Chapter 12
Izzy “He just pulled up.” Izzy watched through the window as Blake got out of his car - God, he was huge - and slammed the door. He was wearing jeans and a grey sweatshirt that made his chest look ridiculously wide, and of course, his hair looked like he’d driven all the way over with his windows down. She let go of the blinds she’d been peering through and turned around. “He’s here.” The Darkling stared at her from the couch as if she bored him. Stupid cat. Blake knocked on the front door. “Gah!” Izzy froze and gasped and whispered, all at the same time. “What do I do?” Stop talking to the cat, for starters, you dipshit. Izzy tugged on the bottom of her shirt - she’d selected her fuzzy red sweater and boyfriend jeans - and tucked her hair behind her ears. She was hella jittery at the thought of facing him after the couch kissing. Yes, they’d texted all day so things were okay between them, but what if it was weird face-to-face? She sprinted over to the couch, grabbed the cat, and went back to the door. Somehow, holding The Darkling felt like protection. Or a distraction. Or…something. Izzy shifted the cat in her arms and pulled open the door. “Hey.” It was a small word, a casual, one-syllable utterance, but the way Blake said it made her breath catch. It was fast and breathless as his dark gaze moved all over her face, like he was searching for something specific. He looked tense, intense, and she couldn’t stop herself from glancing at his mouth and remembering how it’d felt on hers. “Hey,” she replied, turning her attention to the cat in her arms because looking at him without thinking about the kiss was impossible. “Listen, Iz, I need to talk to you.” She nudged the door open all the way so he could come in. Be cool, Izzy, she thought as he came inside and she closed the door behind him. She intended to sound normal, but heard herself say, in a weird, surfer-variation of her voice, “What’s up, bro?” Gah – yeah, that’s not weird at all. Blake took a small step closer, crowding her against the door. Instead of looking up at him, she looked at The Darkling, instead. In fact, she became incredibly interested in petting his fluffy fir. His voice was thick and deep when he said, “Why won’t you look at me?” Izzy blinked and rubbed her lips together. Said, “I’m not--” “Isabella Shay.” He moved, and before she knew what he was doing, he took the cat from her arms and set The Darkling onto the floor. She sighed and looked up at him. Oh, damn. “Blake Phillips.” She meant to say more, maybe, but her heart started thumping as he stepped a little closer. She looked up at his hot eyes and felt a little light-headed when he said— “I’m going to fucking lose my mind if you don’t let me talk to you.” “So talk,” she said, intending to sound unaffected but failing to pull it off when her voice came out breathy and almost a whisper. “Izzy,” he said, setting his palms on the door, one on each side of her. “We’re about to play a bit of a trust exercise. Okay?” “Hard pass,” she said, her every cell focused on the way his body had hers caged in, against the door. “The last time I did one of those trust things, Josh let me fall and I bruised my tail bone. I couldn’t sit comfortably for weeks, the wang.” “Not that kind of trust exercise. This is more of a look into my eyes and just trust me sort of thing.” “Oh-kay,” she said, raising her eyes to his, feeling like gravity was pulling her toward him. Her voice was gruff when she said, “I’ll play.” “Good.” Blake swallowed and said, “So we both know there are rules that have prevented us from…getting closer.” Izzy tried for casual again by saying, “Employee handbook, thou art a beotch.” “Right.” His eyes moved all over her face for a moment and then he said, “I can’t – I won’t –give you any details at this point, but I think we can be more than friends. If we want to.” “What?” Izzy had to be misunderstanding. “How? What does that mean?” “I’m afraid I can’t answer any questions at this time,” he said, looking a little uncomfortable. “Trust exercise, remember?” She watched him, her eyes memorizing every handsome plane of his face as she knew she’d go along with