Page 36 of Roaring Flames

Is it possible that Matthew released me because he didn’t believe a word I said, not because he did believe me? Perhaps he’s hoping I’ll incriminate myself in some way.

Or maybe…

Or maybe the Council knows more than what they’re letting on.

“That’s fucking insane,” Izzy breathes.

I clear my throat against the uncomfortable tightness there and then lean forward, my lips hovering over Izzy’s.

“You want to know what’s fucking insane?” I whisper, swallowing her sharp exhale, making it my own. “How badly I want to kiss you again. I don’t want to talk about the Council or the wolf shifters or the vampires.” I lean in even closer. So close I can practically feel the heat of her breath. “So can I, Isabella? Can I kiss you? Can I make you feel good?”

Thirteen

IZZY

My body is on fire. Lava traverses my veins, but it’s the most delicious type of heat imaginable, burning me alive and reducing me to nothing but ashes.

“Yes,” I whisper on a breathy exhale. “Wait, no.”

He’s still close, too close, and I can practically feel his smirk against my lips.

“No?”

“I’m still mad at you. And there’s still so much we need to…” I gasp when he lowers his face to my jawline and plants a chaste kiss against the sensitive skin there. “Ummm… We need to talk…”

“We can talk later.”

His voice is always husky—a product of way too much smoke inhalation at a young age—but now it sounds completely different. Deeper, almost. Raspy. It reminds me of that first moment in the morning when you roll out of bed and try to speak, before the sun has even fully risen in the sky.

And god, the sound of it does things to me.

Decadent, delicious things that make my entire body tingle.

“I’m mad at you,” I breathe out, even as I arch my neck to grant him better access.

“You can be mad at me,” he assures me silkily. He kisses up my cheek, leaving trails of fire in his wake, before pausing at the corner of my lips. “You can yell at me, snap at me, hate me?—”

“I could never hate you.” I mean for the words to sound strident, adamant, but they’re nothing but a whisper.

And then he’s kissing me—or maybe I’m kissing him. All I know is I lean towards him at the same time he lunges for me. His hands are on my waist, my ribs, my cheeks, my hair. I can feel him everywhere.

I almost swear I can feel his heartbeat inside of me…

Desperation fueling my movements, I pull away to tug his shirt over his head. He obliges without complaint, and I take a moment to study his naked chest.

Fuck, how many times have I dreamed about him shirtless? Too many to count.

It isn’t as if this is the first time I’ve ever seen him without a shirt, but itisthe first time I’ve allowed myself to look. To study. To memorize every dip and crevice.

His abs are defined—a prominent six-pack—and smooth to the touch, with a tiny trail of dark hair leading down to the waistband of his jeans. I run my hands over his lean, resilient muscles as he pulls my lips back towards his.

He doesn’t just kiss me. Oh no. Hedevoursme. I swear it feels as if he’s attempting to suck out my damn soul and merge it with his own.

And I’d let him.

Fire simmers in my veins as I clumsily remove my shirt and toss it across the room.

I’ve been intimate with guys before, but never with someone who matters. I feel like an inexperienced virgin, fumbling and tripping over myself.

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