Chapter 153
Chapter 40
There was no reply.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her pulse a deafening roar in her ears. The coward inside her screamed for retreat—this was her chance to leave, to slip away before she crossed a line she could never uncross.
But then, with the last remnants of strength in her trembling limbs, she pushed the door open.
The room was dark, save for the faint silver glow of moonlight filtering through the heavy curtains. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, but empty.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Maybe he wasn’t here. Maybe this was fate giving her one last out. She should turn around. Walk away. Forget this reckless, desperate impulse.
Then, a soft sound cut through the silence—the distant hiss of water ceasing.
A halo of light spilled from the slightly ajar bathroom door, illuminating the space with a muted glow. Before she could move, before she could even breathe, he stepped out.
And suddenly, all thought of escape vanished.
Graham hadn’t noticed her yet. His movements were casual, unhurried, as he ran a hand through his damp, tousled hair, beads of water still clinging to his skin. A towel hung low around his hips, barely secured, drawing her unwilling gaze downward—over the sculpted ridges of his abdomen, the deep cut of his V-line, and the dark trail of hair that disappeared beneath the fabric.
She had felt those muscles beneath his shirt before, but now—now, stripped bare before her—he was something else entirely.
Her mouth went dry.
The glow from the bathroom highlighted the powerful expanse of his shoulders, the broad plane of his chest, the faint sheen of moisture still glistening over his skin.
He turned slightly, reaching for something in the walk-in closet, and the shift in motion made the towel dip just a fraction lower over his hips.
God.
Heat coiled deep inside her, unfamiliar and terrifying.
What was she doing?
She wasn’t ready for this. She needed to leave. Now. Before he saw her, before she made an utter fool of herself.
The very thing that had drawn her in—that raw, undeniable masculinity—was now the very thing making her tremble.
She had always admired his sheer size, the way his presence could command a room, the way his broad shoulders and powerful arms made her feel both safe and utterly helpless at the same time. But now, standing in the dim glow of the room, with nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips, that same largeness, that same strength, didn’t just make her nervous—it terrified her.
Her pulse pounded erratically as her gaze swept over him. The thick, sinewy muscle of his chest, the sharp ridges of his abdomen, the deep grooves leading lower—so much lower.
And then, for the first time, a new fear gripped her.
She had read about sex. Seen it in movies. Understood, in theory, how it worked. But she had never once thought about this—about size, about scale, about what it would actually mean to take him inside her.
If the rest of him was this big…
Her breath hitched.
Her stomach clenched, her throat went dry, and her legs turned to water beneath her.
It wasn’t just nervousness. It was something deeper—raw, instinctual fear.
She had thought of this as an act of love, of surrender, of giving him a piece of herself that would remain his forever. But now, all she could think about was the sheer, impossible reality of it. How could something that size possibly fit inside her? How could it be anything but pain?
Panic flickered in her chest. Maybe she wasn’t ready for this. Maybe she had been wrong to come here. Maybe—
She took an instinctive step back.
And that was when Graham finally noticed her.
His head lifted from where he had been rifling through the closet, and his dark, piercing gaze locked onto hers.
Her name left his lips, low and rough, like a question wrapped in something dangerous.
"Isla?"
Isla had no choice but to turn and face him.
For a moment, Graham just stared, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes raking over her like a slow-burning fire. It was as if he didn’t quite believe she was standing there, in his room, willingly.
His gaze swept over her, taking in every inch—her flushed face, the way her breath hitched, the delicate tremor in her fingers. And then, lower.
She felt it like a physical touch, the way his eyes lingered on the thin, almost threadbare nightgown clinging to her frame. It was nothing special, just an old, loose white thing that had seen better days, but standing under his scrutiny, she suddenly wished she had something… sexier. Something sheer, something enticing. But she didn’t own anything like that.
Not that it mattered.
Because from the way he was looking at her, that nightgown might as well have been sinful silk.
Heat rushed to her cheeks, blooming down her neck, spreading across her chest. She was blushing—no, burning. Her skin felt feverish, hypersensitive, as though his mere presence was enough to unravel her.
And then he moved.
Closing the distance between them, step by deliberate step.
The dim halo of light from the bathroom cast him in a golden glow, illuminating the fine droplets of water still clinging to his skin, the deep lines of muscle, the dark shadow of damp hair curling against his forehead.
And his eyes.
God, his eyes.
They gleamed like molten obsidian beneath thick, dark lashes, and there was something dangerous in them—something that made her heart slam against her ribs.
Something sinful.
There was no innocence in that gaze. Not an ounce of restraint.
It was raw. Hungry. Possessive.
And Isla… Isla wasn’t sure she even understood the depths of what that meant.
But she could feel it.
“I—I think I should go.”
The words barely escaped her lips, a breathless, trembling squeak.
But before she could take a single step, his hand shot out, locking around her wrist in an iron grip.
She gasped, startled, but her breath hitched for an entirely different reason when he tugged her forward, erasing the space between them.
"You foolish woman," he growled, his voice low, rough—dangerous.
And then his mouth crashed against hers.
It wasn’t a kiss. It was an assault. A ruthless, punishing claim that stole the very air from her lungs. His lips moved over hers with an unrelenting hunger, devouring, demanding, taking everything she had to give and more.
Isla barely had a chance to react before his other hand tangled in her hair, gripping the back of her neck, holding her firmly in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping past her lips to conquer her completely.
She whimpered, half in protest, half in surrender, but the sound only seemed to provoke him further.
His arm snaked around her waist, yanking her flush against his bare chest, the heat of his damp skin branding her through the thin fabric of her nightgown. He was solid, unyielding muscle, every inch of him taut with barely restrained control, and she felt caged, overwhelmed—consumed.
The kiss was fierce, almost cruel, his lips bruising against hers as he plundered her mouth, claiming, possessing, until the sting of it blurred into something else entirely—something dark and dizzying, something that made her pulse pound between her legs.
Isla had never felt anything like it.
Not the brutal intensity of his kiss.
Not the way his grip kept her utterly at his mercy.
And certainly not the slow, aching realization that despite the almost punishing ferocity of it all…
She liked it.
God help her, but she was starting to crave the very pain he was branding her with.
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