Page 79 of Isaia

As we collapse together, my hand still gripping her hip, her skin flushed and damp, her eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and bliss, I trace a thumb over her cheek.

“You’ll never escape me, baby,” I rasp, my lips brushing her ear. “Even if you wanted to, I’d burn this entire fucking world to keep you.”

She lets out a soft, almost incredulous laugh, her fingers brushing against my jaw as if she’s trying to memorize the shape of me. “Is that your version of pillow talk? Threats and arson?”

A low chuckle fills my chest, but the darkness in me doesn’t fade. My hand moves to her throat, applying the slightest pressure. “It’s not a threat, troublemaker. It’s a promise.” My thumb traces her bottom lip, swollen and bitten from the way she cried my name. “I’d destroy anything—anyone—for you.”

She swallows hard, her teasing facade cracking just enough for me to see the flicker of vulnerability beneath it. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“Oh, baby,” I brush my lips over hers in a slow, possessive kiss, “you haven’t begun to see the level of insane I am for you.”

The way she bites her bottom lip, those beautiful imperfect irises studying me, staring at me like she knows—she knows I fucking own her…and she likes it.

“I need a shower,” she says softly, and I lean down, cupping her perfect tit in my palm, dragging my nose over her pebbled nipple, inhaling deep.

“But I like the smell of sex on you.” I smirk when I hear the soft whimper she doesn’t mean to let slip, and I move down her body, pressing the tip of my nose just above her slit. “And I fucking love the scent of my cum leaking out your cunt.”

She squirms. “Isaia, you need to stop.” She’s breathless. “Because I really can’t take any more. Not tonight.”

Not tonight.It’s a promise of more…so much more.

I lean back on my haunches, staring down her naked body, her thighs slick and sticky. Beautiful.

“Then you better go now before I decide to fuck you again,” I drag my finger through her creamed slit, loving her gentle mewls, “no matter how much it fucking hurts. Now, go.” I slap her ass, and she chuckles as she clambers off the bed. It takes every ounce of control not to pull her back, or to follow her just so I can have my way with her again.

I could so fuck her again. But I’m not a complete monster. Okay, maybe I am, but I know her body will be accustomed to getting fucked really, really soon—and when it is, she’s going to beg me for mercy.

I fall back on the pillows, settling with my arm behind my head. It’s not the first time I’m in her bedroom. Last time I was here she had my cock in her mouth. Tonight, she had my cock in her pussy, and Jesus, I want to give it to her again and again.

I hear the shower start to run.

Why do I hate the fact that she’ll be washing me off her?

I want my touch, my spit, my cum, everything on her at all fucking times. And I want Anthony to see it. I want him to watch as my cum drips down her chin, down her thighs, leaking out of her tight little cunt.

Fuck. This woman is a brand on my soul. A relentless, burning scar I never want healed. Everything about her—her scent, her taste, the way she cries my name like a prayer and a curse—owns me in ways I didn’t think possible.

I should be leaving, giving her space, but the idea of walking out that door while she’s washing me off her body twists something savage in me.

I move to the edge of her bed, my chest heaving as the possessiveness courses through me. The image of her under that spray, her hands trailing over her skin, scrubbing at the evidence of us—it’s unbearable. I want to rush into that bathroom, press her against the cold tile, and come all over her again.

The storm inside me doesn’t settle as I pace her room, my mind warring with the need to let her have this moment and the darker desire to claim her all over again.

I glance around, trying to ground myself, but instead, I’m pulled deeper into her world.

This space—her space—is her, in every detail. It feels untouched by the chaos of the outside, a sanctuary she’s carved out of a life I’ve now bulldozed into. It’s all her, soft, with an edge that doesn’t beg for attention but can’t be ignored.

The walls are painted in warm, muted tones, like she wanted a cocoon to shut out the world.

There’s a cozy throw draped over a worn armchair in the corner, and books stacked messily beside it, as if she’s always in the middle of ten stories at once.

A faint scent lingers in the air—something floral and fresh but with a hint of spice, like her.

It’s intimate, but not staged. She’s not hiding who she is here, not trying to impress anyone. And the thought of me being the one to see her like this, in her most private space, has my pulse thrumming harder than I’d like to admit.

Anthony was here, though. But not in her bedroom. If he was, he’d be dead.

I grab my pants when I glimpse my reflection in her standing mirror. Blood—her blood—on my cock and smeared across my lower abdomen.

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