|16| -  "I don't want to talk about it." - 

It was late in the evening when I arrived home. Coffee had turned into dinner, which had turned into coffee again. Things between Jess and Jack remained tense, but they both participated in the conversations and even exchanged a few words themselves when Louisa and I went to order at the bar.

Their company had kept me temporarily distracted from the anticipation of seeing Nathan, but as I searched for my key in the depths of my bag, the earlier anger rose to the surface again. Then it disappeared as soon as I pushed open the door.

Nathan was sitting at the kitchen table, typing away on his laptop, still in work clothes. His hair was longer, a similar length to how it had been when we first met, suggesting he'd not had it cut recently. The dark blonde locks were unrulier than usual, too, as if he'd been running his hands through them, and a desire to scrape my own fingers through his hair overcame me.

He didn't turn to greet me, and I noticed the headphone wires trailing over his chest. His chest somehow seemed larger than before, leading up to broader shoulders and arms which were now so muscular that I could see his biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt.

Despite our issues, something much more primitive flooded through my own body, as if my head was starting to compartmentalise of its own accord.

When he reached across for his glass of water, he caught sight of me and jumped, tearing the headphones out of his ears.

"Bella, hey. Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"It's okay. I just got here." My mouth was dry, my voice hoarse, and my fingers gripped the handle of my suitcase as if I was scared to let go.

Noticing, Nathan glanced down at the case before standing from his chair and striding over.

"Here, let me grab that."

His fingers brushed mine as he wound them around the handle, and I jolted my hand away as if I'd been shocked. He recoiled, frowning in concern.

"We're not so bad that you can't bear to touch me, are we?"

I liked that he wasn't shying away from the issues, but I didn't miss the irony. No, I want you to touch me more than you've ever touched me before. I just shouldn't feel that way right now.

"No, not at all. I've just had a lot of coffee this afternoon. I'm twitchy."

He didn't look like he believed me, but he didn't push the matter. Instead, he carried the suitcase into the bedroom and left me stationary by the door, goose bumps prickling my skin and heat building as his familiar aftershave intoxicated me.

To occupy myself, I concentrated on removing my coat and kicking off my shoes. Then I sank down into the armchair. The sofa was too risky; if he sat next to me, I knew I wouldn't be able to hold back. We'd had sex on that sofa far too many times before. It was too easy.

"Have you eaten?" Nathan asked, emerging from the bedroom.

"Yeah, we went to Prezzo."

"Oh, nice. How's Jess?"

"Not great. Her and Alex have split up."

Horror crossed his face. "Shit, really?"

I nodded. "I only found out today. She didn't want to say anything while I was still in Italy. Typical Jess. Always putting other people before herself..."

Nathan sat down on the sofa and flicked at his top button to undo it. My eyes trailed downwards to the patch of skin it revealed—such a small section, but still hugely enticing. When I lifted my gaze to meet his again, he was watching me, but his expression had changed. The tender look in his eye had been replaced with an intense, heated stare. It was like he was looking straight into my head and knew what I was thinking, what I was feeling, what I wanted to do.

I diverted my attention to the kitchen, breaking the trance. I'd never had to fight this so hard before; I'd never needed to. The more I fought it, the stronger the desire became.

"And you?" Nathan then asked. "How are you doing?"

When I looked back across at him, the heat in his eyes had disappeared, replaced with concern. It didn't make him any less attractive, but it did remind me of the elephant in the room. And I really wasn't in the mood to think about the elephant.

"I'm okay," I said.

"I know we've got a lot to talk about—"

"I don't want to talk about it tonight." And I don't want you being so good about it. Being angry is easier to deal with.

"Okay, but I think we should talk about it at some point because—"

"Me too. It's just been a long day and I'm tired from all the travelling."

"Despite all the coffee you've had?"

He wasn't accusing me of lying but, for the first time that evening, the familiar twinkle in his eye made a brief reappearance.

"Bella, it's fine if you don't want to talk about it tonight. But please don't tread on eggshells. We know each other too well for that."

"I'm not treading on eggshells."

"Okay." It wasn't an I believe you okay; it was an if you say so but I don't believe you okay.

I rolled my eyes and stood up. "I'm going to bed."

He sighed, but I could hear him following me towards the bedroom. I tore off my top and tossed it towards the laundry basket.

"Why are you pissed off?" He was leaning in the doorway, arms casually folded as he watched me hop around to pull off my socks.

"I'm not pissed off. I'm just tired."

"Are you going to use that as an excuse to cover up all your pent-up emotions?"

I could no longer tell if he was asking genuine questions or if he was just pressing my buttons to wind me up. Why would he try to wind me up? I was the one who was angry. Not him.

"I told you, Nathan, I don't want to talk about it. I just want to go to bed."

"I can see that."

When I looked across at him again, the whole atmosphere shifted. If he knew what I wanted so clearly, then why was he still in the doorway, watching me with guarded eyes, instead of coming into the room?

I couldn't think of a comeback. I could only stay trapped in his gaze. We were mere metres apart, too close for comfort, yet too far away for what I wanted. I wanted him to make me uncomfortable. I wanted him to make me squirm against building pleasure, before it became too much to bear and my senses exploded into a thousand shards. I wanted him to be in control; too many weeks had been spent with me calling the shots. I wanted a night off. I wanted him to make me forget everything we'd been going through. I wanted it to be one night of sheer lust where we did things we'd never done before.

I'd seen one relationship end today; I wanted to imagine ours was perfect for one night before we faced the issues. Future Isobel was equipped to deal with those issues. Present Isobel had other things to deal with first.

