Falling for you

Chapter Four

ISABELLA

The mysterious vision of a man that strides out of the shadows before me is the embodiment of stark masculinity and hot, primal eroticism. He has been bestowed with the godlike classical features of the perfect Vitruvian man, cut from the mud of a battlefield, and moulded by war and its brutal instruction.

Although he doesn't look a day over thirty, his eyes seasoned with experience—only years past can cause—tell me the story of enough witnessed horrors for several lifetimes. The evidence of time graces the edges of the buzz-cut sides of his glistening ebony hair with an imperceptible salt and pepper, which only seems to triple his desirability. The dim amber glow of the rowdy interior casts shadows along the porch, dancing across his face.

Under his spell, my feet move me forward to get a better glimpse of his enigmatic eyes. Are they deep emerald green? Cerulean blue? The dusky light kindles, and flickers a shining beam over his dark flint eyes. They are a shady grey. A shade of charcoal. The storm of conflictive emotions, brewing in those eyes, breaks, as his silver-plated orbs sparkle with only one—desire. Judge’s desire demands answers, but what they crave most is me, and I struggle to deny him either. So I let my hair fall to cover my face. To assess, to protect, he will not get into my head.

I feel a stress rhyme coming on. Isabella, keep it together.

He asks me something, but the breath that wracks through me has my head shaking before I can acknowledge what and how to respond.

“M—Me? I… I’m nobody really.” This takes me back to school.

I wonder, why?

I mean, it might have something to do with me standing in front of my bully’s father, who’s concerned and expectant. The parents back then weren’t aware of my tortured rapport with their eldest children. Nevertheless, I make a mental note to not walk out of here by the end of the night, having agreed to tutor Jake.

His velvety, soft, and sun-kissed skin from hard outdoor labour and a plethora of covert tours in barren desert landscapes dress his taut muscles and deep divots, baring the punishing scars worn with the grim honour of a warrior.

Soldiers, bikers, nothing else but brutes, classless, and misogynistic Jarheads. However, Judge dispels all those archetypical stereotypes with dapper class and quiet luxury. He doesn’t need TV shows like Succession to acknowledge chic elegance. For taste is not a trend or fad, it has always been around, and Judge has long been acquainted with and a master of it.

The roadmap of veins that line his strapping and tattooed arms draw my eyes up to the black Armani T-shirt, and the only item of clothing with the most inconspicuous and tiny bird-shaped logo. The rest of the ensemble could go completely unnoticed to the untrained eye. However, I still bask in how his black straight-cut Bottega Veneta jeans hug his pinch-worthy, firm, and well-rounded buttocks. Reluctantly, dragging my gaze down, I spot a pair of bespoke, military-grade, all-black, hard Dunner boots. A dead giveaway that he is probably Special Forces, or part of the Marine Corps. The expensive Hublot-Big Bang Tourbillon timepiece on his sinewy and lean wrist, merely bolsters my initial suspicions of what they actually do around here.

Judge, as his name suggests along with Roadster’s warning, doesn’t miss a thing. And his infuriatingly sexy smirk tells me he knows exactly what I’m looking at and what I’m thinking. He nails the point home by putting on his Bugatchi soft leather biker jacket patched with his name, station, and MC on the back.

Ugh! What is this conceited drop-dead gorgeous eye candy doing to me?

Judge exudes s*x and power as I feel the unmistakable force of his panty-dropping stride, pulling me in like the gravity of the moon does to the oceans. His magnetic allure comes in rolling waves, crushing against the rock of my defying stare. A tangible pulse draws us closer, as I battle not to fall to my knees, and steel my shoulders to resist his clear play for dominance.

He’s the president of a band of bikers, and he’s used to getting his way. His efforts are aimed at making me flinch and crack under pressure, but I won’t let my determination cave. And the memory of Matthew certainly doesn’t deserve my tears.

“Can you please describe this, Jake Taylor?” His eyes are pleading with regret and some sort of history, but I can’t let my ingrained affinity to please people take over. No matter how much Judge, the sexiest Herculean hunk that I’ve ever seen, tries to cloud my thoughts.

What if it’s all a trap to test what I’m willing to say?

“I am not a tattletale. Bullies always know, and I don't need any more trouble.” It's a battle of wills, and I have had too many showdowns with superiors not to know how to act. Yet, the chemistry, making me quiver with just one look, is insisting that I stop running. That I stop being afraid. That I stop feeling caged. That I stop suppressing all the hurt, and that I finally change my mind.

Look, I’m not as much of a gullible doormat as everybody thinks I am. Being nice is not the same as being stupid. Jake is the carbon copy of this man, and odds suggest they are most likely related. Once you factor in the age difference and the average childbearing age of south-eastern American States—according to his devilishly charming accent—Jake is most likely his son. They practically look like a before and after, and his bogus description isn’t fooling anyone. Yet again, something about Judge—perhaps that he is hotter than Lucifer and has a third leg for a p***s—makes me want to please him. So I play his game, matching by memory each of the nonsense features he described with his own.

That infernally smoking charm he emanates gets me to take a huge gamble, in hopes that we both want the same. For Jake to learn a lesson, and leave me alone. No punishment, just peace. Words won’t erase all his done, like words didn’t stop him. Even after everything, that's all I want.

I will put my fate and fortune at Judge’s mercy. For this is what this is: a chance, and if I didn't have bad luck I wouldn't have any luck at all. So I give that sentiment the metaphorical middle finger, and disclose the truth. Give this chance, a chance. And maybe, just, maybe. This won’t be stupid and insane, but recklessly genius and brave.

Ah, my brain does love a full circle.

When he confirms that Jake is indeed his son, the confession is too much. It makes me want to curl up in a ball, but I have chosen to trust and by all that’s holy, I will try. Women, however, always need to worry about safety, and I forgot that when I embarked on this rash path to resolution. So, I make the savvy decision to text Enzo in the panicked prelude to a possible episode. My fingers fly blindly across the screen in an incoherent sequence of letters that will emphasise the emergency of the situation. But I’m confident he’ll understand, as he has a sixth sense of all things pertaining to me. And the w******p double tick lets me know it went through.

Thank goodness, Enzo installed that ‘Find My iPhone’ app.

The charming devil invites me in. Just a couple of drinks, I tell myself, but I pause at the threshold.

My throat closes up. My lungs seem to collapse on themselves, as my chest caves into choking anxiety and my eyes stare at the point of no return.

Am I really going to cross the line?

I step backwards. My knees fractionally buckle, and I itch to go back to the welcomed openness of the veranda, for I am close to hyperventilating. My soul feels like it’s being split into two, debating whether to go inside or stay outside, but then it happens.

In the corner of my eye, I see him shifting his impossibly big erection, and the phallic fantasy that takes over turns me on like the flick of a switch. The click in the air is immediate, electric, and candescent. A live current surges under my skin, setting all my senses alight, and spurring me forward through the door. My freewill gives into the basic appetites of the black horse in Plato’s Phaedrus allegory.

To stop thinking, and take my own torch. To take what I want. And for once, to let it weigh and steer me into the eager, the impulsive, and the concupiscent.

I let my head go quiet, and then I hear the gallop of…

♪♫♪ My señorita’s heart go, chick-chicky-boom, chick-chicky-boom, chick-chicky boom. ♪♫♪