Chapter 43
Barefoot, shirt still hanging open at the front, Graham stalked down
the stairs like a man trying to outrun his own demons. His body was
still thrumming–wired–every nerve ending buzzing with frustration
and need.
He dragged a rough hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he dug
into his pocket for his keys. He needed to get out. Now. A long drive,
some cold night air–anything to put distance between him and the
woman upstairs who had nearly made him lose every shred of self-
control.
But his fingers closed around nothing.
Shit.
His wallet–along with his keys–was still inside the bedroom. On the
floor. Right where he’d thrown it in his reckless haste to find a
condom. The memory sent another wave of frustration crashing
through him, tightening his muscles, making his skin feel too hot, too
tight.
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Every instinct screamed at him to just take one of the guest bedrooms
and wait it out. Sleep off the tension, let the night pass, pretend none
of this had happened. But he knew himself better than that.
If he stayed, he would think of her.
Of the way she had trembled beneath his touch. The way her skin had
flushed, her breath had hitched, her lips had parted on those soft,
helpless sounds.
If he stayed, he would imagine what could have happened–what
almost did.
His jaw ticked.
No. He needed out.
The plan formed quickly in his mind–in and out. He’d slip back into
the room, grab his wallet from the floor, and leave before she even
noticed he was there. She would probably already be curled up
beneath the sheets, hiding from the wreckage of what they had nearly
done.
Graham exhaled slowly, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
It was the best option. The only option.
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And yet, as he turned back toward the stairs, the thought of stepping
into that room again, of seeing her lying there, still warm, still
untouched–still his for the taking- sent a vicious hunger tearing
through his veins.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
This was going to be hell.
Graham pushed open the door, moving with the quiet precision of a
man who knew he shouldn’t be there. The dim glow from the bedside
lamp cast a soft, golden hue over the room, stretching shadows along
the walls. He kept his eyes trained on the floor, scanning for his
wallet, telling himself he would not look at her.
In and out. Get the wallet. Get the hell out.
But then he heard it.
A small, broken sound–a muffled sob.
His head snapped up before he could stop himself.
There, curled up in the middle of his bed, Isla lay on her side,
clutching his pillow to her chest as though it were a person. Her
fingers gripped the fabric so tightly that her knuckles had gone white.
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Her delicate shoulders shook with silent cries, her face buried against
the pillow, trying–failing–to smother the evidence of her
heartbreak.
Graham froze, every muscle in his body locking into place.
Fuck.
She wasn’t supposed to be crying.
She wasn’t supposed to look so small. So fragile. So completely
wrecked.
A deep ache twisted in his gut, sharper than any arousal he had felt
for her, cutting straight through the frustration and lust. This was his
doing. His words, his cruelty, his rejection–he had reduced her to
this.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides. He had to leave. Right now. If
he stayed, he would-
Another soft, hiccuping sob escaped her lips. His chest tightened
painfully.
She was holding his pillow like it was him. Like she wanted him to be
there.
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Christ.
For a long, agonizing moment, Graham just stood there, watching her shake, listening to her shattered breathing, feeling something in his
own chest splinter apart. He didn’t want her like this. Sad. Defeated.
Hurt.
He wanted her laughing, light and carefree, the way she used to be
when she was younger–when she would chase butterflies in the
gardens of Thornfield Manor, spinning in circles with the sun in her
hair, her laughter ringing through the air like wind chimes.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
