Isaac responded in kind, pulling her sweater and then her shirt over her head, leaving her clad in only her bra, jeans and boots.
“Lose the boots, Rachel.”
She had to step back to toe them off, but he took her hips and pulled her close when only one was off. Going to his knees, he laid kisses along the bare skin of her belly and whispered, “Too slow. Taking too long.”
With efficient care, he removed the other boot, then stripped her out of her jeans in seconds. Then he sat back on his heels and took her in, letting his gaze rove over her in a leisurely manner.
Rachel reached for him, but he gently pushed her back against the cold door and held her there. “Let me look.”
“Isaac.” She didn’t care if she sounded needy. Hell, she was. He could look later. Right now, she wanted him, needed to feel his skin against hers. She pulled at him again, and this time he came to her in a rush, surging to his feet and pressing his full length against her.
Hooking his arms behind her knees, he lifted her so she could wrap her legs around his waist and he could pin her to the door with his hips.
Rachel wrapped her arms around his neck, as well, letting her head fall back against the door as he nipped her jaw, her ear, her neck, her collarbone. The heat of his mouth seared her skin, and she reveled in the burn. Hungered for more. Wanted him to possess her body and use it as he would.
She ground against his cock, riding the length of him, his jeans abrading her tender flesh through the satin of her underwear. Friction brought her close, and she whimpered, trying to ride harder, faster, to hit the right spot that would send her over the edge, but he shifted and denied her.
An animalistic snarl left her, a noise she didn’t recognize, as her body demanded more from him.
“Patience,” he rasped.
“Screw that,” she bit out, pushing her hips down against his. “Don’t make me wait, Isaac.”
“Rachel.” Her name from his lips issued against the skin on her neck.
She gripped his hair and pulled his head back until their eyes met. “Love me, Isaac.”
“Rachel,” he said again, a strange note of concern creeping in.
She realized what she’d said and tried not to panic at the request. Instead, she clarified. “Love my body, Isaac.” Lowering her face to his, she watched him fight to control his breathing as his nostrils flared and his chest heaved. “Take me here. Now. Command my body and make it your instrument of pleasure. Please.”
Those words proved to be his undoing. He surged against the door, his hips grinding into hers with delicious force as he let go of one of her hips to fumble with his jeans. She shoved away his hand and undid his belt for him, letting him work the button free, and then pushed at his jeans and boxers with her hands until she could get them hooked on a heel and shove them down to his knees. His cock sprang free, and she groaned at the feel of his scalding heat against her sex.
“Condom,” Isaac muttered.
“Let me.”
She took the condom he’d pulled from his pocket, ripped it open and slipped it down his length as she shook under her ministrations.
Sheathed, he pulled her back into his embrace, ripped off her underwear with a sharp jerk and, burying his face in her neck, thrust his hips up and forward, filling her in one stroke.
She cried out and he froze until she tightened her arms around his shoulders and began to move. “Not hurt,” she gasped. “Fuck me, Isaac. Please. Please. Please,” she begged as she fought to move, pinned as she was between him and the door.
He must’ve heard her through the haze of lust. Shifting, he rapidly established a deep plunge-and-retreat rhythm that dragged the root of his cock over her clitoris with every stroke. This—he—was wild, and she gave as well as she took. Rachel scored his back with her nails as she fought to hold on, to hold out, until there were no options left but to come apart in his arms.
He reached between them, found her clitoris and pressed her with his thumb at the same time he drove deep into her.
The effect was cataclysmic.
Rachel shattered, crying out as she rode Isaac as hard and fast as she could, aware of nothing but the raging sensations that ripped through her body. She was left shaking and limp as they receded and only the aftershocks rocking her internal muscles remained.
He pressed her back against the door and shook as he rode out his own orgasm in silence, his thrusts growing erratic until he stilled and only the sound of their heavy breathing filled the air.
Rachel laid her head on Isaac’s shoulder. She was limp as a rag doll but sure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t allow her to fall.
And he didn’t.
But there was more than one way to fall, and Rachel had a sinking feeling she’d taken the first major step toward falling for Isaac in a way he wouldn’t be able to save her from. And probably wouldn’t want to. But that was the thing about falling.
Once someone truly began to fall, stopping that forward momentum was nearly impossible.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE CLOCK’S GREEN digital display read seven minutes after three. Just past the witching hour. And Isaac had no doubt Rachel Sullivan had worked some type of magic on him. There was no other explanation for what he was experiencing. Thinking. Feeling. And it was the latter that most terrified him. He had worked to become immune to feelings, capable of shutting down his inner self with brutal efficiency. Yet in only a couple of days, one woman had unraveled what had taken him twenty years to build and then master.
She had him thinking about how they might make things between them work.
