Page 54 of Ice Princesses
“You don’t hesitate much,” she says, almost like she’s surprised at how forward I’m being.
“I’ve hesitated enough for a lifetime.”
Her eyes soften at that, just for a second.
Then she steps forward and her hands find my waist, warmer now, more certain. I let mine slide up her arms, over the curve of her toned muscles, until my fingers brush the back of her neck.
“Last chance,” she says softly. “We can still pretend this was just a drink between colleagues.”
I smile against her mouth.
“Do you want to do that? To pretend?”
She kisses me before I can say anything else.
It’s deeper than in her office. Hungrier. Her hands move over my sides, down, then back up like she’s memorizing me through fabric and the little amount of skin that is bare. I answer with equal intention, pulling her closer, feeling the steady heat of her body against mine.
When she walks me backward, it’s not urgent, like time is against us. It’s deliberate.
I sit at the edge of the bed and she steps between my knees without breaking the kiss.
Isabella’s hands slide along my thighs, slow enough to make my breath stutter. I pull her down with me, and she laughs softly against my mouth, that warm, unguarded sound from downstairs threading through everything.
“You’re trouble, Princess,” I murmur, and it’s almost as if she melts on top of me.
“You followed me home.”
Her fingers trace along my collarbone,then lower.
The room narrows to skin and breath and the quiet sounds we’re trying not to make, even if we are alone in this huge house in the middle of the Rockies. There’s nothing frantic about it, though. No rush to get anywhere. Just the slow unraveling of restraint we’ve both been holding all night.
Her mouth leaves mine only long enough to look at me, like she’s trying to decide whether this is still reckless or something else entirely. I don’t break her gaze.
“You’re staring,” I breathe in between kisses. Isabella tilts her head to the side, giving me more access to the long column of her neck. Her brown hair slips forward, dark strands falling around us like a curtain, softening the room until it feels like we exist inside our own tiny world.
“I am,” she answers, not apologizing. Her gaze drags slowly over my face, my mouth, the space between us. “You’re unfairly beautiful.” Her voice is lower now. “It’s so fucking distracting.”
I huff a soft laugh. “That’s rich coming from you.”
She shakes her head once. “No. I know what I look like to people. But you—” Her fingers tighten slightly at my waist. “You don’t.”
Her hands slide from my waist to the inside of my thighs, thumbs tracing slow, intentional lines upward. She’s mapping my body—curious, attentive—and the patience of it sends a sharp rush of heat through my body.
I inhale sharply.
She notices immediately and smiles into my skin, almost triumphant. She continues moving her hands and her mouthcurves against mine, pleased in a way that feels dangerously intimate.
“You’re very responsive,” Isabella murmurs.
I laugh under my breath, though it comes out uneven. My fingers itch to touch her in return, but I’m caught watching how certain she is, how completely at ease she is in this moment, guiding us forward with a confidence that makes me want to follow wherever she decides we’re going tonight.
Her fingers pause, resting at my waist, grounding instead of pushing farther, and somehow that restraint is worse. Every one of my nerves feels awake, waiting for permission neither of us has spoken out loud.
My hands slide into her hair, guiding her closer. The kiss deepens again, slow, unhurried, full of intention.
I sit up enough to tug my top over my head, and the second I see her reaction—the audible intake of breath, the subtle curl of her lips and the way her eyes linger through my body—something low and urgent tightens inside me.
“Jesus,” she exhales under her breath, eyes slowly dragging back up to mine. “What the fuck are you doing to me?”
