Page 30 of Undisputed Chaos
I positioned the SUV across the street, beneath a canopy of ancient branches. The engine was silent, and the tinted windows provided the perfect shield.
The seat reclined slightly with the push of a button, giving me an unobstructed view of her world.
And there she was.
Isla stood on her balcony like something from a dream, barefoot and ethereal in a thin white sundress that caught the warm evening breeze.
She moved with unconscious grace, arranging her easel near the railing where the sunset could kiss her canvas.
Her light gold hair was twisted into a messy bun, exposing the delicate curve of her neck and the freckles scattered across her pale shoulders like stardust.
My breath caught as she leaned over to adjust something on her canvas, and the dress gaped slightly, revealing the generous swell of her breasts.
Every curve was angelic perfection—full breasts, narrow waist, hips that flared just right. The Instagram photos hadn't lied, but they hadn't done her justice either.
She was lush, ripe, absolutely fucking edible.
She settled onto a small stool, tucking one leg beneath her, with an unconscious sensuality that made my blood surge south.
The dress rode up, exposing the milky expanse of her thigh, and my fingers tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.
Through my cracked window, I caught the faint sound of music drifting from her balcony. Something classical and complex.
Of course she'd paint to Chopin. It suited her, this blend of class and passion.
I watched her begin to work, her brush moving in confident strokes across the picture.
his was a different Isla than the one who'd run from me in panic. This woman was focused, sure, completely in her element.
Her blue eyes narrowed in concentration, her teeth catching her lower lip in a gesture that made my fingers curl with need togrip.
"Show me who you really are, angel," I murmured, shifting as my jeans grew uncomfortably tight.
The light shifted as sunset deepened, casting her in gold. She paused to stretch, arching her back like a cat, arms raised over her head.
The dress clung to every curve, silhouetting her body against the darkening sky.
When she turned slightly, I caught a glimpse of smooth, bare back—the dress was backless, revealing the curve of her spine and the gentle dimples at its base.
My body responded immediately, blood rushing south so fast it made me dizzy. It was pure agony against my zipper. I gripped myself in my jeans, hissing at the contact.
This wasn't part of the plan. I'd come to observe, learn her patterns, and gather information.
Not to be a literal fucking voyeur and get off to her painting.
But watching her move, seeing the passion with which she approached her art, the unconscious sensuality in the way she tilted her head or flexed her fingers... it was destroying me.
"Fuck," I hissed, unzipping my jeans to relieve the crushing pressure.
My cock sprang free, already fully hard and straining against my boxers.
I palmed myself through the thin fabric, feeling the heavy weight, the impressive girth that had made more than one person’s eyes widen in appreciation, but now was all for Isla.
She dipped her brush in water, the motion causing her dress to slip off one shoulder. She pushed it back up absently, completely unaware of the effect she was having on me from across the street.
There was something addicting about her lack of self-consciousness, the way she existed within her own world, creating beauty while unknowingly being observed.
I couldn't tear my eyes away as I freed myself entirely, wrapping my fingers around my length. The contrast of my tattooed hand against my flushed skin was stark in the fading light.