In the dark beside him, his bewitching woman shifted but didn’t wake. Easing onto his side, he studied her profile. Even now, seen by nothing more than the alarm clock’s faint glow, she was beautiful. Not a traditional beauty, exactly, but more the girl next door who suddenly, one day, stepped out of her house a grown woman. A woman who had come into her own, who commanded the space around her and drew people—men—like bees to pollen. Her nose was narrow and straight. Her mouth was a little wider than convention deemed attractive, but it made her smile all the more radiant. Her jawline was strong but perfect. Her eyes were expressive, although, if she tried, she could shut down their communication.
Then there was her body. It was lithe, pert and perfect for him. Small, firm, high breasts. Trim waist and narrow hips. An ass that would stop New York traffic. Toned legs that turned a pair of high heels into weapons of destruction.
And then there was her mind. She was sharp. Brilliant, really. Accomplished and successful in a male-dominated field, and that was no small feat.
He’d never wanted any woman like he wanted Rachel...despite the fact she often infuriated him.
She turned her face toward him, eyes open just a bit, a small smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Hey, you. What are you doing up at this ungodly hour?”
“Watching you.”
Her laugh was thick with sleep, little more than a heavy exhale. “That’s weird, Isaac. Stop watching me sleep.”
“Make me.”
“Jerk.”
“Not denying it.”
“Look, then. I’m too tired to care.”
“Rachel?”
“Hmm.”
Her eyes drifted closed and her breathing settled into a slow and rhythmic pattern. Moments passed and she said nothing more, so he whispered her name again. “Rachel.”
No response.
Her silence empowered him to ask the question that had been dogging him, the question that would have explained to her why sleep had eluded him—would continue to elude him—tonight. “Where do we go from here?”
As he had expected, she didn’t answer.
That was actually preferable to the alternative. He didn’t want to hear her say they went back to New York—to their own lives—and ne
ver looked back. He didn’t want to hear that he was allowing emotion to confuse the signals between them.
Damn his brother for forcing his hand where this app was concerned.
“I don’t know, Isaac.”
He jolted as if he’d been shocked. “What?”
She yawned and rolled toward him, eyes still closed. “I said I don’t know where we go from here.”
Oh, God. She’d heard him. He’d been sure she was asleep. What did he do now? He couldn’t have this conversation. He couldn’t—
“Calm down,” she muttered into the arm covering part of her face.
“I’m calm,” he said, ignoring the way his voice lacked conviction and hoping she’d do the same.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is the bed shaking?”
“It’s not.”
She moved her arm, sighed and propped herself up on her elbow so she was looking down at him, eyes wide open. “Liar.” Then she smiled, and the look melted him.
Something inside him loosened, and he could breathe. “Am I so easy to read?”
Rachel dropped bonelessly onto her pillow before rolling onto her back. “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone more difficult to read than you.”
Compulsion drove him to touch her, so he laid his hand on the bare skin just below her exposed breast. “You never did show me that satin number you picked up.”
She groaned. “My body rejects your suggestion that it rise and retrieve the aforementioned unmentionable just to satisfy your curiosity.”
“Spoken like a lawyer.”
“Layman’s terms? You can see it later.”
“Isn’t it a bit early to cry off with a headache.”
She snorted. “I didn’t say I had a headache. I said I wasn’t getting up.”
“How quickly the romance fades.”
She laughed. “Your early-morning attempts at humor require me to be caffeinated.”
“Do you know that I’ve smiled more since I met you than I have in...well, in a long, long time?”
“I wondered.”
Reaching out, he finger-combed the flyaway bits of her hair that sleep had mussed. “Why?”
“It didn’t seem like a normal response for you at first.”
“And now?”
“You tell me.”
“It feels good.”
She leaned into his hand, and he instinctively cupped her cheek. “You should smile more. It suits you.”
But did it? Really?
She was the catalyst for his smiles and laughter. When she was out of reach? Nothing else seemed to move him the same way she did. And she did it with such grace. So effortlessly.
He sat up and scrubbed his hands through his hair.
“Isaac?”
“I...” He swallowed hard enough he was sure she heard him. What could he say that wouldn’t be an utter lie? That life had stolen his joy, his humor, when it robbed him of his brother? That he didn’t feel he had a right to laugh because he’d stolen that gift from his parents, as well? That he’d become entombed in a gilded cage of his own design where love and laughter weren’t part of the decor? All of those things sounded like pathetic excuses, yet each and every one was anchored in truth.
“Isaac?” she asked, softer this time. She pushed back the covers, sat up and kneeled before him, naked save for the riotous tumble of hair cloaking her shoulders. “Talk to me. Please.”
The pang in his heart wrought by her plea hurt more than it should have given how little time they had known each other. And yet, for all that, he found words welling up in his chest, tumbling over each other in a rush to be the first spoken, the first heard.
“I don’t typically smile or laugh, Rachel. I haven’t in years.”
Leaning forward, she rested her hand on his bicep. “But why, Isaac? Why punish yourself by omitting joy from your life?”
“Laughter and smiling are emotions.”
“And?”
“I don’t do emotions.”
