Chapter 92 How Could It Be Me?

Chapter 92 How Could It Be Me?

Isabella's POV

The thick, burning length of him pressed hard against my inner thigh through the rough denim of his jeans.

His hands still gripped my waist, his rough thumbs rubbing back and forth along my curves.

I was falling for him.

Hopelessly falling for my boyfriend's brother.

But how pathetic was that?

I thought he'd brought me to meet his war buddies tonight because I was special to him.

I thought he'd held me all night on that twin bed because he had feelings for me.

But I was wrong.

He'd gotten so angry in the car just now. He admitted he liked someone, and that things were "complicated."

How could that person possibly be me?

He was a veteran who'd killed people on the battlefield, who'd seen death more times than he could count.

He came from a wealthy family. He'd met all kinds of incredible women.

How could he possibly want a broke student living in a crappy apartment who'd had to save for three years just to buy a decent violin?

And on top of that, I was his brother's girlfriend.

He was only nice to me because he couldn't stand Maurice's weakness.

He was just acting on some strong-man instinct—pity, protection.

Those hands on my waist burned like fire, stirring up a dirty hope deep inside me.

I wanted so badly for him to say my name right now.

I wanted him to tear my clothes off, right here in this dark parking lot, throw me down on the hood, and take me completely.

I wanted him to use that burning part of him to fill every empty space inside me.

He lowered his head, his lips almost brushing my nose.

His breathing grew heavier. He opened his mouth, his voice rough and raw. "Isabella, her name is—"

"Isabella? Terrence? Is that you guys back?"

A familiar voice called out from the apartment building entrance nearby.

Maurice.

That voice was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head and flooding down to my feet.

Terrence's body went rigid.

The wild, consuming desire in his eyes vanished the instant he heard Maurice's voice, receding like a tide.

He stepped back, widening the gap.

The rigid heat pressing into me disappeared. Cold air rushed into the space between us, and I hated the sudden emptiness it left behind.

"Over here," Terrence said, his voice already back to that cold, calm tone.

He'd even gotten his breathing under control, as if the man who'd been losing it in the parking lot moments ago wasn't him at all.

I scrambled down from the hood, my legs so weak I could barely stand.

I quickly straightened my messy sweater and took several deep breaths, just barely managing to calm my racing heart.

Maurice walked toward us wearing a gray hoodie and slippers.

"Why were you guys in the parking lot so long?" He yawned, walking up to me without a hint of suspicion.

He reached out naturally and wrapped his arm around my waist.

The same gesture of holding my waist.

But Maurice's hand was soft, without those rough calluses, without that crushing strength, without that burning heat.

My body went stiff as a board.

"Just looking for something in the car." Terrence lied without batting an eye. He shoved one hand in his leather jacket pocket, didn't even glance at me, and strode toward the apartment building on his long legs.

Maurice walked behind him with his arm around me.

"How was tonight? My brother's war buddies didn't scare you, did they?" Maurice looked down at me, his tone caring.

"No... no, they didn't." I stammered, not daring to look up at him.

"That's good." Maurice smiled, then suddenly lowered his head, bringing his lips close to kiss me on the mouth.

I didn't pull away.

Maurice's lips were warm, carrying the scent of that minty toothpaste he always used.

But in that second he kissed me, all I could think about was Terrence's desire-filled eyes on the hood just now, and that terrifying hardness pressed against my inner thigh.

Intense guilt wrapped around me.

Maurice was my boyfriend of one year. He was holding me right now, kissing me.

And just two minutes ago, I'd been craving his brother tearing my clothes off.

I could still feel where Terrence had touched my waist, that rough friction like it had burned into my skin.

I felt completely filthy.

I'd betrayed Maurice—in my mind, in my body's response, I'd completely and utterly betrayed him.

"What's wrong? Your lips are so cold." Maurice pulled back, looking at me with confusion.

"I... I'm just really tired." I looked away frantically, my voice dry. "I rehearsed all afternoon, then ate too much tonight. I want to go upstairs and sleep."

Maurice didn't suspect anything. He gently touched my hair, then lowered his head to plant another kiss on my forehead.

"Okay, go ahead, babe. Good night."

"Good night."

I practically ran up the stairs and burst into the apartment.

Terrence wasn't in the living room.

His bedroom door was shut tight.

I rushed straight into the bathroom and slammed the door locked.

I leaned back against the cold bathroom door, my body slowly sliding down until I collapsed onto the cold tiles.

I buried my face in my knees, my hands gripping my hair hard.

I'd really lost it.

My head was full of Terrence.

Him smoking, him steering with one hand, him cutting meat for me, and him holding me in the dark, protecting me with that arm scarred with thirty-four stitches.

I shook my head frantically, trying to shake those images out of my mind.

I stood up, stripped off all my clothes, and turned on the shower.

I cranked the water temperature to the highest setting.

Scalding hot water pounded down on my head like a waterfall, streaming over my face, neck, and back.

I squeezed out a huge handful of body wash, grabbed a washcloth, and started frantically scrubbing my body.

I scrubbed hard at my waist.

That's where Terrence's rough hands had gripped me.

I scrubbed until my skin turned red, until it stung—but the tingling sensation from his touch wouldn't wash away.

I moved down from my waist, scrubbing hard at my inner thighs.

Just now in the parking lot, the hard, burning length of him had pressed right there. Even through the jeans, I could feel its shape and heat.

"Wash it off... wash it off..."

I bit my lip hard, tears mixing with the hot shower water and flowing down the drain.

I had to stop all of this.

I had to stop all these feelings for him.

Maurice was my boyfriend.

We'd been together for a whole year.

Maurice might be clueless, might always leave me behind—but he'd gotten down on his knees and begged me this morning. He was trying to change, trying to be a proper boyfriend.

How could I, at a time like this, crave a man who could never possibly be mine?