His Forbidden Obsession: Tempting The Devil I Can't Have

3

CHAPTER THREE

PLAYING WITH FIRE

I forgot how to breathe.

Alexander Moreau stood three feet away, bare-chested in the moonlight, and my lungs simply stopped working. It was like my lungs had decided oxygen was optional now that he was in the room.

His eyes hadn't left mine.

"Isabella," he said my name again, slower this time. "It's three in the morning."

"I know what time it is."

"Then what are you doing here?"

I should have lied and mumbled something about water and fled back to my room like any sane person would. But my mouth was faster than my brain.

"I couldn't sleep."

"Why?"

Because I can't stop thinking about you, and you've invaded my brain like a virus.

"I just..." I gestured vaguely. "Jet lag. New place. You know how it is."

"No." He set down his glass and turned fully toward me. "I don't. Tell me."

I crossed my arms over my chest, which only drew his eyes there for half a second before they snapped back to my face.

"You're staring," I said.

"So are you."

He wasn't wrong. I couldn't stop. I mean, he was a whole meal.

"Everyone stares at you," I managed. "Camille said you have that effect."

"Camille talks too much."

"She loves you."

Something flickered in his expression. That father love was so clear in his eyes it made me jealous.

"I know."

Silence hit the room, and I knew deep within me that I should go, but my feet refused to move. And again, my mouth worked before my brain did.

"You should put on a shirt.”

His eyebrows rose, complete surprise crossing his face. I had no idea where those words came from.

"Should I?"

"It's distracting."

Oh God… shut up, Izzy.

"Noted." He said without making a move. "You should tie your robe properly."

I looked down. The sash had come loose somewhere between my room and here. The fabric gaped, revealing the thin material of my nightgown, the curve of my…

I yanked it closed so fast I nearly tripped as his smile widened.

"Now we're even," he said.

"That wasn't—I didn't mean to—"

"I know." He picked up his glass again, took a slow sip, and watched me over the rim.

I let out a slow breath to loosen the knot that was tightening in my lower abdomen.

"What are you doing awake? Couldn't sleep either?"

"No."

"Why?"

He considered me for a long moment, long enough that I felt it in my chest, that slow, assessing gaze that made me feel like the only person in the world.

"Business," he said finally. "Complicated business. A phone call I didn't want Camille to hear."

"Your ex-wife?"

His eyes darkened. "How do you know about Élise?"

"Camille talks. Remember?"

"Right." He set down the glass again and crossed his arms over that ridiculous chest, which only made the muscles shift in ways that should be illegal. "What else has Camille told you?"

"That you're her favorite person, your divorce was brutal, you work too much, and you don't date enough."

"Don't date enough?" A genuine smile escaped his mouth. "My daughter worries about my love life?"

"She worries about you. There's a difference."

He studied me again, longer than I expected, and I had to shift on my feet to feel comfortable under his gaze.

"You're different than I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Someone quieter. Someone who'd look away."

"I looked away."

"No." He stepped closer. Just one step, but it felt like ten. "You stared. You're still staring. You've been staring since you walked through that door."

My heart hammered. "So have you."

"True." He took another step and moved closer, close enough that I could smell him—soap and something darker, something that made my knees weak. "But I'm old enough to know better."

"Are you?"

"Apparently not." His eyes dropped to my lips. Just for a second. "You should go back to bed, Isabella."

I should. I absolutely should.

"What if I don't want to?"

The words came out before I could stop them. Bold, stupid, and honest. Something shifted in his expression; the controlled mask cracked, and underneath it was hunger. Raw and barely leashed.

"Isabella." His voice had dropped. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Then tell me."

"You're my daughter's best friend."

"I know."

"You're twenty-four."

"I know that too."

"You have a boyfriend."

That seemed to strike a guilt chord, and I winced, something he noticed.

"For now," I whispered.

His jaw tightened. "That doesn't matter; none of it does. I can't have anything to do with you. It'll be—"

"What?"

"Complicated." He stepped back, putting distance between us. "More complicated than you want to deal with."

I should have let it go, nodded, smiled, and retreated. Instead, I stepped forward.

"What if I don't care about complicated?"

"Then you're naive."

"Maybe." I took another step closer. Close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Or maybe I just know what I want."

His breath caught, and I saw the smallest crack in that perfect control.

"What do you want, Isabella?"

The question hung in the air between us. It was heavy, electrifying, and terrifying at the same time.

What do I want? Him to break his restraint and do exactly what I've been thinking since I laid eyes on him? Have him on top of me and have me squirm beneath him like I wasn't his daughter's best friend?

What are you even doing, Izzy? You have a boyfriend, remember!

My head was swimming with different questions at once, and the last two were trying to be as loud as they possibly could.

Before I opened my mouth to speak again, he stepped closer, leaving no space between us. His natural scent invaded my nostrils, and my brain shut down again.

His voice was thick and dark with everything I wanted. “What do you want, Isabella?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but a door opened somewhere down the hall.