He lifted a dark brow, watchful, waiting. She shook her head a little, then reached down, grabbing his sweater from the floor and pulling it on over her head, so her hair was wild and unkempt, her lips clean of lipstick but a dark pink regardless.
“Wow,” she said again, with a small shake of her head as she side stepped him and moved back into the kitchen. His mouth went dry as he stared after her, the sight of her in his sweater – falling midway down her thighs – driving desire through him.
He tried to remember his regrets, but already his body was awash with memories, pushing him forward, drawing him to her, so he followed her into the kitchen.
“Now I need a wine,” she muttered. “Or a cigarette,” she joked, with a small shrug.
“You smoke?”
“God, no. I wasn’t serious. I just…” She blinked up at him, bemusement rich in her eyes. “I didn’t expect that.”
Despite the dark emotions crushing through him, he laughed. “You were pretty clear about what you wanted.”
Pink spread through her cheeks. “Oh, I know,” she waved a hand through the air, pulling open the fridge and removing a bottle of wine. He watched as she returned to the table, topping up their glasses, lifting both and bringing his over. “I wanted to have sex with you.” She spoke slowly, as though still making sense of things in her own mind. “I just didn’t expect it would be so…”
He was silent, watchful, retrieving the wine from her hands, waiting for her to continue.
“I mean…wow.”
He got the gist, and had never been one to take a victory lap, so didn’t prompt her for more.
“You have had sex before,” he reminded her drolly, sipping his wine.
“But not like that.”
“Against a wall?”
She batted his response away with a half-smile, half-flicker of her eyes. “The wall wasn’t what I meant.”
She took a large gulp of wine then padded across to the bench on the other side of the room, propping her back against it, her bare legs drawing his gaze. Regret fanned his gut. Not regret at what he’d done, now, but regret that it had been so hasty. He wanted to kiss every inch of her. Starting with her toes, moving up to her elegantly curved ankles, her slender calves, the back of her knees, her thighs, the silky flesh that would be at the top of them; he wanted to kiss her beautiful sex until she was speechless with desire, begging him to make love to her once more. He wanted to savour the moment of sleeping with Isabella Moss, not rush it as frantic desire had required of him.
“With Andrew it was –,” she shook her head. “You don’t want to hear about that.”
He surprised himself by disagreeing with her. “Go on.” He moved back to the scene of their togetherness, scooping up his boxer briefs and pulling them on, before coming to stand in front of her. Close enough to touch, so he was once again challenging himself with keeping his distance. It was harder now that he’d tasted her, harder to resist when he’d felt the promise of her sensual perfection.
“It was never like that.” Her eyes clouded.
“You’re still close to him?”
She furrowed her brow, jerking her gaze to his face. “Not at all. What makes you say that?”
“You look as though you’re betraying him right now.”
“Oh.” She bit down on her lip. “I don’t want to do him a disservice,” she explained softly. “We were going out for a few years, it doesn’t seem fair to talk about our sex life with you.”
“Is that what you’re doing?”
She sucked in a raspy breath. “I was just going to say that our relationship was more…platonic. It lacked…a certain…chemistry.”
“A chemistry that you feel with me?”
She nodded quickly. “Exactly. That was – honestly – mind-blowing.”
His chest swelled to three times its usual size. He’d never needed to be told he was good in bed before. He didn’t need it now, but he sure as hell liked hearing it from her. He pushed aside the unusual response, focussing on her statement.
“Why did you break up?”
She sighed heavily, sipping her wine. “We weren’t well-suited.”
“No?”
A wry grimace shifted her features. “I thought we were, at first.” She sipped her wine then replaced the glass, moving towards the sink and sliding in the plug, before sloshing in some detergent and water. “We met when I was at uni. He was a guest lecturer. Very smart, funny, handsome.” She lifted her shoulders. “He has political aspirations – his dad’s a federal government minister, his grandfather was a Supreme Court judge.”
She reached for their plates, and he didn’t interrupt her only because he was fascinated by the way his sweater moved over her thighs as she shifted her arms.
“And?”
He prompted, when she didn’t say anything for a while.
But her face was tight, and despite the lightness of her tone, he felt the pain coursing through her, the tension that had turned her back ramrod straight.
“It would never have worked between us,” she said after a moment, her smile brittle, dismissive. “We were engaged,” she said slowly, as if dipping back in time. “But he said he’d only go through with the wedding if I gave up my YouTube channel.”
“Why?” His voice was deep, a rumble of disapproval moving through him. Surely no man in this day and age expected his wife to sit home all day, waiting for the lord and master to return?
She slid him a side-long glance, but he saw the hurt in her eyes. “Cooking shows are a frivolous waste of my intelligence,” she parroted in an imitation of a male voice. “Apparently I should have been doing something more sensible with my life.”
He could see that the decree had insulted Isabella but he couldn’t help laughing. “He sounds like a pain in the ass.” She half-smirked as she turned back to the sink, washing their bowls and placing them on the side. As she reached for
