nt of her–of them–still clung to the air, thick and intoxicating, but now it felt suffocating. His throat constricted, his pulse hammering with a different kind of urgency–one not born of lust but of something darker. He had been blind, so consumed by his own frustration, his own pent–up need, that he hadn’t seen it clearly
until now.
She had come here for Thornfield Manor. For Maggie. For Edwin. Not
for this.
Not for him.
And he–God, he had been ready to take advantage of that.
Graham dragged a rough hand down his face, exhaling through his
nose as his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His body was still
humming, his muscles coiled tight, but suddenly, it was unbearable.
He couldn’t stand to be here. Couldn’t stand to look at her. Couldn’t
stand himself.
He pushed himself off the bed in one swift motion, the cool air
hitting his overheated skin like a slap. The towel sat low on his hips,
barely secured, a last fragile tether to his restraint. He snatched his
discarded shirt and pants from the floor, his movements stiff, hurried,
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as if the faster he dressed, the faster he could erase the last ten
minutes of his life.
But nothing would erase this.
He could still feel her, the way her body had trembled beneath his
touch, the way her breath had caught, the way she had looked at him
-not with seduction, but with something uncertain, something
fragile.
Something he had nearly shattered.
His fingers curled tighter around the fabric in his hands as he turned
toward the door. He needed to get out. Needed space, air, distance.
Before he lost the last shred of control he had left.
And before he did something even more unforgivable.
“Graham?”
Her voice was soft, uncertain–laced with anticipation and something
even more dangerous: trust.
The sound of it nearly broke him.
He felt like the lowest kind of man. Like a predator who had lured
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something innocent into his den under false pretenses.
His spine was rigid, his fists clenched at his sides as he forced the
words from his throat. “Go to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”
No explanations. No excuses. Because there were none.
“Why?”
One simple word. A plea wrapped in confusion, tinged with hurt.
Graham’s patience snapped, but not with her with himself.
“Because I don’t pay for sex!” The words came out like a lash, cutting
through the air with venom, self–directed disgust dripping from every
syllable.
The moment they left his lips, he saw it–her flinch, the way her body
recoiled as if he’d struck her.
Damn it.
She gasped, her fingers gripping the sheet tighter around herself as if
shielding her nakedness from him–not out of shyness this time, but
humiliation. The glow that had been in her eyes only moments ago
dimmed, replaced by something raw, something shattered.
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The sight of it twisted like a knife in his gut.
He turned away sharply, trying to swallow the burn in his throat. “I
changed my mind.” His voice was rough, almost guttural. “Go to
sleep.”
It should have ended there.
But it didn’t.
“Graham, please.”
The bed creaked, and he stiffened as he realized–she was moving.
She was getting up.
He didn’t turn. He didn’t dare. Because if he did–if he saw her
standing there, wrapped in nothing but the bedsheet, her body still
warm and trembling from his touch–he might just lose the last sliver
of control he had left.
“You were stupid to come here, Isla.” His voice was quieter now, but
no less sharp. “Do you even realize what could have happened
tonight?”
‘I could have ruined you.‘
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The words screamed in his mind, but he bit them back, swallowing
them like acid.
She didn’t respond, but he felt her hesitation in the silence that
stretched between them, in the way her breath hitched ever so
slightly.
His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to reach for her, to undo the
damage of his words. But no–he couldn’t. He had to end this. Had to
walk away before it was too late.
His chest rose and fell with the force of his restraint. “Go back to bed,
Isla.”
She didn’t move.
His jaw clenched, his body wound so tight it felt like he might snap.
Without another word, without a single glance back, he yanked open
the door and strode out, shutting it firmly behind him.
Only when he was alone in the darkened hallway did he finally allow
himself to breathe.
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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.
