Chapter 163

Chapter 50

The days leading up to the wedding were a whirlwind of chaos, with guests milling about the manor, laughter echoing through the halls, and the staff bustling to keep up with the demands of the impromptu celebration. But amidst the flurry of activity, Graham always found a way to steal moments with Isla—moments that left her breathless, flushed, and trembling with a mix of desire and fear.

Despite the presence of four or five guests staying in the house, Graham had an uncanny ability to corner her in the most unexpected places. It was as if he had a sixth sense for finding the quiet, hidden corners of the manor, places where they could be alone—or at least, where they thought they were alone.

One afternoon, he caught her in the library, a room filled with towering bookshelves and the faint scent of aged paper. She had been browsing the shelves, her fingers trailing over the spines of old novels, when she felt his presence behind her. Before she could turn, his arms were around her, his chest pressing against her back as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, sending a shiver down her spine.

“I haven’t,” she protested, though her voice was breathless, betraying her nerves.

“Liar,” he whispered, his hands sliding down her arms, his touch sending sparks of electricity through her. He turned her to face him, his eyes dark with desire as he backed her against the bookshelf. “You’ve been driving me mad, walking around in that dress, looking so damn tempting.”

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers, his kiss deep and demanding, leaving no room for protest. His hands roamed her body, one sliding down to grip her thigh, hiking her leg up around his hip as he pressed himself against her. She gasped into his mouth, her heart racing as she realized how exposed they were—anyone could walk in at any moment.

“Graham,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “someone could see us.”

“Let them,” he growled, his lips trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her knees weak. “Let them see how much I want you. How much you’re mine.”

His words sent a thrill through her, even as her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She wanted to push him away, to scold him for being so reckless, but her body betrayed her, arching into his touch, her hands clutching at his shoulders as he kissed her with a hunger that left her breathless.

And then, just as quickly as he had started, he pulled away, leaving her trembling and flushed, her lips swollen and her heart pounding. He smirked, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he adjusted his jacket and stepped back. “Until tonight,” he murmured, his voice a low promise that sent a fresh wave of heat through her.

That night, as the house grew quiet and the guests retired to their rooms, Isla lay in bed, her body still humming with the memory of his touch. She had conveniently forgotten to lock her door, and she knew it was only a matter of time before he appeared. Sure enough, the door creaked open, and Graham slipped inside, his silhouette outlined by the faint moonlight streaming through the window.

“You’re late,” she whispered, though her voice was filled with anticipation rather than annoyance.

“I had to make sure everyone was asleep,” he replied, his voice low and rough as he crossed the room to her bed. He sat on the edge, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. “But now I’m here, and I’m not leaving until I’ve had my fill of you.”

His words sent a shiver down her spine, and she didn’t have time to respond before his lips were on hers, his kiss deep and possessive, his hands already roaming her body. He pushed the sheets aside, his fingers trailing down her stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. She gasped, her back arching as he touched her, his fingers skilled and deliberate, teasing her until she was trembling on the edge.

“You’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “Do you know what that does to me? Knowing how much you want me, how much you need me?”

She moaned, her hands clutching at the sheets as he continued to touch her, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles. “Graham,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “please…”

Isla had come to realize, over the course of those feverish, clandestine nights, that Graham had a side to him in bed that was as unyielding as it was intoxicating. He was not the kind of lover who coddled or soothed; he was demanding, relentless, and at times, almost merciless in his pursuit of her pleasure—and his own. It was a side of him that both thrilled and terrified her, a side that left her trembling, breathless, and utterly at his mercy.

Each night, after the house had fallen silent and the guests were tucked away in their rooms, Graham would slip into her bedroom, his presence a dark, commanding force that filled the space with an electric tension. He would close the door softly behind him, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her heart race. And then, without a word, he would cross the room to her bed, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking its prey.

He would sit on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face, his touch deceptively gentle. But there was nothing gentle about what came next. His kisses were hungry, possessive, his hands roaming her body with a confidence that left her gasping. He would push her down into the mattress, his body pressing hers into the sheets, his lips trailing a path of fire down her neck, her chest, her stomach, until she was trembling beneath him, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

But it was when his hands—or his mouth—found the most sensitive part of her that the real torment began. He would touch her with a skill that left her writhing, his fingers or tongue working her with a precision that drove her to the edge of pleasure and then held her there, teetering on the brink, refusing to let her fall.