She started to retrieve her hand, but he placed his own down on hers and held it against his skin, craving the connection, knowing he would have to have that connection, her strength, to have this conversation.
“But...why? Why in the world would you do that to yourself?” She was honestly confused, didn’t understand what would warrant exiling one’s self from joy.
“I killed my middle brother. He died right in front of me.” The confession spilled out of him without his consent, as if he’d been bound to tell her and suffer the consequences. And maybe he was.
“H-how did you kill him, exactly?” She took a deep breath, visibly slowing herself down as she controlled the exhale. “What happened?”
Isaac cursed his subconscious choice of words, no matter their accuracy. He’d scared her, and he was an ass for doing so. Even if what he’d spoken was the truth.
“I was home from college for spring break. New York had seen a lot of rain, so the creeks and rivers were swollen. I loved the outdoors, loved hiking, camping, rock climbing.” He swallowed again, fear making the action painful. “Kayaking. I wanted to run the rapids on a local river, and Mike asked if he could go with me.” He paused, and she waited in silence, seeming to understand he could only tell the story in fits and starts.
“Mike wasn’t as strong a kayaker, didn’t have the experience I had, and he was a little nervous, but I told him he could come along. I said we’d use the tandem kayak—one made for two people—and I’d let him lead or sit in front. I’d be there to—to...” Looking up at the ceiling, Isaac took a moment to slow down, counting backward from twenty to zero, inhaling and holding his breath for a count of eight and releasing it on a count of ten.
“Short version of the story is that the kayak flipped. I got out and he got trapped in the rapids, upside down, the kayak stuck against a boulder. I couldn’t get to him to flip the kayak and he didn’t have the skill to do it. I watched him drown. I stood there as he died because I wanted to conquer the rapids. I was arrogant, Rachel. I knew he wasn’t experienced enough, but I was certain—so damn certain—that I was better, stronger, more capable of overcoming anything that came up. It never occurred to me that he could die. But he did. Mike died because I didn’t keep my promise. I didn’t keep him safe. I lost control of the situation, and he died.”
Rachel sat perfectly still, unspeaking, for several moments as Isaac fought the rising panic that he had kept at bay for so many years. No more. It all came rushing in. Right here. Right now. He would suffer, would lose any hope he had with this woman, and he would accept that. It was just one more penance he would pay for taking his brother’s life.
She started to speak, then stopped, and Isaac saw it for what it was.
The end.
* * *
Rachel had to choose her words carefully or risk alienating Isaac forever. He hadn’t killed his brother, but that wasn’t what he’d spent a lifetime telling himself. He believed he was responsible, and that had shaped the man he had become and the burdens he had carried since the tragic loss. Giving in to her urge to pull him close and cuddle him would only drive a wedge between them. After all, he had flat-out told her he didn’t “do” emotions.
Caution. She had to proceed with caution.
She must have taken too long because Isaac started to move away from her.
Reaching out, she grabbed his hand and yanked. Hard. Hard enough to spin him around and force him to face her. “Don’t walk out on this, Isaac.”
“Don’t pretend to understand.”
“I’m not pretending anything.” She refused to let go of his hand, knowing there was no way he’d physically shake her off. Even angry or hurt, he wasn’t that man.
“Please sit down and talk to me, Isaac. I want to be clear about a couple of things.”
<
br /> He sank down on the very edge of the mattress, as far away as he could be and still hold her hand. The choice wasn’t lost on her, even though she was relatively sure he didn’t realize what he’d done.
Rachel closed the distance between them, tightening her grip on his hand when he tried to retrieve it. “I haven’t asked for much, Isaac, but I’m asking you for this. I need you to listen to me. Please.”
Isaac eyed her with something far too close to distrust for her liking, but it wasn’t enough to deter her.
“I know you think you killed your brother.”
“I did.”
“No. Your brother drowned.”
“Under my care.”
“Yes.”
Her agreement stunned him into silence. If that’s what it would take, fine. She’d run with it.
“But you did not ‘kill’ him, Isaac.” He started to argue and she squeezed her hand around his. She couldn’t lose him at this point. “Let me finish.”
“You’re going to piss me off.”
“Anger is an emotion. You don’t do emotion, so subdue it until I’ve had my say,” she bit out. When he did nothing but glare, she went on. “To kill someone is to act with intent, be it malicious or self-defense. By definition, you didn’t kill him. You didn’t even take his life because his life wasn’t yours to take. I know you feel guilty. It’s understandable. You were unable to save him in dangerous conditions. But, Isaac? Hear me on this. You did not kill him.”
“He’s dead,” he replied, his words flat. His tone vacant.
“Question. Had the roles been reversed, had you been the one in the front of the kayak and trapped against the boulder, would you have been able to extricate yourself from the kayak and get out of white-water rapids and safely to shore?” When he began mulling it over, she shifted closer and pressed her free hand against his chest. “Yes-or-no answer, please. Would you have been able to get out given your skill level on that particular day and under those conditions?”
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