anything he wanted. She did trust him. His Adam’s apple dipped when he swallowed, and then he said, “I’m fine with staying the way we are, though, so no pressure if that’s what you want.” He watched her and wowww - she nearly melted from the look. His jaw flexed and their breath mingled and the world held still for a second when their eyes locked. They moved together the tiniest bit, a nearly imperceptible sway, as if one was a magnet, the other steel. Izzy’s throat felt dry as her eyes traveled over his face. She managed to breathe out the words, “I, um, I would very much like to explore more than--” His mouth cut her off, landing hard on hers as he inhaled sharply, like he’d been woken from a dream. He angled his head and went deep, and Izzy forgot what every kiss before this felt like. She couldn’t hear or see or breathe anything but him; he was her center. His mouth went wild on hers, kissing her like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do, and she raised her hands and set them on his chest. Grasped at his sweatshirt, needing to get closer. To get more. His palms stayed planted on the door as his body pressed against hers, as he stepped even closer. She could feel the heat of him, of that solid, warm body, and she felt hungry. Starved. She fisted his shirt and bit down on his lower lip, which made him grunt and press closer still. “That kiss yesterday fucking gutted me,” he said against her lips. “It’s all I’ve thought about since.” “Was that you,” she said breathlessly, without opening her eyes, thrilled at the thought of him being even half as obsessed as she’d been. “I dreamt about it last night.” “Tell me,” he said, moving his mouth down to lick at her neck. “Can’t,” she said, melting as he nipped her skin and made her burn all over. “Too embarrassing.” “Come on,” he said, his tongue sliding over the spot. She sighed, letting her head fall back to give him better access. “Tell me anyway,” he growled, his voice raspy in her ear as he nipped her earlobe. “Where were we?” “In your room,” she said, struggling to form words as he kissed her throat. “New bed.” He raised his head and looked a little wild-eyed. “Naked?” “So naked,” she said, and the look on his face when she said that told her they were about to have sex against her front door. And she’d never wanted anything more. Her hands found the bottom of his hoodie and slid underneath, touching the taut, hot skin of his shredded stomach - holy shit. He sucked in a breath as his palms gave way to his forearms on the door, putting his body flush against hers without the tiniest bit of space between them. “Iz.” She felt the heat of his gaze before his mouth went back to hers, feeding her unbridled kisses that made her push herself against him. He picked her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, taking every hot kiss he delivered as he carried her toward the hall. Her fingers drove into his hair and she wondered how it was possible to feel so much. She was weakened by it, the power of her want, while at the same time feeling strength in every meeting of their mouths. She wanted nothing in the world but Blake, nothing in the world but the two of them in that moment. It didn't seem possible, but he was everything to her in that white-hot minute. He made a sound in his throat, but instead of walking into her bedroom, he turned. He walked through the kitchen - or it seemed like the kitchen but she was too lost in his lips and the way his teeth toyed with her lower lip to worry about geography - and then-- Then he set her down on the kitchen table. She opened her eyes - which was far more difficult than it sounded - and he was looking down at her with so much sex in his eyes that she felt dizzy. His face was flushed as he said, “I have an idea.” Holy shiiiiiiit, Mr. Chest wanted kitchen table action? She tried to sound chill when she removed all ten fingers from his thick hair and casually said (as her blood pressure hit what must’ve been a catastrophic range because her hands started shaking and her lips felt tingly), “Change of plans, Phillips?” "Yeah." He ran a thumb over her cheek and said, “I want to take you out.”
