Page 40 of Lovingly Restored

I keep my voice light. “It’s only a zipper, Isaac. I’m not asking you to undress me.”

“You might not be asking. But I’m still going to think about it.”

Oh. I press my thighs together, wondering if I have the strength for this after everything we’d discussed in the truck. How serious is he about it? Or is this a simple surge of testosterone borne out of jealousy from Jason and the bar bouncer? Maybe by breakfast he’ll pretend this never happened. The bed creaks under the weight of his body as he stands. Heat radiates from him, sinking into my bare upper back, as he fumbles with the dainty gold zipper.

He growls with frustration, “Could this be any smaller?”

“That’s what she said.” I wiggle my shoulders.

“We both know that’s not true,” he replies, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Stay still.”

My stomach flips at the memory of his heat and hardness under my palm. No, Isaac is anything but small. The teeth of the zipper open wide, and he drags his fingers sliding along my spine. I imagine his view. My hair resting upon my upper back, the black lace band of my strapless bra, the curve of my waist, and the line of my matching panties.

“Done,” he says, voice almost strangled.

I turn, hands pressed against my chest to keep the dress up, the spaghetti straps dropping off my shoulders. I watch his throat work to swallow, the muscle in his jaw pulse, his blue eyes dragging over me. The thought of the trouble hooking up with Isaac might cause does nothing to douse the flames that lick their way up my thighs. My well of willpower has run dry. I raise up on the balls of my feet to get closer to his perfect lips, wincing and sucking air through my teeth at the pain that shoots through my arches.

“Careful,” he says, banding strong arms around me, lifting me enough to take the pressure off my feet. “Pleasebe careful.”

I draw a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be careful anymore.”

I tried to be careful when it came to Isaac. But I’m tired of that now.

He lowers his mouth over mine, those strong arms still secured around my bare back, kissing me with a passion that quickly has me forgetting I even have feet. I’m simply floating. Kissing him back takes zero thought, my lips moving over his, parting readily when the tip of his tongue swipes across the seam of my mouth. I whimper when he pulls away, too full of lust to be embarrassed by the wanton sound. He presses me into his chest, and he’s as cuddly as I thought. Isaac’s chest is strong. The space between it and his arms is warm and safe. I know I’m going to agree to his suggestion. Heisthe best of both worlds. Since the first night I met him, Isaac Lauri has brought me a sense of safety. It’s no wonder that our passion is off the charts.

“I have to go, Ashlyn.”

He’s at least as aroused as I am, his hard-on pressing against my abdomen. I understand, though. We’re exhausted. There’s blood on the floor, for god’s sake. He sets me down softly and strides to the door, hesitating for a fraction of a second before he shuts it softly behind him. I limp over and turn the lock for no good reason. It’s more to keep me in than to keep Isaac out.

The black dress flutters to the floor at my sore feet. I slide a hand down my bare stomach and beneath the waistband of my wet panties. The cause of my neediness is mere steps away. Isaac’s been popping unbidden into my bedtime thoughts for weeks. Until now, he’s been unwelcome. I’ve denied myself every release, screaming into my pillow with frustration when I couldn’t seem to erase the pictures of Isaac in the shower, on my bed, in front of me in the damn laundry room. But now? I welcome him. He destroyed my defences, dismantled them reason by reason, and made me a proposal that is impossible to turn down. It’s an Isaac Lauri highlight reel playing in my mind as I recline on my bed, putting my head at the end where my feet usually go. When I let my fingers slip between my soft lips, finding the pleasure I’ve disallowed myself for weeks, I sigh with relief. I smooth my hand up and down, cradling my clit between my index and middle fingers. My eyes bore into the shared wall. Is Isaac as desperate for release? Has he touched himself recently? He left the room minutes ago with a memorable erection in his sweats. My pussy clenches at the thought of him pulling the waistband down below his balls and handling himself. I tighten the space between my fingers, squeezing the source of my pleasure. Working myself faster, my breaths become ragged. I constrict around nothing, consider fucking myself with my fingers, but decide it would be a poor substitution for what I really need.

He’s right there, he’s so close.

I think of Isaac in the next room, long limbs sprawled on the bed with his dick in his hand, and grow wetter.

Come with me.

I will imaginary Isaac to finish. Visions of him grunting and coming in his fist is all it takes for my pussy to flutter and bliss to roll through my body like a wave. I moan loudly as the orgasm takes its toll, not caring if Isaac hears, and kind of hoping hedoes.

Isaac seeps into my dreams. A hot, restless sleep made up of friction-filled moments. When I wake, I’m knotted in the sheets. My feet touch the hardwood, and I flinch. Picking a foot up off the floor, I examine the shallow scrapes on each sole. Isaac did a good job bandaging them. I hobble out of the bedroom. Laughter and the smell of butter and onions drift down the hall, amplifying my hunger. Isaac and his grandmother are in the kitchen side by side, heads bent over a well-loved cookbook. She points at a handwritten note she made in the margins long ago.

“If you’re going to do something, you do it right, little one.”

I smile at the quote. The same one Isaac said the day he revealed the restored porch swing.

He kisses her silver hair, bending to reach, “I want to do it right, Mummo.”

I don’t want to invade on their private moment. Isaac glances over his shoulder, the intensity in his eyes pinning me to the spot. He’s shirtless, wearing pyjama pants low on his hips, drawstrings untied and dangling. I can’t help but stare. How does he maintain that body with his diet of children’s breakfast cereal and several servings of my suppers each night? Dense hair, darker than the blondish strands on his head, dust his chest. I follow the trimmed trail of hair, down to his hips, where it looks like—I gulp—he’s commando. Flashes of last night’s solo session come flooding back to me, and I burn with embarrassment at my fantasy of Isaac handling himself. He reclines against the counter, fully comfortable being on display.

“Mornin’, Ashlyn. Sweet dreams?”

My eyes snap away from his groin.

Shit.

He’s wearing a wolf-like expression. Like he caught a lone sheep wandering far from the safety of its flock. How loudwasI last night? Maybe I do care if he heard my moans through the thin walls of the old house.

“Why don’t you sit and give those feet a rest.” He gestures to the table.

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