"Oh but I don't want to stop, Kian," Isabella said, licking her lips slowly as her eyes gleamed with mischief.
Her voice was low—silky, teasing, the kind that wrapped itself around your ears and settled somewhere deep in your chest. And the way she stood there, so unbothered, so completely in control, with her arms folded and her chin tilted up, it was maddening.
Kian didn't move.
His jaw tightened. His hand, still buried gently in her hair, flexed as if torn between pulling her closer or letting her go.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he said, voice low and raspy now, something shifting in it.
Isabella took a single step closer, her body brushing against his. Her head tilted just enough to keep her lips near his jawline.
"Oh, I'm not playing," she whispered, her breath hot against his neck. "You think I'm trying to fluster you, Kian? Baby, I came here flustered."
He blinked down at her, and for the first time, there was something different in his gaze.
Not amusement.
