but solid. I don't know how she manages to be all those things at once.
I step toward her, losing my fingers in her hair. Her eyes flutter despite her attempts to remain in control. Wanting fills the air. We both feel it.
"Don’t you have to be at work?" she whispers, her vulnerable eyes begging me to stay.
I move closer, just so there's no doubt in her mind where I want to be. "I don't have to be anywhere, Isla. I choose to be here with you."
My heart gallops in my chest and tingling sensations arrow toward my cock. I want her so much.
My hand cups her jaw and my thumb brushes her bottom lip. “Isla,” I breathe. “Cinnamon girl.” Her back presses into the bookshelf behind her and her tongue peeks out to wet her lips as my mouth lowers.
She purrs and comes closer, burrowing into my embrace. Fire ignites in each of my cells when our lips touch. She opens her mouth and her tongue sweeps over mine. Her chest rises and falls rapidly as my own pulse quickens. With one hand, I pull her hair free of its hair tie as my other arm wraps around her waist, holding her tight to me. Moaning, she throws her head back and I press kisses to her throat, my mouth moving down the sensitive column to her collarbone and down her chest. Both of my hands slide to her ass and give her a solid squeeze.
And that’s when I hoot, taking a brisk step back.
“What is it?” she asks, blinking up at me in confusion.
I'm staring down at my hands, chortling to myself. “Eggs,” I say simply, holding my palms up to her.
Red rushes right into the apples of her cheeks. “Oh god,” she groans, burying her face in her hands.
I'm still laughing. Crouched over, trying to avoid touching anything with my hands. And laughing.
Instead of letting her mortification swallow her whole, she’s laughing, too. Because it’s fucking funny. And laughing is a more satisfying strategy than crying, anyway.
Eventually, I straighten. Looking at her, I try to push down the laughter. “You okay?”
She smiles. "No, I’m not okay. I’m a mess. Literally, figuratively, allegorically. And my butt is actually pretty itchy now that the egg is drying on me.”
My eyebrows jump in sync, surprised (but pleased) that she would be so blunt with me.
Seeming to read my mind, she shrugs, speaking quietly. "You've seen me at my worst. I might as well be honest with you." She chuckles lightly.
Her walls are coming down. She's tearing them down for me. I feel like the luckiest bastard in the world.
“I’m gonna go take a shower,” she says, moving past me, toward the bathroom. “You can use the sink in the kitchen to clean up your hands.”
I can't resist the urge to touch her again. “Hey,” I say reaching for her, my sticky palms cupping her shoulders. My lips come down on hers again, jolting my insides to life all over.
“God, you do that so well.” The words tumble past her lips before getting censored by her filter.
I just smile a little and let her go. She leaves me standing in her living room as she goes to take her shower.
Chapter 12
Reuben
A thick slice of egg white quiche, a garden salad and a glass of orange juice are sitting in a portable tray on the kitchen table when Isla emerges from the shower nearly forty-five minutes later.
She pads into the room, face bare of makeup, wet hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head. Her chunky knit sweater hangs open over a tank top and her colorful floor-length skirt swooshes around her. She falters mid-stride, glancing from the food to me and back again. “How…?”
I lean against the sink where I’m hand-washing the dishes I used. “The grocery store delivers, y’know,” I tell her with a smirk.
She still looks confused. “I know but…”
I shut off the pipe and wipe my hands on the towel hanging on the hook beneath the cabinet. “Yup, I cooked it,” I say matter-of-factly, then toss the towel over my shoulder and stride over to her with my arms folded across my chest.
A small smile pulls across her face, telling me that she’s impressed. “Oh, did you?” I try not to look too smug but on the inside, I’m fist pumping because, although she fought me at every turn, it looks like she's having dinner with me after all.
She digs into the quiche and shoves a forkful into her mouth. "Holy...wow. Damn, Reuben. This is better than mine," she moans. "And I make a good quiche."
I beam. "Thank you."
Scooping up another forkful, she attempts to sit at the kitchen table but I throw a hand out to stop her. She wears a puzzled expression.
“Shark Tank, remember?”
Her wide smile dazzles me as always. “Right. Shark Tank.”
I carry the tray into the living room and sit on the couch as Isla flicks on the TV. She has about three seasons' worth of back-to-back episodes PVR’d. “Wow, you were serious about binge watching this stuff,” I muse as the opening segment rolls.
“Yes,” she says, grabbing a folder and pen from the coffee table and placing them on the couch between us. It doesn’t escape me that she’s still trying to keep her distance from me. As much as I want to throw the damn notebook aside and pull her into my lap, I decide to respect her space. I want her to warm up to me on her own. I want her to climb into my lap willingly. “I have a really important meeting with some investors tomorrow," she explains nervously. "They might be willing to put some money into my business.”
I hitch an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” She nods, obviously trying to tame the anxiety that rises at the mere thought of convincing a bunch of rich guys to do business with her. “Tell me more.” I set the food tray on the coffee table and angle my body toward her, giving her my full attention.
