Page 73 of Isaac

My voice falters, barely above a whisper when I mutter, "Are we ever going to talk about that kiss, or are you going to throw me another line of bullshit like the first time?"

A flicker of something passes through his gaze. His poker face crumbles and shifts into something more… human.

Instantly, his expression is flooded with an array of emotions.

Guilt? Longing? Fury? Sadness?

I feel it all, a tempest brewing beneath my skin. His nearness is the eye of the storm, calm yet devastating. It's not the surge of rage that makes my hands tremble—it's the unnamed current drawing me to him, the magnetic force of an uncharted desire.

"Talk is cheap, Hawk," he murmurs. And the way he says this name… All of a sudden I want Cody Smith to replace Dallas Bradley on all my documents. Because Dallas Bradley can’t afford what Hawk feels for Isaac Thoreau.

"Don’t I know it?" I whisper back at him as he slides the cold tip of the Glock down my arm. From my shoulder to my wrist, as if an artist mapping out his next masterpiece right here in the middle of Purgatory’s back hallway.

I know it’s wrong. I fucking know I should be concerned, scared, ready for blood. Anything but this.

Instead, my breath hitches, caught in the snare of his dangerous proximity. There's gravity to Isaac, a weighty presence that pulls at the tides within me, washing away my resolve. I want to dive into those depths, to explore the unknown contours of this attraction. But I'm afraid—afraid of what I'll find beneath the surface, and more so, of what I won't be able to leave behind.

"So, are you going to do something about it?" he rasps out.

"Are you going to shoot me if I am?" I snap back. I still remember that wounded look on his face in the parking lot when he shoved me away and told me not to touch him without permission right after I fucking saved his life at the possible expense of my own. That expression—it’s imprinted in my mindlike the rest of the contradictory things I’ve learned about him in these past few months.

"Are you going to do something worth shooting you?" Isaac asks.

He nudges me backward.

I shove at his chest. It’s gentle. Nothing that can hurt him.

Abruptly, Isaac's body is chaos against mine, his movement all storm and purpose. We grapple—a dance of power, of desperation. The hallway shrinks to the space where our bodies collide until I am pinned against the cool wall. Isaac's hands frame my head, not touching, but imprisoning me within an inch of freedom that feels miles wide. He’s still holding on to the Glock.

"Every damn night," he begins, voice low and uneven, "I’m fucking awake with your name scratching at the inside of my skull." His breath fans across my face, warm and ragged. "This... this thing between us, Hawk—it's like a shadow. I turn my back on it, and still, it clings to me. Persistent as hell. "

I can feel him—a pressure in the air, an electric hum under my skin. My blood sings a riotous chorus at his word, every beat a drum calling me closer to the edge of reason.

"Your problem. Not mine," I murmur.

"Your touch—" He stops talking, brushing his nose over the strands of hair framing the side of my head, inhaling it, "—you know what it does? It doesn't repulse me. It's a goddamn revelation."

My chest tightens as I hear what I think is some kind of confession.

Another contradiction.

"Do you want to make sure?" I breathe out an invitation, a whisper that seems too loud in the silence that follows his monologue when he pulls away slightly to look at my face.

"Oh, we’ve made sure… A couple of times."

He brings his mouth to mine and nips on my lower lip, teeth and lips at the same time, an electrifying sensation that spreads through my entire body, spark by spark. Then he draws away and we stare at each other for a few heartbeats. His eyes are waiting for something, perhaps for a sign that I don’t mind what we’re doing… or what we’re about to do…whatever it is…

My hands are still at my sides, fists clenched. I’m not stupid to try and fight my way out of his trap when he’s the one with the gun. But I also know he’s not carrying it around with him because he’s a trigger-happy asshole.

I think…I think he feels safer with it.

I think people who’ve been to prison would do anything not to be helpless.

"I don’t get it," Isaac mutters. "Why it has to be you out of all the people surrounding me."

"Are you not satisfied?"

"On the contrary." He smirks, a rare occurrence, which has my cock hardening all of a sudden. "I’m intrigued."

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