Page 59 of Undisputed Chaos
She nodded, mouth still full, eyes shining as she braced herself and took me deep.
Fuck, this girl had me. Her eyes met mine, dark and willing, and I lost it. My hips jerked as I spilled down her throat.
She swallowed greedily, tears shimmering on her lashes, and my jaw clenched at the sight of it.
When I came back to myself, breathing and lowering myself beside her on the couch, she curled into my chest, the ribbon still looped loosely around her throat.
I bent lazily, tasting the salt and faint sweetness of her throat, dragging my tongue along the embroidery. “You’re mine.”
She nodded, forehead pressed to my heart, her body lax with satisfaction and relief. “I want to be yours.”
I kissed her, deep and claiming, tasting myself on her tongue. “Next time,” I promised, “you’re gonna run from me when I’m finished with you. And you’ll beg to be caught.”
Her laugh was shaky and euphoric, nothing but happy. “Promise?”
I nipped her earlobe, grinning because I could, because this was my fucking girl now.
“Oh, angel. That was a threat, not a promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Adrian
Ilounged on Isla's couch, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee, my jade-handled knife dancing between fingers as I watched her.
She fussed with her blue dress and adjusted her ring light, the pale ribbon tied at her throat. My ribbon. “Adrian” stitched against her pulse.
It shouldn’t look so sweet and innocent and obscene all at once, but on her, it did.
She sat at her desk five feet away, framed in that camera glow like art meant for me alone.
Though technically, she was about to be viewed by a crowd of gossipy strangers and bored beauty fans thirsty for her latest haul.
Her brushes were laid out to her left, and half of her desktop was cluttered with things that screamed Isla—pastel phone charms, a battered sketchbook I wanted to look through.
She flicked on her professional smile, and I nearly choked on finally seeing the smile I ogled over social media in person.
“Hi flowers!” Her voice lilted, sugar and sparkle for her followers, easy and bright. “Welcome to today’s unboxing. Look at how many PR packages came this week!”
The knife in my palm paused mid-spin; I watched her, the gentle cut of her jaw, the glint in her eyes when she peeked at me over the boxes like she hoped she could still keep a secret from the world.
Four giant tubs of ice cream sweated on the coffee table in front of me—cookie dough, strawberry, rainbow sherbet, and mint chip.
I'd ordered them all because only a monster would make an angel choose.
I scooped a spoonful of cookie dough, my eyes never leaving Isla as she held up some pastel pink box for her viewers.
“It’s so cute! It’s hand-knitted and sustainable,” she gushed, holding up a jacket to the camera. "It would pair perfectly with a floral dress or...”
Her fingers toyed with the sleeve, and my mind supplied an image of her in nothing but my ribbon.
I shifted, adjusting myself in my jeans as I lazily swirled the ice cream.
I watched the curve of her throat, the way her hair caught the light.
I wanted to taste that sweat again, press my lips to every place brightened by her laugh, and paint her with my hands.
Instead, I shoveled more ice cream, biting my cheek to stop myself from storming her stream and showing her audience what their “flower” looked like when she bloomed with my hand around her throat.