She rakes her teeth across her bottom lip and studies me for a moment. “Ah, it’s boring, really,” she says with a dismissive flick of the wrist. “You wouldn’t be interested.”
I capture her wrist in my hand, my eyes searing into hers. “Try me,” I say. “Tell me what you’re pitching the investors.”
Her cheeks grow red and she instantly looks flustered. “Gah!” she says shaking out her hands. “I’m so nervous. There’s so much riding on this.”
“All the more reason to practice,” I insist, reaching over to push a wet lock of hair out of her face. “Pretend I’m one of the investors you’re meeting tomorrow,” I say in a soft voice. “Tell me what you’d say to them.”
She pauses for an instant, eyes fixed on the ceiling as she searches her mind for the perfect words. Her eyes drop to the floor and all her confidence evaporates into thin air.
"Okay," I say, "do you have a written proposal?"
She nods her head. "Yeah, sure." She reaches into the folder and hands me a few sheets of paper stapled together. "This is my written proposal." She takes a nervous sip of her juice before sitting the glass on the side table next to her.
"All right then, Ms. Hamilton," I say in my most no-nonsense tone as I scan the summary on the first page. "Let's hear it. Why should I invest in your business?"
She seems a bit taken aback by my sudden professionalism, but she pulls herself together quickly. “Hello, I’m Isla Hamilton, owner of Prasanna Light Oneness Studio and, um, I’m looking for a small investment. Mostly to help with repairs that need to be done on my yoga s
tudio. I-I don’t know if you want to give me a loan or…or if you want equity, really—”
I interrupt her. “God — I wouldn’t give you a cent,” I mutter, jotting notes into the margins of her business plan. Surprise covers her face. I guess she wasn’t expecting me to be so blunt. “There are a million business opportunities out there, a million ventures a wealthy investor like me could put my money into. You can’t be timid right now. You need to be confident, passionate. I want you to tell me exactly what makes Prasanna so special. What makes you believe you deserve my investment. You can’t just ask for my money without giving me a reason to care about your business. What’s your hook? Give me your elevator pitch.”
She looks flustered. My interruption has clearly taken her out of her flow. “We-well, it’s Reyfield’s only yoga and wellness center—”
“So what?” I bark.
Her eyebrows furrow as her mouth opens and closes wordlessly.
“Come on, Isla,” I say snapping my fingers impatiently. “You’ve got thirty seconds to impress me. What makes your yoga studio special?”
I'm being an asshole and now, she's getting pissed off. Good, we're finally getting somewhere. She focuses her attention on me, straightening her shoulders and holding her head high before speaking. “We offer a variety of yoga classes and retreats. We offer many different types of massage therapy. We sell yoga gear, meditation recordings and esoteric paraphernalia—”
“Okay, great,” I say snappily. “So does every other yoga studio in the country. How am I supposed to make money off of this?" I can feel the anger radiating off of her. She looks like she's getting ready to stomp on my nuts. I'm not being an asshole just for the fun of it. I care about her and I want to make sure that she's prepared for whatever those jerks throw at her tomorrow. I soften my voice. "You’ve got to go bigger, Isla. Tell me your wildest dream, your craziest vision for Prasanna. And make me want to make that dream come true.”
Eyes narrowing in on me, she sits tall in her seat. Where there was once anxiety in her expression, I see fire now. I see determination. That’s what she’ll need if she’s going to walk away with an investment tomorrow. “My wildest dream, my craziest vision is to transform my little yoga studio into a retreat just outside of the city. Reyfield is only fifteen minutes from Chicago but the vibe couldn't be any more different. This town is relaxed and laid-back, a suburban escape just on the border of a bustling city. I want Prasanna to reflect that. In my wildest dream, Prasanna would be an oasis for professionals and wealthy Chicagonians looking to take a break from their everyday hustle. I'm talking yoga retreats, health and well-being workshops, a friggin' Nordic spa with a sauna and a glacial bath!...But to do that, I need money. I need partners. I need someone who shares my vision.”
She’s nearly panting now, so worked up, so passionate about her dream. This is exactly how I wanted her.
I lean back, crossing my feet at the ankles, pride nearly splitting my chest in two. “That’s it, Isla.”
Her chest is heaving. Her eyes are on fire. Her nostrils flare angrily.
Next thing I know, she leaps on top of me, kicking the juice onto the couch. But she doesn’t care. And frankly, neither do I. Her small hands cup my cheeks as she kisses me with ferocity. She’s vicious and angry and fueled by passion.
My hand crawls under the hem of her shirt, smoothing along the curve of her back. She rocks against my cock and I harden immediately for her.
"Isla..." My voice sounds strained and needy. I've wanted to touch her again for so long.
But she isn't fuelled by sentimentality right now...