“Graham,” she would whimper, her voice trembling with need, her hands clutching at the sheets as she twisted beneath him. “Please… please, I can’t…”

But he would only smirk, his eyes dark with desire as he looked up at her. “You can,” he would murmur, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down her spine. “And you will. You’ll take everything I give you, Isla. You’re mine, and I’ll decide when you come.”

His words were a command, not a request, and they left her trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. She would cry out, her body arching as he continued to touch her, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. She would beg, her voice breaking as she pleaded for release, but he would only shake his head, his touch relentless, his gaze locked on hers.

“Not yet,” he would say, his voice firm, his fingers or tongue never stopping. “You’ll come when I say you can. Not a moment sooner.”

And so she would twist and writhe, her body caught in a torturous limbo between pleasure and pain, her cries growing more desperate with each passing moment. She would beg, her voice trembling as she pleaded with him, but he would only smile, his touch never faltering, his control absolute.

Finally, when he decided she had had enough, when he was satisfied that she had been pushed to her limit, he would relent. His touch would change, becoming more insistent, more deliberate, and she would feel the tension inside her snap, the pleasure crashing over her in waves that left her gasping and trembling, her body convulsing as she came undone beneath his hands.

And then, just as quickly as it had begun, it would be over. He would lean down, pressing a soft, almost chaste kiss to her lips, his touch gentle now, almost reverent. “Good girl,” he would murmur, his voice warm with satisfaction. “You did so well.”

But even as he kissed her goodnight and slipped out of her room, leaving her alone in the darkness,

write this in great detail and in a very sexy way

Isla lay in her tousled bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, her body still humming with the lingering echoes of pleasure from Graham’s touch. The room was quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of the curtains as a gentle breeze drifted through the open window. Outside, the sky was a deep, velvety black, dotted with stars that seemed to twinkle with a knowing brightness, as if they too were aware of the significance of the night. Tomorrow, she thought, her heart swelling with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. Tomorrow, everything would change.

She knew Graham wanted to take her virginity on their wedding night. It was an unspoken understanding between them, a promise that hung in the air every time he touched her, every time he kissed her with that possessive hunger that left her breathless. But even though he had been the one to bring her to the edge of pleasure night after night, she had begun to wonder why he wouldn’t let her touch him in return. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried.

One night, emboldened by the heat of the moment and the way he had made her feel, she had tentatively reached for him, her fingers lightly splaying over the hardness that strained against the fabric of his pants. She had been painfully shy, her touch awkward and uncertain, but the moment her fingers brushed against him, he had frozen, his body tensing as if her touch had sent a jolt through him. Before she could process what was happening, he had gently but firmly removed her hand, pinning both of her wrists above her head with one of his own, his grip firm but not painful.

“Not yet,” he had murmured, his voice rough with restraint, his eyes dark with a desire that seemed to burn brighter than ever. And then he had kissed her, deep and possessive, as if to distract her from the question she hadn’t even asked. He had gone back to touching her, his hands and mouth driving her to the edge once more, leaving her too breathless and overwhelmed to dwell on why he had stopped her.

She hadn’t understood it then, and she still didn’t fully understand it now. Why wouldn’t he let her touch him when he had no qualms about touching her, about bringing her to the heights of pleasure with just his fingers and his mouth? It wasn’t that he didn’t want her—she could feel the evidence of his desire pressed against her every time he held her, every time he kissed her with that raw, unbridled hunger. So why?

But as she lay there, staring up at the darkened sky, she decided it didn’t matter. Their time of sneaking around, of stolen moments and whispered promises, was almost over. Tomorrow, she would be Mrs. Lancaster. Tomorrow, she would have the name she had always wanted, the life she had always dreamed of. Tomorrow, she would have a family—a real family—a husband to call her own, a home to call her own.

The thought filled her with a warmth that spread through her chest, a sense of belonging that she had longed for her entire life. And even though Graham hadn’t said the words out loud, she knew, deep in her bones, that he loved her. She could see it in the way he looked at her, his gaze filled with a tenderness that contradicted the hardness of his touch. She could feel it in the way he held her, as if she were something precious, something to be cherished. She could hear it in the way he whispered her name, his voice rough with desire but also with something deeper, something that made her heart ache with the sheer weight of it.