CHAPTER 7. Morning Heat
672 Words
Sunlight stabbed through the curtains, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. Isabella groaned, head pounding, the bitter tang of champagne lingering on her tongue. Her limbs ached pleasantly, a reminder of the reckless abandon of last night.
She blinked, trying to piece together fragments—the music, the laughter, the way Dom had pressed her against the wall, the reckless electricity between them. And then her eyes adjusted.
He was there. Reclined casually on the edge of the bed, shirt half-open, hair tousled just enough to be dangerously perfect. And that damn smirk—the one that made her stomach twist—was aimed straight at her.
“You’re awake,” he said, voice low and teasing, like a cat that had cornered a mouse.
“I… yes,” she muttered, mind scrambling. “You—uh…” Words failed her.
He leaned back, relaxed, as if nothing could touch him. “Coffee? Water? Or do you want to lie here and relive last night?”
She blinked, cheeks burning. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Or maybe I’m exactly what you need.”
Her chest tightened. The pulse in her veins thundered, and she hated herself for feeling it. For wanting it. For him.
“Insane… exactly what I need… great,” she muttered under her breath, brushing hair from her face.
He laughed softly, a deep, low sound that made her knees feel weak. “You like it.”
She froze. “I—what? No. I mean—maybe. But that’s not… I can’t—”
“Relax,” he said smoothly, leaning forward to brush a careless kiss across her temple. “We don’t need to think. Not now. Just… feel.”
Isabella let out a soft laugh, half frustration, half relief. Her body remembered the night more vividly than her mind did, every touch, every heated whisper, the way Dom had made her forget herself entirely.
Minutes stretched into an unspoken rhythm, neither speaking, just existing in the heat of the morning, the messy sheets, the hum of electricity between them.
“You’re reckless,” she whispered finally, voice trembling.
“And you love it,” he countered, smirking.
Her lips parted, heart thudding, and she almost laughed at herself. Almost. Because she did. She did love it. She loved being wanted, loved being seen, loved letting herself finally let go of all her invisible chains.
He tilted his head, watching her with that intense gaze, and she felt a thrill of danger, of desire, of knowing she was completely exposed to him, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just held her there, like a storm she couldn’t resist.
“I… I should go,” she said finally, voice tight.
“Why?” he asked casually. “Leave the best part of the night behind?”
“I…” She faltered. Her cheeks burned, not from embarrassment—though that was there—but from the memory of everything that had happened. Her mind raced: Wait, we don’t even know each other. This is insane. This is dangerous.
“Insane, yes,” he said, smirking. “Dangerous? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.”
She wanted to argue. Wanted to run. Wanted to tell him to leave. But she couldn’t. Not when her body still hummed from the memory of last night, not when the spark in his eyes made her feel reckless and alive all at once.
Instead, she lay back, letting herself breathe, letting herself savor the chaos of her own heart, letting herself feel something she had never allowed herself before: completely free, completely hers.
And in that stolen, dangerous morning heat, Isabella realized something she hadn’t expected: she didn’t regret a single second. Not even when the world outside came crashing back.
Not even when she remembered her family waiting, their expectations, the invisible chains of her old life.
Because right now… she didn’t belong to them. She belonged to this moment. To herself.
And to him—Dominic Mercer.
- Writer