Blake He watched that little wrinkle form between her eyebrows, like she was confused. Yeah, he got that. He was alone with Izzy and they were finally free to do whatever the hell they wanted, yet he was pumping the brakes. Idiot much? But the thing of it was, he really liked Iz. He liked being friends with her, regardless of the shape of her body (perfect) and the pretty of her face. He liked the smell of her hair and the way her nose squinched when she grinned, but he loved her smartass fuckery even more. So much so that now, on the eve of their interpersonal possibilities being suddenly green-lit and wide-open, he was nervous that rushing to sex might somehow screw everything up. He said, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but zero-to-one-hundred seems unwise. Should we maybe stop for dinner?” Izzy blinked up at him before she said, “Wait. You’re hungry?” “No,” he said, soothed by the fact that she looked just as disoriented as he felt. “I’m asking if you’ll go to dinner with me tonight.” “Well, I don’t know,” she said, blinking faster. “Where are you going to take me?” “Wherever you want,” he said, and he realized he meant it. He looked at that upturned face and felt a little unnerved by how willing he was to give her whatever she wanted, do whatever she requested. “So Paris for dinner sounds good,” she said, reaching out a hand to tug on the strings of his hoodie. “But only if we wear berets. Do you have a beret?” “Negative. No one looks good in a beret.” “Audrey Hepburn did,” she said. “Debatable,” he replied. God, he was so into the way he never knew what was going to come out of her mouth that it had become problematic. He texted and called her way too often, but honestly - talking to her was all he ever wanted to do. He said, “And no berets.” “Fine.” She grinned, giving him her full-scale smile as she leaned back on her arms. “How about dinner in Tuscany?” You’re picky,” he said, leaning down to rub his nose against her collarbone because something about it was driving him wild, “And real Italian spaghetti is nothing like what you’re used to. I’m afraid you’ll starve.” He lifted his head and wondered how a smartass smirk could make him feel so unbalanced. “So Italy is out, then, because obviously spaghetti is the only possible dinner item.” She pursed her lips, like she was seriously considering their options, and said, “Then all that’s left is Johnny’s Steakhouse down on L Street, I guess.” “Perfect,” he said, needing to kiss her again. He lowered his mouth, hypnotized by the way she looked at him, and just when his lips touched hers she said, “But I can’t go with you to your garage now.” He pulled back from the kiss. “Why not?” “You know.” She shrugged and rubbed her nose against his, soft and slow as her breath touched his lips, and it caused a bizarre physical reaction. The movement made something in his chest pinch, and now he was convinced he was losing his mind, because fucking chest pinches in response to physical contact were not a real thing for grown-ass adults. “I do not know,” he managed, and pulled back a little father. “You’re bailing on me?” “Here’s the thing, Mister Chest,” she said, scooting over on the table just enough to drop her feet to the floor and stand. He watched as she tucked her hair behind her ears, took a deep breath, then hit him with, “If I see you in coveralls with a wrench in your hand, there’s no telling where the afternoon will go. And as lovely as that…imagining sounds, I really want to go on a date with you tonight.” “Dammit, Shay,” Blake bit out through gritted teeth as sexual images of he and Izzy on the trunk of her car came at him, “I told you I don’t have coveralls.” That made her snort and tap her forehead with her index finger. “But you do up here.” He couldn’t hold back the smile, just like he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and giving her ponytail a tug. “So I have to go to Springfield by myself because you’re a little pervert?” She shrugged again and said around a giggle, “So it would seem.” “That's not fair.” “Life isn't fair.” “You’re an asshole,” he said, pulling his keys out of the front pocket of his jeans. “Did you know that?” “An asshole who will Facetime you through the entire repair.” She slid her fingers through his and pulled him behind her, through the kitchen and toward the door. Her small hand in his, tugging him along, caused that fucking idiotic chest-pinch thing again, which would’ve pissed him off if she hadn’t made him laugh by saying, “The only difference will be that I cannot digitally goose you while you lean over my engine.” “You would’ve goosed me?” he asked, releasing her hand to mess with the tendrils around her face that had fallen out of her ponytail. “Digitally?” “Ohmigod, you know what I mean,” she said, laughing and batting at his hands. “I was referring to the method of communication, not the method of goosing.” She went up on her tiptoes and kissed him then, and he was still grinning like an idiot when he climbed into his car and put the keys in the ignition, twenty minutes later. He was about to pull away when the phone buzzed in his pocket. He expected it be his little smartass, but it was an email from his Brad, instead. He was miles away from caring enough to read it - it was Saturday, for God’s sake - when he saw the subject line. Re: Reconfigured Org Chart - V.2 (revised) "Sonofabitch." Blake got that feeling in his gut, the one that told him he was going to fucking hate that message, and he rubbed his temple with his fingers. Shit, shit, shit. But just as he was about to click the link, he closed the email app, instead. "Nope," he muttered to himself, putting the phone back in his pocket and buckling his seat belt. He pulled away from the curb, stood on the gas pedal, and made the decision to ignore his messages until Monday morning.