Wear Mine Instead.
775 Words
ISLA’S POV
His voice came out rough, strained, like gravel dragged over velvet.
“What you told me to do.” I lifted my chin, defiant even as my knees felt weak. “You don’t want me in her clothes. I have nothing else. So I took them off. Happy now? I’ll just walk around naked like this.”
The bacon popped and hissed behind him, but neither of us moved. The air crackled, thick with unspoken need and the dangerous line we were both toeing. I could see the war raging behind his eyes – guilt, hunger, the iron grip of loyalty to my father clashing violently with the raw lust etching every line of his powerful body.
For several charged seconds, silence stretched, broken only by our ragged breathing.
Then he let out a low, guttural sound.
Definitely sounded like a Russian curse. I’d made him curse twice in 12 hours.
He reached for the buttons of his own shirt. His fingers fumbled slightly, betraying the tight control he was fighting to keep. When the last button gave way, he shrugged the fabric off his broad shoulders, revealing the sculpted chest I’d only glimpsed last night: hard muscle, faint scars, that tempting trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
He stepped closer, so near I could smell his cologne mixed with the rich aroma of coffee and the bacon he was making.
Without a word, he held the warm shirt open for me.
I slipped my arms into the sleeves. The fabric still carried his body heat, wrapping around me like a sinful embrace.
His knuckles brushed the sensitive side of my breast as he began buttoning it up – slow, deliberate, each pass of his fingers grazing my skin in touches that felt anything but accidental. Every light contact sent electric shivers racing straight to my core. I bit the inside of my cheek hard to trap the sigh threatening to escape.
When he reached the final button, his hands lingered over my stomach, palms warm through the thin material. Our eyes locked. The whole world narrowed to the heat of his touch, the stormy gray of his gaze, the way my legs trembled beneath me.
“You look…” His voice emerged rough and low, thick with everything he wasn’t saying. He cleared his throat, but his hands stayed exactly where they were. “I’ll get you proper clothes today. Whatever you want. Just… not hers.”
I nodded, throat too tight to speak. Neither of us stepped back. The oversized shirt hung to mid-thigh on me, covering everything and somehow making me feel more naked than when I’d been bare. My skin tingled where his fingers had brushed. My heart refused to slow.
He finally bent to retrieve the discarded clothes from the floor, his hands settling briefly on my hips. Firm, possessive, searching for balance as he straightened.
I imagined him taking a look on my bare p***y already wet for him, as he crouched on the floor.
He didn’t.
He just rose and placed the clothes on the counter and turned back to the stove like nothing had happened, flipping the bacon with a forced calm.
I stood there, drowning in his scent, body still humming from the almost-contact. How could he switch back to normal so easily?
Like he hadn’t just stripped me with his eyes and dressed me in his own shirt while fighting not to devour me?
“I’m sorry for touching your wife’s clothes,” I muttered, the words tasting sour.
“Ex-wife,” he corrected without looking at me. “And it’s fine.”
Just “fine.” No explanation. No softening.
He slid a plate of perfectly cooked eggs and bacon in front of me, then poured coffee, his fingers brushing mine on the mug in a spark that shot straight between my legs.
That casual dismissal ignited something ugly and unfamiliar in my chest – sharp and underlined jealousy that burned hotter than the coffee. Tiana.
The woman who had once had every right to him. Who he had chosen. Who he clearly still protected with such fierce loyalty that even her old clothes were sacred ground. While I remained the pathetic little girl in the pink room full of stuffed animals.
I stared at the plate, appetite suddenly gone.
“Why aren’t you eating?”
“Remember what you said? I’m only a guest here. No right to touch anything that isn’t mine.”
His jaw clenched visibly. I turned on my heel and walked away before he could respond.
Maybe I was being petty but it felt justified.
- Writer
