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Chapter 21
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2025-05-17 16:40:23Chapter 21: Unraveling Desires
The apartment was silent. Not the kind of silence that comforted—it was heavy, pulsing, intimate. The type of quiet that whispered against the walls and settled into the bones. Isla stood in front of the bathroom mirror, her skin damp from a long shower, the steam curling around her like invisible fingers. Her reflection stared back with eyes hollowed by grief, haunted by rage, and darkened by desire she hadn't yet dared to name.
She traced a finger down the curve of her throat, pausing just above her collarbone where a faint bruise bloomed like a forbidden flower. Christopher's mark. Not from violence, but from a kiss too deep to be restrained. One given in the heat of a moment that both of them had been running from.
Outside the bathroom, the air felt colder. She stepped into the bedroom, the soft fabric of her robe brushing against her thighs. Christopher sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her, shirtless, head bowed like he was praying to ghosts only he could hear.
She knew that posture.
He was remembering something—something violent, something buried.
"Chris," she said softly.
He didn't move.
She came to him slowly, deliberately, until she was close enough to let her fingers drift across the sharp line of his shoulder.
"You're too far away."
His head turned slightly, just enough to catch her in his peripheral.
"Am I?" His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet.
She circled in front of him and stood between his knees. Her robe loosened slightly at the front, and his eyes dipped to the pale curve of her chest before he forced them upward again.
"You’ve been holding back."
His jaw flexed. "I can’t lose control. Not with you. Not now."
"Why? Because you think I’ll break?"
"Because I know I will."
Their eyes locked, tension thick as fog. Then Isla reached for his hand and pressed it flat against her chest.
"Feel that? That’s real. That’s mine. But it’s only steady when you’re near."
Christopher stood abruptly, forcing her to take a step back. He was taller than her, stronger. His presence filled the room like a tide rising, slow and unstoppable.
"You don’t know what you’re doing, Isla."
"Don’t I?"
He exhaled, ragged. Then, with one swift movement, he gripped the sash of her robe and pulled it undone. The fabric fell open, revealing the lines and shadows of her body beneath.
Her breath caught.
He didn’t touch her.
He just looked.
As though seeing her this way was both a miracle and a curse.
"You’re not a sin, Isla," he said finally. "But I want you like you are."
She stepped forward again, closing the distance.
"Then take me like I am."
---
The first kiss wasn’t soft.
It was searing.
Like lightning arcing between two bodies that had been circling too long.
He kissed her with everything he’d been burying—anger, hunger, protectiveness, regret. His hands gripped her waist, then her hips, then slid lower. Isla gasped, fingers knotting in his hair as she arched into him.
Clothes disappeared.
Time folded.
They found the bed in a blur of tangled limbs and whispered names. He moved over her like he knew her thoughts before she could voice them. Every touch was slow, intentional, reverent.
Christopher wasn’t claiming her.
He was worshipping her.
And Isla—she let him.
Let the storm inside her be quieted by his mouth on her skin, his breath at her neck, his voice low and rasping against her ear.
She trembled beneath him.
Not from fear.
From finally being seen.
When he entered her, it wasn’t rough or rushed. It was achingly gentle. He cupped the back of her neck with one hand, his thumb brushing her cheek as he whispered, “Tell me to stop.”
She only moaned.
He moved slowly, deeply, drawing sounds from her that had never existed before. Isla clung to him like a woman drowning, nails biting into his back, head thrown back as pleasure built in waves.
She didn’t cry.
But she felt something close.
The kind of release that had nothing to do with climax and everything to do with surrendering her grief, her confusion, her need.
When they finally collapsed into each other, breathless and slick with sweat, she buried her face in the crook of his neck and whispered, “Don’t let go.”
And he didn’t.
Not that night.
Not the next morning.
Not even when the world began to close in again.
---
They didn’t talk much afterward.
Words felt too thin for what they’d shared.
But when Isla walked into the kitchen the next morning and found Christopher already brewing coffee, wearing only low-slung joggers and a tired smile, something warm flickered in her chest.
“You stayed,” she said.
He poured her a mug. “You needed me to."
And just like that, something unspoken shifted between them.
She wasn’t alone in this city.
Not anymore.
---
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