Chapter 10: My friend’s son 4

Isla wasn’t sure when the thrill had turned to dread and anxiety.

Maybe it was the night she kissed Liam in the shadows of her garage, barely pulling away before his mother walked in through the back door. Maybe it was the dinner party where his hand slid between her thighs under the table, and she bit her lip so hard it left a mark. Or maybe it was this morning, when she saw Marcie’s number flash on her phone and felt panic, not excitement.

It was too much. Too risky. Too much what ifs! What will people say?

And Isla wasn’t reckless—not anymore.

Which is why she stood in her bedroom now, her suitcase halfway packed, folding clothes with shaky hands, forcing herself to breathe.

Just a weekend at her sister’s. A break. Distance. She will text Liam after she left. Say she needed to think. Needed space. It would hurt, but it was better than being found out. Better than destroying friendships and reputations and—

The door swung open.

She froze.

Liam stood in the doorway, hair tousled, chest heaving, his eyes burning with pain, betrayal, and disbelief.

“You weren’t going to tell me?”

Isla exhaled. “Liam…”

“You were just going to leave?”

“I need time,” she said, voice brittle. “I need to clear my head.”

He stepped in and shut the door behind him. Clicked the lock.

“That’s not clearing your head, Isla. That’s running away.”

She turned back to the suitcase. “It’s protecting you.”

“From what?” His voice rose. “From the fact that I want you? From the fact that I can’t stop thinking about you? From the truth?”

She clenched a dress in her hand, refusing to turn around. “From your mother finding out. People! About what will society say! From the mess this will cause. From us.”

There was silence—a long, aching pause. And then…

“Then tell me to stop,” he said quietly. “Tell me this was nothing. Tell me you don't feel anything! Tell me to walk out of this room, and I will.”

She turned to face him.

He was standing there, jaw clenched, fists at his sides, barely holding himself back.

She opened her mouth. But nothing came out.

“Tell me to stop, Isla,” he repeated, stepping closer, voice rough, desperate. “Say the words.”

She looked at him, his face flushed, his eyes storming with hurt and heat, and her lips parted, but all that escaped was a whisper:

“I can’t.”

That was all it took.

He crossed the space between them in two strides and crashed his mouth against hers. It was a kiss that bruised, that burned, that dared the world to stop them. Her suitcase hit the floor as he lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the bed, not gently this time but urgently. Desperately.

Clothes were stripped away in seconds, tossed carelessly around the room. Her back hit the mattress, and his body followed, hot and hard and home.

There were no slow touches tonight. No teasing.

This wasn’t making love.

This was need.

This was claiming.

This was everything unsaid spilling out through skin.

He pinned her hands above her head with one arm, his other sliding between her thighs, fingers finding her slick and ready. She was already gasping, hips bucking as he toyed with her, lips trailing over her jaw, her throat.

“Look at me,” he growled against her skin.

She did.

“You’re not leaving me,” he whispered, pushing two fingers inside her. “You’re mine.”

She moaned, helpless under his touch.

He flipped her over, pulling her to her knees, her face buried in the pillows as he gripped her hips. When he thrust into her, it was deep, brutal, perfect. She screamed his name, her body arching with each stroke. He slammed into her like he was trying to brand himself inside her.

And maybe he was.

Because she was his. In every way.

“Say it,” he panted, pulling her up so her back was against his chest. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she sobbed. “I’m yours, Liam.”

He groaned, biting down on her shoulder as he spilled into her, shaking with release.

They collapsed onto the bed, limbs tangled, drenched in sweat, hearts pounding like war drums.

Minutes passed. Then hours.

Somewhere between tangled sheets and the soft glow of dawn, Isla lay on her side, facing the suitcase still lying open on the floor.

Liam’s arm curled around her waist.

“You’re not going, are you?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

She was silent for a long time.

And then…

“No,” she whispered. “I’m staying.”

He kissed her shoulder and pulled her closer.

And for the first time in weeks, Isla let herself believe that maybe, just maybe… she wasn’t ruining her life.

Maybe she was finally choosing it.