Page 89 of Isaia

I blink, swallowing hard. “I… it’s not?—”

“Oh, thisisn’tthe part where the heroine begs to be tied up and—” His gaze flicks to the page. “Oh, wait. No. She’s already tied up. She’s just begging now.”

Heat rushes up my neck and into my face. “Stop reading that!”

I lunge for the book, but Isaia leans back in the chair, his lips curving into a slow, teasing smile, the kind that says he’s just uncovered my deepest secret and fully intends to use it to his advantage.

I steel my composure, righting the towel around me as I lift my chin. “I will not be judged by a man who probably thinksThe Godfathercounts as romance.”

“I’m not judging you, troublemaker. In fact, I’m fascinated,” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat, “and now I can’t stopwondering how much of that fantasy you want me to turn into reality for you.”

My grip tightens on the towel, the fabric suddenly too rough, too constrictive, and the space between us feels like it’s charged with something I don’t know how to handle.

“It’s fiction, Isaia. Dark romance is just fiction.”

He rises slowly, the book dangling from his hand like it’s nothing more than a piece of ammunition. Tossing it onto the bed, his focus never wavers, his towering frame cutting through the space between us with sharp intent.

“You think this is dark, Everly? You have no idea what darkness really looks like.” He steps closer. “What’s in those pages barely scratches the surface of what I could do to you.”

Heat coils in my stomach, curling through me in waves that leave my breath uneven.

His words don’t just linger—they slide under my skin, twisting through me with an intimacy I don’t know how to resist. Every syllable feels like a touch, brushing over me, leaving sparks in places I didn’t even know could react.

He takes a step forward, closing the distance between us, his gaze dropping to where the towel clings to my damp skin. My lips part, breath hitching as the weight of his stare strips me bare, inch by inch, tracing his fingertip along my collarbone with a slow tease that leaves my skin tingling.

“You have no idea all the things I can do to you. With me, there are no limits when it comes your deepest…darkest…filthiest fantasies.”

With a flick of his wrist, the towel drops to the floor, and I gasp, heat pooling between my legs, my core fluttering and aching for release.

His gaze roams over me, unhurried and unapologetic. “Quite the sight, there, troublemaker.” His thumb trails along the curve of my hip, the rough pad of his finger sending shivers through me. “Are you still sore,” he murmurs, his hand brushing against my sex, the contact achingly light, “here?”

My breath catches. “A little.”

There’s static between us as his touch lingers just long enough to make my knees tremble, his lips grazing the curve of my neck as his teeth brush over sensitive skin.

“Get dressed.” He pulls back an inch. “Before I change my mind.”

“Change your mind about what?”

“Letting you leave the house. Hurry up.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” He exits my room, and I steady my breathing before I grab the first dress I can find—burgundy, fitted at the top with a short, flaring skirt—and slip it on quickly, my pulse hammering in my ears. I pair it with black boots and step into the living room.

Isaia’s leaning against the doorframe, his eyes tracing down my body with a sharpness that makes me fidget. I smooth the hem over my thighs, but it doesn’t help.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

“No.” The grin on his lips makes my stomach flip. He’s enjoying this—keeping me on edge, making me wonder.

I follow him outside and stop when I see the Ducati parked in the driveway. Its sleek black frame gleams, sharp and intimidating under the streetlights, just like him.

“You brought your bike?” I glance down at my dress. “I can’t wear this on that. Let me change?—”

“Stop.” His hand catches my wrist and pulls me to him. “You’re keeping it on.”

“But it’s not practical?—”

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