Chapter 142

CHAPTER 29

Graham leaned back in the leather seat of the car, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, yet tension radiated through every fiber of his being. The silence between them was heavy, almost suffocating, punctuated only by the hum of the engine as the car navigated the quiet streets of the city. Isla sat beside him, her posture rigid, her arms folded across her chest as she stared out of the window, her expression distant and cold. She looked small and fragile, her defiance dimmed for once, replaced by something that made her appear vulnerable. Sad. Almost breakable.

Graham’s gaze lingered on her, the frustration boiling inside him threatening to spill over. He couldn’t shake the question that had been gnawing at him for weeks now: Why Isla? Why her, of all people? Why had he gone to such absurd lengths to convince this obstinate, maddeningly foolish woman to marry him?

His father’s words echoed faintly in his memory, vague suggestions about looking after Isla once he was gone. Graham had thought it meant ensuring she was taken care of, that she was safe and stable. Not once had his father explicitly said marry her. The old man was pragmatic, not romantic—he had likely envisioned financial support or perhaps a distant guardianship. Not this.

And yet, here Graham was, pouring his time, energy, and resources into chasing after a woman who wanted nothing to do with him in that way. Why? He had never been one to pine after rejection. He was Graham Lancaster—a man accustomed to women swooning over him, hanging on his every word, desperate for his attention. Isla, on the other hand, had barely batted an eye at his charm. She had met his proposals with a bluntness that bordered on infuriating. And yet, he had not walked away.

He should have. Any other woman would have been dismissed without a second thought. But Isla wasn’t just any woman. She had burrowed under his skin, and the more she resisted, the deeper she got. What started as an affront to his ego had twisted into something else entirely—something that was no longer about pride or wounded vanity. It had become about her. About the way her laughter lingered in his mind long after she had left the room. About the way her stubbornness matched his own, igniting a fire in him that no one else ever had. About the way her presence made his world feel maddeningly chaotic yet startlingly alive.

And then there was tonight. That dress. That smile. That look in her eyes when she had been dancing. The way other men had watched her, admired her, touched her—those images played on a loop in his mind, fueling a possessiveness he had never experienced before. Graham had tried to tell himself he was angry because he was protecting her, shielding her from the world. But it wasn’t protection that had driven him to pull her into his arms on that dance floor. It was desire. Pure, unfiltered lust. He was going crazy with it.

And the bare truth was this- he was hell damned and god wanted to fuck this girl and there was no denying it. He winced at his own vulgarity. But there was no difference how he said it, it was what he wanted! The physical need for her was killing him and that was the reason behind all his distraction. And all this nonsense behind the marriage talk.

As the car rolled to a stop at a red light, Graham’s eyes swept over Isla once more. Even now, with her head tilted away, her face framed by loose strands of hair, she managed to captivate him. He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking in his temple. He wanted her. Not just physically—though God knew his body ached with the kind of need that had kept him awake at night—but completely. He wanted her fire, her passion, her stubbornness, her vulnerability. He wanted every piece of her, even the parts she kept guarded.

But tonight, he couldn’t deny it any longer: his desire for Isla was primal, raw, and overwhelming. The way her skin had felt under his hands as they danced, the way her scent had wrapped around him like a drug—he was utterly intoxicated. He had never wanted anyone the way he wanted her.

Graham shifted in his seat, his fists clenching to keep himself in check. He couldn’t act on it. Not like this. She already looked fragile enough, her walls higher than ever after tonight’s debacle. But the truth was undeniable—he was losing control, and the line between his carefully constructed composure and the heat coursing through him was blurring.

Graham could still vividly recall the torment of that morning. It was supposed to be an ordinary breakfast—just the two of them seated across from each other in his expansive dining room, the morning sunlight filtering through the large windows, casting a soft glow over the scene. The cook had quietly presented their meal before retreating, leaving them in a bubble of silence.

But Isla, oblivious to the havoc she was wreaking, had picked up her spoon, dipped it into the yogurt, and brought it to her mouth with a languidness that bordered on sinful. Graham’s attention had been immediate and involuntary, his gaze locking onto the way her lips closed around the silver utensil. She sucked gently, absentmindedly scrolling through her phone with her free hand, utterly unaware of the effect she was having.

The sight of her tongue darting out to lick the spoon clean had been his undoing. His mind had betrayed him, conjuring images of that tongue exploring far more intimate places. Heat rushed to his core, pooling low in his abdomen, and for the first time in his life, Graham Lancaster—a man known for his iron control—felt completely undone. His body reacted with a ferocity that startled him, an aching hardness pressing uncomfortably against the confines of his tailored pants.

He’d clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding in frustration. What the hell is wrong with me? he’d thought. This wasn’t who he was. He wasn’t some hormonal teenager, aroused by something as mundane as a woman licking a spoon. He was a man of refinement, a man who had always prided himself on his restraint. His affairs had been conducted with elegance and maturity—discreet arrangements with sophisticated women who knew the rules, who never demanded more than he was willing to give.

But Isla… Isla shattered all of that. She wasn’t refined or calculated. She was raw, unpredictable, and maddeningly innocent in her ability to arouse him without even trying. Graham had sat there, rigid and uncomfortably aware of every tiny movement she made, his breath shallow as he willed his body to calm down.

Yet, as the memory of that morning replayed in his mind, his current predicament worsened. In the dimly lit confines of the town car, Isla sat just inches away from him, her dress riding high on her smooth, bare thighs. The stark white fabric contrasted against her sun-kissed skin, the hem teasing at what lay just out of view. His pulse quickened, his throat dry as his eyes darted to the window in a desperate attempt to focus on anything but her.

But it was useless. Her scent lingered in the air—a mix of something floral and distinctly her. His fingers gripped the leather seat, knuckles white with the effort it took to restrain himself. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, his mind spiraling into fantasies he couldn’t afford to entertain.

He tried to rationalize, to think of anything else—business deals, meetings, numbers—but none of it worked. All he could see was the curve of her legs, the way her lips had parted slightly as she adjusted her posture, and the memory of her licking that damned spoon.

His restraint was slipping, fraying with every passing second. He could feel it, the primal urge clawing at him, demanding he give in. His mind raced with forbidden thoughts—of pulling her onto his lap, feeling her soft skin under his hands, and tearing that delicate dress from her body to claim her right there in the backseat. The thought of the chauffeur catching sight of them only added a wicked thrill to the fantasy.

Graham squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling through his nose as he fought to regain control. Enough. This was madness. He couldn’t let his desire consume him like this. Not now. Not here.

But as the car rolled on through the quiet streets, the air between them heavy with unspoken tension, Graham knew one thing for certain: his control was on borrowed time. And if Isla kept unknowingly teasing him, he wouldn’t be able to hold himself back much longer.