Chapter 9: My friend’s son 3

Isla had done everything right for three days.

She ignored his texts.

Dodged his calls.

Focused on work, took long showers, cleaned obsessively, and even tried meditating—which only lasted three minutes before her mind wandered back to him. To the way his lips had felt on her neck. To the way his voice had cracked slightly when he whispered her name.

She told herself it was over. A moment of madness. Nothing more.

But by the fourth night, alone in her dimly lit living room, with her second glass of wine in hand and soft jazz humming from the stereo, she let herself feel the silence—and it hurt.

The ache between her thighs hadn’t fully faded. The taste of Liam’s mouth still lingered like a secret. And her bed? It felt colder than it had in months.

She stared at her phone. The clock read 10:47 PM.

Her thumb hovered over his name for too long before she typed it:

Are you up?

The message sent.

No emoji. No explanation.

Just enough to shatter everything she’d tried to rebuild.

Ten minutes later, her doorbell rang.

She opened it to find Liam standing there—his shirt tight around his chest, hair tousled, his eyes burning with barely contained hunger.

Neither of them said a word.

He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and turned to face her. She stood barefoot in a long silk robe, the tie barely knotted, her hair messy from pacing.

“You texted,” he said, his voice low, dark.

Isla nodded slowly, swallowing. “I shouldn’t have.”

He stepped closer. “But you did.”

There was no more pretending.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was hard and possessive and utterly consuming. His hands gripped her waist as he backed her against the wall, mouth devouring hers like he’d been starving for days.

She gasped when his thigh slid between hers, and he lifted her effortlessly. Her robe slipped open, exposing the skin he craved. She felt the cool air hit her breasts, but all she could focus on was the heat of him—his body, his mouth, the way he growled when he saw her bare.

“You’re so fckng beautiful,” he rasped, trailing his mouth down her collarbone, biting gently. “I’ve dreamed about this.”

“Liam…” she moaned, clinging to his shoulders. “I need you.”

“Say it again.”

“I need you.”

He carried her to the bedroom, lips never leaving her skin, and laid her down gently on the sheets. Her robe was gone in seconds. He stood above her for a moment, just looking, breathing hard.

“God, Isla,” he murmured, eyes blazing, “you don’t know what you do to me.”

She reached for him, pulling him down. He kissed every inch of her—her throat, the swell of her breasts, her stomach, her hips.

And then he lowered himself further.

“Let me taste you,” he said, voice husky, and before she could respond, his mouth was on her.

Her back arched.

His tongue was slow, deliberate, teasing at first—but when she grabbed the sheets and whimpered his name, he groaned and deepened the pressure. She was soaked, trembling beneath him, thighs gripping his head as he took her apart with every flick and sck.

She came with a scream, hips bucking, body unraveling in waves.

But he wasn’t done.

He kissed his way back up, lips slick with her release, and looked her in the eye.

“You’re mine tonight,” he said, gently parting her legs again. “All mine.”

When he entered her, it was slow. Thick. Deep.

She cried out at the stretch, at how full she felt, at how good it was.

He didn’t rush. He moved with control, rolling his hips until she was gasping his name again and again. He kissed her lips, her neck, held her hand above her head, intertwining their fingers as he whispered, “Look at me.”

And she did.

She looked into his eyes as he thrust into her, faster now, rougher, as the need overtook them both. The bed creaked, the air filled with the sound of skin and breath and moans.

She came again—harder, messier—clawing at his back as he followed her, groaning her name into her shoulder as he emptied himself inside her.

They collapsed together, breathless, soaked in sweat.

Minutes passed.

His arm draped around her, pulling her close. He kissed her temple. She stared at the ceiling, her heart still pounding.

“This was a mistake,” she whispered.

He didn’t flinch. Just stared at her like he already knew she’d say that.

“Then why did it feel so right?” he replied softly.

She closed her eyes, hating how good the answer felt in her chest.

Because it did feel right.

It felt like more than lust. It felt like something dangerous and beautiful and impossible to undo.

But she didn’t say any of that.

She turned her face into his chest, and let the silence answer for her.