Page 27 of The Widower
“You’d better do as I say.”
“That’s the thing—you don’t get to order me around outside your mansion!” she shot back, her voice rising with defiance.
“Isabelle… I’m not asking again.”
“Oh, really?” She stepped closer.“What are you gonna do, huh? Insult me? Fire me?”
“Don’t come any closer.”
“Hmm, I get it now. You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” She brushed her lips against mine, and that impulsive move broke whatever restraint I had left.
I grabbed Isabelle and kissed her.
I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the consequences or what it might destroy. I just gave in.
And the instant my lips touched hers, everything I’d been holding back came crashing down.
The kiss started fierce, desperate—like the world had narrowed down to that single, explosive moment. Her mouth was hot, her taste sweet and sharp all at once, blending with the air we were both gasping for.
Isabelle moaned softly, surprised, and for a second I thought she might pull away—but she didn’t. She stayed. And when her hands clutched the collar of my shirt, I knew there was no going back.
Her body molded perfectly against mine, knocking the breath out of me. Everything about her seemed designed to push me past my limits—the warmth of her skin, her scent, the sound of her ragged breathing.
I gripped her waist, feeling her fingers twist in my shirt, and the kiss deepened—slow at first, then hungry, like we were trying to make up for every second lost to stubbornness and silence.
Her heartbeat pounded against my chest, wild and frantic, and with every move of her lips, the ground seemed to disappear beneath my feet.
Time stopped. The air turned thick, heavy, too hot to breathe.
She tasted like defiance—like something forbidden and inevitable. And the more I tried to control myself, the more I wanted her.
Her tongue found mine in a rhythm that completely disarmed me. My skin prickled, my blood rushed, and my body reacted long before reason had the chance to. The kiss wasn’t just desire—it was anger, release, confession. A wordless outpouring turned into touch.
When I finally pulled back, just enough to look at her, Isabelle still had her eyes closed, lips damp, cheeks flushed. Her breathing was uneven—and mine wasn’t any better.
“Isabelle…” I whispered, my voice barely there, trying to regain control that no longer existed.
She opened her eyes slowly, and what I saw there wrecked me completely.
It wasn’t fear. It was want. It was surrender.
And somehow, it was everything I was most afraid to feel.
I stayed there, my hands still on her waist, torn between the urge to kiss her again and the certainty that if I did, I wouldn’t be able to stop.
But then Isabelle tilted her face up, and her gaze undid me all over again. It was like she was asking for silence, while her body was begging for the opposite. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her lips parted—still close enough that I could feel her breath brushing my skin. That was all it took to break me again.
I kissed her once more.
This time, slower.
I wanted to memorize her taste, every movement, every breath that escaped against my mouth. The kiss grew deeper, heavier, deliberate. Her hands slid up to the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair as she pulled me closer. I felt her tremble—a soft, involuntary shiver that ran through her skin and into mine.
I could feel everything: the scent rising from her neck, the delicate drag of her fingertips along my beard, the muffled sound of our uneven breaths. It was as if the entire world had vanished, leaving only the wild, uneven rhythm of our bodies and the sound of our mouths finding each other, again and again.
Isabelle tasted like something I shouldn’t want—but couldn’t stop craving.
Sweet. Warm. Provocative.
