Page 25 of Undisputed Chaos
"I like a girl who knows how to work with her hands," I murmured to the screen, tapping my knife against my thigh. Her application technique was meticulous, the same careful patience I used when planning where to cut someone for maximum agony.
The try-on videos were a special kind of torture. Isla in softrompers, lace skirts, and dresses that swirled around her thighs.
She'd twirl for the camera, giving little reviews of each piece. "This one's so comfy!" or "The fabric is buttery soft."
I ended up growling at the screen during one haul where she showed off a backless summer dress, imagining my hands spanning that exposed skin, my fingers tracing the soft freckles across her shoulders.
She had the kind of figure that made women need to be worshipped.
Her waist was soft and cinched, and her hips flared out wide, round with softness. Her lush thighs pressed together, making me feral to bury my face there.
Her breasts kept catching my gaze at the club; full, heavy breasts that bounced softly with every spin, barely contained by the delicate fabrics she favored.
She’d tug at the neckline to show a detail, and I’d catch myself gripping the couch, hard, imagining how those tits would feel in my hands, how they’d look splayed across my sheets, marked up with my teeth.
I watched those videos twelve times. Then downloaded them. Then organized them into a special folder.
Her painting videos were a glimpse beneath her exterior. Time-lapses of watercolor landscapes emerging under her brush, her hands dancing across the canvas.
One that caught me off guard, a painting of the skyline at dusk, something dark and moody lurking beneath the golden lights. I paused it halfway through, studying the intensity in her eyes.
"There you are," I whispered. "That's the girl who kissed me first."
The same girl who'd looked at me like I was both salvation and damnation, who'd surrendered to my touch with a desperation that matched my own.
The cooking videos tightened something in my chest and still somehow made me hard. Isla in a frilly apron, baking cookies, stirring bowls, slicing fruit with a dull kitchen knife that I immediately wanted to replace with something worthy of her little hands.
She’d taste something off her finger, lips glossy and pink, and I'd remember how those same lips had felt against mine. She'd opened for me so sweetly when I licked into her mouth.
She was so eager to please, and Iknewshe'd melt for a little praise,a little roughness, a little command. The way she'd arched into me when I'd wrapped my hand around her throat proved it.
She moved through her sunny kitchen with grace, making my industrial mansion feel suddenly empty.
I pictured her in my space, painting in the light from my expansive windows, baking in my barely-used kitchen, her softness countering my edges.
I'd give her a special area for her makeup beside my knife collection, ‘I’d hang her paintings high on my walls.
The contradiction of her, so sweet and perfect online, yet with that private account full of tattoos and danger, made me hunger for her in a way that went beyond the physical.
She was playing a role, just like I was. And I couldn't wait to peel back every perfect, pastel layer until I found the real Isla underneath.
"You're not as innocent as you pretend to be," I hummed, zooming in on her latest post. A selfie from the night the angel met her devil.
Nothing explicit, nothing that would raise eyebrows, but there was an invitation in that vulnerability. A door left slightly ajar.
She blinked up at the camera like she was waiting for approval. I wanted to give it to her. I wanted to give her everything.
My cock ached against my jeans, the need so delicously painful. I palmed myself through the denim, not caring that it was barely past breakfast.
She did this to me. She made me fucking lose it just by existing, by being angelic and curvy and so goddamn pretty.
I switched to her website, studying the paintings she sold. They were pure art—delicate landscapes that hinted at depths her persona carefully avoided.
This was the real Isla. The one who'd kissed me first, who'd gasped when I'd bitten her lip, who'd dug her nails into my shoulders like she was trying to claw her way inside me.
The one who'd run.
I grinned, the memory of her wide-eyed panic as she'd backedaway sending a thrill through me. She could run all she wanted. I'd already found her.