"Fuck you, Reuben," she growls between punishing kisses as she roughly pushes the fabric of my shirt up my chest, fingernails scraping my skin. I pull it off and fling it aside before I get hurt.
...This woman is fuelled by need. Primal and unyeilding. Triumph pounds in my bones at the knowledge that she wants me. As much I want her. Despite her objections, despite her resistance, Isla Hamilton's tight little body is wound up just for me. I feel like a fucking champion. And I’m ready to claim my prize.
"Are you gonna ride my cock, Isla?" My lips press down her jaw, down her neck. She writhes in my lap, nodding her head slightly. My hands find their way under her skirt, smoothing up her long thighs. She whimpers when my fingers touch the edge of her panties. "Do you want my big, fat cock inside of you?"
"Yes..." she whispers as I shove her sweater off her shoulders and yank down the front of her tank top. Her soft, creamy breasts bounce free.
I get hard as fuck when I lean forward and swallow a tight pink nipple into my mouth. I shove a hand into my pocket and pull out a condom.
As excited as I am, I know that this moment is fragile. I move too fast, she could panic and change her mind. But if I move too slow, she could overanalyze the situation and push me away. I can't let that happen. I suck on her breasts, each in turn, silently willing her to stay in place as I roll on the condom. Then, I lift her ever so slightly and she positions herself over my cock, descending slowly enough to make my head swirl with anticipation. Her tightness clenches around me as she descends. She hisses out, her eyes round like saucers as her pussy adjusts to accommodate my girth. Then she begins to move. Slowly. Up and down. Taking me in. Riding my cock. Bracing my shoulders to maintain her balance.
"That's it, girl." I grip her hips while she impales herself on my pulsing shaft. She throws her head back, groaning long and deep, enjoying control of the rhythm. She reaches down, under her skirt, gripping the base of my cock and the sensation of her fingers wrapped around my shaft while it squeezes its way through my pussy drives me nuts.
I lose control, slamming up into her, filling that pussy with every rough, hungry inch of me. She's screaming now. "Yes! More! Don't stop! I love it!"
I know that the walls of this tiny apartment must be paper thin and she'll probably be embarrassed to face her nosy small town neighbors tomorrow so I slide two fingers into her mouth to hush her. Her eyes hook on mine as she sucks on my fingers and I make a mental note to get my cock between those perfect lips as soon as I can.
I extract my fingers from her mouth and brush the wet pads of my digits across her swollen clit. A sharp sound escapes her and I lean forward, pressing my lips to hers, swallowing her sounds. Her arms wrap around my neck and I rise off of the couch, never breaking my rhythm. With her legs clamped around my hips, I stab into her, our bodies colliding with each thrust. Her pussy is so wet. I feel her moisture on my fingers where my hands brace her ass cheeks, spreading them apart. Her hands run though my hair and down my neck and her breasts bounce against my chest. Every inch of her is erotic and sensual. No woman has ever taken so deliriously high. The way her body responds to mine is a drug. I'm her junkie. And it's not just sexual. I'm addicted to her laugh, to her personality, to the little light that burns in her eyes when she speaks about her yoga practice and her spirituality. The woman is passionate. She's beautiful. She's perfect in every way. And it's my mission to make sure she feels it.
I lay her down on the floor to gain more leverage. And I fuck her. I give it to her hard. I pound her as deep as her body will allow. And when she comes all over my cock, I pump into her until my body tenses and my juices spill out of me. When the tension of my climax evaporates from my body, I'm more satiated and relaxed than I've ever been. I drop to the floor next to her, pulling her close so her misty flesh is against mine.
My back is pressed up against the bumpy, woven area rug and Isla is snuggled against me, her head on my chest. She’s so warm, so perfect. We stay like that for a long time and as much as I’d love to stay here and hold her all night, I have to go. I have important things to do.
I shift slowly and she rolls over, looking up at me with question marks in her eyes. “I should get going." I reach for my pants hanging over the edge of the couch.
“Of course,” she says with a dash of mirth. “Yeah, you've got to go." She pulls her tank top up to cover her breasts and straightens the hem
of her skirt.
She wraps herself in a colourful throw blanket and sits on the couch as I get dressed.
I kiss the top of her head. “Thanks for dinner,” I say with a smirk. She can’t help but smile. “And good luck with your meeting tomorrow.”
"Thanks, Reuben," she whispers. "You've been wonderful."
I give her my best wink and slip out the door.
Chapter 13
Isla
Workers scurry around the lobby, making hasty renovations. One man stands on a scaffolding at the far end of the hallway stripping the ceiling of its out-dated molding. Two others are busy tearing up the carpeting in the empty room across from where I'm sitting. Another zooms by, wheeling boxes of tiles toward the kitchen. I'm eager to ask Fiona what's going on – last I'd heard, the Sapphire Inn was struggling. Now, the place is getting a serious facelift – but she's busy running around, overseeing it all.
Dirty Stranger (The Dirty Suburbs Book 3) Page 8