*Isabella's POV*
The next morning, I woke up alone in bed. The space beside me was cold, a complete contrast to the tangled, sweaty mess we'd fallen asleep in. My body was still aching, a deep, satisfying throb in my muscles that was a fucking brutal reminder of the night before. Every time I shifted, I felt him, a memory of his hands, his mouth, the relentless, yet delicious pounding.
I dragged myself out of the king-sized bed and into the bathroom. A quick, hot shower was in order. I stood under the spray, letting the hot water pour onto my sore skin, trying to wash away the confusion along with the sweat and sex. But his words from last night kept echoing in my head. I'm serious about you, Isabella. So fucking serious about you. What the hell was I supposed to do with that?
I threw on a pair of shorts and a baggy t-shirt I'd packed, the soft cotton a welcome comfort against my sensitive skin. My hair was a mess, so I just threw it up in a messy ponytail. Fuck it.
I headed downstairs, the house unsettlingly quiet. I found him out on the patio, sitting on one of the massive couches, a cup of coffee in his hands, just staring out at the ocean. The morning light caught the sharp lines of his jaw, and for a second, he looked almost meditative. He was wearing just a pair of low-slung sweatpants, and the sight of his bare chest did stupid things to my already battered heart.
I padded over to him, my bare feet silent on the cool tiles, and settled beside him on the couch. "This is so fucking cool," I said, my voice still a bit sleepy. I swung my legs up, placing them on his lap and leaning back against the armrest, trying to act casual, like my entire world hadn't been tilted on its axis. "I wish I could wake up to this view more often."
He looked down at me, a small smile playing on his lips. His hand came to rest on my calf, his thumb stroking my skin. "We don't have to leave, you know," he said, his voice low and casual, but I could feel the tension in it.
"What do you mean? It's Sunday. I have to fly home soon," I said, a frown creasing my brow.
"Well, the house is rented for one more week," he said, his gaze fixed on the ocean. "I need to be in New York on Wednesday, though." He turned to look at me then, his eyes earnest, pleading. "Stay with me, please."
My breath hitched. Stay for a week? Just… us? The idea was terrifyingly tempting. "But… I need to go to work, and Damien…" I was saying, but the words trailed off as I remembered his confession from the night before. The two years of not speaking, him feeling like he can't compete with Damien.
A flicker of something, disappointment, maybe, crossed his face before he masked it. "Yes, of course," he said, his tone suddenly flat. He looked away, back at the waves. "Don't worry, I understand." He added a little too much cheer to his voice, a transparent attempt to play it off, to pretend it wasn't a big deal. But it was. And we both fucking knew it.
The awkwardness hung in the air between us, thick and suffocating. His forced cheerfulness was almost worse than his disappointment. I needed to get out of that fucking headspace, away from the heavy weight of his confession and my own pathetic inability to deal with it.
"Do you want some coffee?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Actually," I said, swinging my legs off his lap and sitting up straight, "I want to go to the beach."
He let out a short, loud laugh, the sound breaking the tension a little. "We are practically on the beach, sweetheart," he said, gesturing to the sand just a few metres away from the patio.
I rolled my eyes, a familiar gesture that felt comforting in its normality. "Well then, I wanna be closer to the water," I insisted, a playful challenge in my voice.
A genuine smile finally broke through his carefully constructed mask. "Let's go then," he said.
I didn't need to be told twice. I shot up and rushed back upstairs, a sudden burst of energy propelling me. I never really got a chance to wear the bikini he bought me. Now seemed like the perfect time.
I stripped off my t-shirt and shorts and pulled on the navy blue two-piece. The bottoms were notoriously small, barely covering my ass, and the bra top did a fucking fantastic job of enhancing my cleavage, pushing my tits up and together. I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror. Damn, I look fine as hell. A small, confident smile touched my lips. I scraped my hair up into a messy bun on top of my head, a few stray strands escaping to frame my face, and then headed back down.
He was already there, standing at the edge of the patio, his feet in the sand, looking out at the sparkling water. He'd changed into a pair of black swim trunks that hung low on his hips, and the morning sun glinted off the hard planes of his chest and shoulders. Fuck, he looked like a fucking snack. A tall, dark, and incredibly edible snack.
The water was fucking freezing at first, a shocking slap of cold against my skin, but it was exactly what I needed. It washed away the last lingering awkwardness from our conversation on the couch, leaving only the sharp, salty scent of the ocean and the brilliant sun overhead. We swam freely, the waves lifting us up, and for a while, we were just two idiots messing about in the sea. He was a little shit, splashing me with icy water that ended right up my nose, and I retaliated with all I had, laughing so hard my sides ached. The sound of our shouts and giggles carried over the gentle crash of the waves.
After a particularly brutal onslaught from him, I wiped the water from my eyes, a mischievous glint in my own. The playfulness suddenly shifted, the air crackling with a different kind of energy. "Come here, Jacob," I said, my voice lower, more of a command than a request.
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound, his eyes darkened with understanding. He swam over, cutting smoothly through the water until he was right in front of me. I didn't hesitate. I quickly wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling his body flush against mine, and crashed my lips into his.
It was a messy kiss. Our lips were cold and wet from the sea, our tongues tangling in a frantic, hungry dance. It wasn't gentle or romantic; it was raw and desperate, a testament to the insane, undeniable chemistry that fizzed between us.
"Fuck, Isabella," he growled against my mouth, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist, lifting me slightly so my feet left the sandy sea floor. "You're even dirtier than me."
I pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, a smirk playing on my swollen lips. "Are you complaining?" I teased, my voice barely a whisper. "Do you want me to stop?"
He answered by crushing his mouth back to mine, the kiss even more possessive this time. "Fuck no," he rasped, his hands roaming down my back to grip my ass. "My girl can have me whenever the hell she wants."