"Do you need a hand?"

Nathan unfolded his arms and finally stepped through the threshold into the bedroom. I didn't need a hand getting undressed; that wasn't the offer. He knew what I needed. And so I turned my back on him.

When I felt his hand gather my hair to sweep it over my left shoulder, his thumb brushing the nape of my neck, I allowed my eyes to close. His fingers were warm on my back as he unhooked my bra clasp with agonizing leisure. It came loose and every hair on my body seemed to stand up in anticipation when the soft fabric of his shirt touched my bare skin. 

His fingers trailed slowly up my spine, travelling over my shoulder and scooping my strap on the way through. They grazed my left arm, past my elbow, over my wrist, until the left side of my bra slipped completely free from my body. Then he repeated the process for the right side, the pace just as unhurried as before.

Rather than letting my bra drop to the ground, he reached to drape it over the desk chair, his front pressing against my back as he did so.

Still without saying anything, he grasped my hips and spun me around until I hit the wall. The sudden change in pace caught me off-guard and I instinctively grabbed hold of his arms. His eyes, darkened with passion, stared into my own as he peeled my hands away from him and pressed them firmly against the wall. Then his fingers trailed across my stomach until they reached the button on my jeans. His eyes never left mine, even when he sunk to his knees in front of me and began to inch the denim down over my thighs, taking my underwear at the same time.

"Turn around."

My legs trembled with anticipation as I turned to face the wall, and he must have noticed it, too, because his hands did a gentle sweep from my ankles, to my thighs, and then back down to my knees, where his grip tightened. He tugged sharply, not enough to actually cause me to move, but enough to silently convey what he wanted.

I took a step outward.

"More."

I swallowed, widening my stance further, the vulnerability of it causing the heat between my legs to burn hotter.

I felt his breath before anything else, and my legs began to quiver again. Then, without warning, his tongue swept across my folds and I let out a cry, my hands grasping at the wall. He was maintaining his slow technique, not allowing me the sense of urgency I craved. Every time his tongue circled my clit, I felt the orgasm build, before he moved back to probing inside me.

Groaning in frustration, I buried my face in the crook of my elbow. Cool air instantly replaced the warmth of his mouth when he leaned away.

"Problem?" His tone was sinfully dark, daring me to speak up.

"No," I said, clipped.

A short, sharp breath of smug laughter fanned the backs of my thighs. "For the avoidance of doubt, why don't you tell me what you want?"

Avoidance of doubt? I was naked in front of him with my legs spread wide apart. He just wanted me to swallow my pride and beg for him, to shift our current roles, with me at his mercy instead. 

"Just touch me. Please."

"Touch you where?"

I gritted my teeth together, fists clenching against the wall. "Why don't you start touching, and I'll say yes or no."

He hummed in acknowledgement, apparently accepting that compromise. When his head dipped back down between my legs, a long finger sunk deep inside me and curled. 

I rested my head against the wall and moaned. "Yes."

Pulling out, he dragged his touch up to my clit and rubbed in small, precise circles. It was enough to tip me over the edge. My body convulsed around a blend of tongue and fingers, and yet Nathan didn't stop until my cries had died down and I'd ceased writhing.

Then there was silence, my exhausted breaths the only noise until I heard the unmistakeable, metal-on-metal sound of a belt buckle, and the swish of a zip. I was focusing so hard on any audible clues that I jumped when two large palms landed on my hips and his chest pressed up against my back. He was still wearing his shirt. He knew I liked that. He also knew I couldn't see it.

His hand dipped between my legs again, a finger gently sliding inside me with ease and then trailing upwards, over my navel, through the valley of my breasts, along the slope of my throat. It wasn't necessarily an invitation, but I captured the finger in my mouth anyway, sucking hard.

For a brief moment, he seemed to lose control. A moan vibrated against the sensitive flesh of my neck as he nestled his face into the curve of my shoulder. 

As if catching himself, he yanked at my hips and I obligingly bent forwards. No sooner had I gained balance, he plunged into me. My arms took the brunt of the force against the wall, preventing me from being thrown against it under the power of his thrusts. Every time he slammed into me, he would slowly pull back out, wait a few seconds, and then drive deep into me again.

When his breaths became ragged, I knew he was starting to struggle with the slow pace he'd set. Mere seconds later, his soft shirt caressed my back as he leaned over me. His fingers curling around my wrists, his hands covering mine, he quickened his rhythm and pounded into me with greater urgency. With his mouth close to my ear, I could hear every pleasure-filled gasp, in perfect sync with his hips. 

I'd never been so acutely aware of every minor detail during sex, but I knew how I wanted this to end.

"Wait," I gasped.

He froze instantly, loosening his grip on my wrists. Before he could panic and ask what he'd done wrong, I slid from between his arms and dropped to my knees. The curse had barely escaped his mouth before I'd locked my lips around him. It turned into a whimper and then a cry as his hands sunk into my hair, guiding my pace. 

At the last moment, I'd stolen the power from him. It would infuriate him, but he was past the point of no return.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." He exploded, shooting streams of warm liquid into my mouth. 

Confidence zipped through my veins as I watched him unravel above me. I'd been bold. Sexy. Past me would be in awe, and maybe a little horrified, too. 

But as flattering as his intense orgasm was, it seemed to never stop, and my true inexperience came to light when I had to pull away, swallow quickly, and allow the rest to escape me.

When I peered up at his amused face, he knew he'd ended with the upper hand after all. 

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