Page 47 of Unleashed
A tear slips down my cheek. “I miss you,” I whimper, and I sound absurdly desperate for him. I should ask questions. I should demand answers. I should be fury and anger, but instead I’m soaking for him, trembling for him, desperate for the man who wrecked me. I hate myself for it almost as much as I burn for him. “I need you.”
Abruptly, he spins me, my palms slapping against the metal as he presses my front against the back of the elevator, air leaving my lungs in a rush, my core throbbing as he slides a thick, muscled thigh between my legs, pressing upward until I’m practically straddling him.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. His silence is louder than anything, charged with sex, with possession, with every unsaid word, and I want to drown in it. In him. I want to suffocate in his scent, his heat, the raw power that radiates off him, now stronger than ever.
Soft, hungry lips kiss along the curve of my neck, and I lean to the side, wanting more, shivering when his tongue strokes skin. Without taking his hand off my belly, he slides the other under my dress, up my thigh, slow, deliberate, heat trailing higher and higher. My skirt rides up with each inch, until his fingers find the thin cotton of my panties.
One brush—light, almost reverent—and I gasp, clamping a hand over my mouth, rewarded by a groan that ripples from his throat to my shoulder’s flesh.
I’m already wet. Pathetically wet. The kind of desperate slick that betrays me instantly, coating me for him, because sometraitorous part of me has been waiting for this—aching for it—since the day I woke up in Anthony’s apartment.
He inhales sharply, the sound guttural in my ear, as though he can smell how badly I want him. And his cock—Jesus, his cock…it’s impossibly hard against my lower back, pressing into me like punishment, like promise while his fingers tease lower, barely grazing the damp fabric, the whisper of touch more obscene than if he tore it all away.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I can do is feel—his breath scorching my neck, his body caging mine, his hunger vibrating through me like some fierce electric current that screams of need and want, sex and sin. And I’m completely swept up by him, consumed and caught in a high that drowns out all reason.
The elevator dings softly, sounding so far away, an indifferent reminder that the world still exists outside this heat. But inside, it’s only us, and I don’t want it to stop. I want time to pause, lock us both in this exact moment forever.
His teeth nip at my earlobe, sharp enough to make me gasp, and our eyes meet in the warped reflection of the elevator’s brushed metal. The image is distorted, hazy, but unmistakable—his dark gaze locked on mine, burning even through the blur. My breath stutters. It’s raw, obscene, intimate, like the reflection itself is a secret we’re both caught in. His eyes hold me there, pinning me open, while his mouth ghosts over my skin like he’s committing it to memory—or maybe playing back every time he’s already had me like this. Maybe he wants me to remember, too. To see the hunger in his eyes and know nothing has changed.
My thighs tremble and my hips arch into him as he grinds his cock against me. I can feel how close he is to snapping—I know him. I know the tells, the flex of muscle in his chest against myspine, the way his breath saws in and out like he’s one heartbeat away from losing control. And if I weren’t so desperate for air, breathing heavily, I’d be begging for him to do just that.
The elevator climbs, each ding a countdown, each second another lash of torment. And still he doesn’t speak, just claims me with silence, hungry yet patient lips, panting breaths and the slow hands of a man who’s both holding back and barely hanging on. His finger prods at the seam of my panties, and my entire body ignites for him. My breath splinters as I bite down on a moan, hips tilting, begging without words. Just one more inch and I’d break for him. Just one touch and I’ll combust. Shatter. Give him everything.
The elevator dings, and his rasp brands me to the bone. “You’re still mine, baby girl. Both of you.”
In a blur of movement, he’s gone—vanished into the swarm of strangers outside before I can even gasp his name.
My knees nearly buckle, and I sag against the mirrored wall, lungs heaving, heat pooled between my thighs. Another chime, another floor, but I can’t move. Not yet. Not when my whole body is trembling, wrecked, desperate, undone.
He was here.
My pulse still pounds where his mouth grazed my neck, my skin still humming where he touched me, my pussy still throbbing where his fingers almost—almost—claimed me. I can taste him in my breath, feel him like he’s still pressed against me. But he’s not. I’m left standing here, alone, soaked with want, hollowed with need, but beneath it another ache gnaws deeper. Because the truth is, it isn’t just my body that’s starving.
It’s me.
I miss him. The storm, the fire, the madness of Isaia. And for one brutal heartbeat, I know…I’ll never stop chasing after the ghost of his touch…
Even if it ruins me.
Chapter 16
ISAIA
The crowd swallows me whole the second the elevator doors hiss shut behind me. Voices, footsteps, perfume—noise everywhere, but all I can hear isher.All I can fuckingfeelis her. My shirt, my palms, everything reeks of her skin, her heat. Every nerve is raw, electric, sparking like I’ve been wired straight into a power line.
I shouldn’t have gone in there. Shouldn’t have touched her. But I couldn’t fucking stop myself. The second she got into that elevator, the moment I caught her familiar scent—that addictive, delicate blend of sweet and soft, grapefruit and jasmine, it was game over. And when I hooked my finger into one of her belt loops, heard her gasp, my sanity was fucked. And so was I.
I storm through the corridor like a loaded gun, every step too loud, too heavy. People get in my way, and I don’t swerve—I shoulder them, send them stumbling, one man cursing until he catches my eyes and goes white. A nurse yelps as I clip her tray, metal clattering to the floor, but I don’t stop. Can’t.
The rage in me is too big, too sharp, spilling out with every stride. By the time I shove through the glass doors, my hands are shaking, my cock still diamond-hard against my jeans.
Not gonna lie—when I had her pinned against that steel wall, her ass grinding into me, the heat of her bleeding through my jeans—I nearly blew my load right there. One more grind, one more second of her scent filling my lungs, and I’d have painted the inside of my fucking pants like some desperate teenager.
My boots hit the curb, storming straight for the black McLaren GT gleaming under the streetlight, sleek and smug as sin.
Not mine. Caelian’s. Fresh off delivery this morning, still smelling like new money and arrogance.
He wouldn’t shut the fuck up at dinner last night about my Ferrari—banana boy this, dandelion dick that, sunshine shithead until I was ready to ram the table down his throat. So yeah, I got creative. Took his precious car for a spin. Right after, I strolled through the rose garden with mud on my boots.
