*Isabella's POV*
But then he stopped. Just fucking stopped. His lips left mine and he rested his forehead in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin like he was trying to breathe me in, memorize me. "I… I can't do this, doll. Not tonight." My whole body froze. "Huh? What?" I pulled back, blinking at him in disbelief.
"Not tonight," he repeated, his voice low, rough, almost pained. "Forgive me, but we can't." I just sat there on the counter, glaring at him, my lips still swollen from his kisses, my chest rising and falling too fast. What the actual fuck? He had me right there, burning for him, and he just, backed out?
Before I could get another word out, he straightened, his hands gentle on my waist as he helped me down from the counter like nothing had just happened. "Come," he said softly, like he was trying to soothe a child, "let me walk you to your room."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was tight with frustration, with anger, with confusion. He had that same calm, collected expression plastered on his face, and it made me want to scream.
We walked in silence, his hand ghosting at my back until we reached the door to my room. I slipped inside without looking at him.
"Goodnight, doll," he murmured from the hall. Goodnight? Seriously? That's all he had to say after getting me so wound up? I shut the door and twisted the lock hard, leaning against it for a second as my pulse still hammered through me. My skin still burned where he touched me, and my lips still tingled like they were begging for more.
I slid down the door, hugging my knees, my chest tight with a mess of emotions I couldn't even name. I can't comprehend what just happened right now. Why does Jacob keep playing with me for so fucking long? Why does he pull me in just to shove me back out?
Was he testing me? Protecting me? Or was I just another game to him?
Fuck. I hate this. I hate him. And yet, deep down, I know I don't. The next morning I woke up, groggy, my hair a mess, still pissed about last night. I stretched, sat up, and froze. My eyes landed on the neatly folded stacks of clothes sitting there like they owned the place. Designer shit. Dresses, tops, jeans—tags still on them. What the actual fuck? I shoved the blanket off and stormed downstairs, my bare feet slapping against the polished floors. The smell of bacon hit me before I saw him. There he was—Jacob, standing in the kitchen, shirtless, whistling like his life was sunshine and roses while flipping eggs in a pan. His back flexed with every movement, muscles on full display, like he knew damn well what he was doing.
I wanted to ignore him. I really did. But I needed answers.
"What's with all the clothes?" I demanded, arms crossed. He turned slightly, that cocky-ass smirk already painted on his lips. "Good morning to you too, Isabella." His voice was smooth, teasing, like nothing was wrong.
I ignored his little performance. "What's with the clothes? Whose room is that exactly?"
"Yours." He said it like it was obvious, like I should've known.
"They're not mine," I shot back.
His smirk grew, his tone maddeningly calm. "Those clothes are yours."
My hands curled into fists at my sides. "You better explain yourself or I'll call an Uber right fucking now."
Finally, he put the spatula down, turning fully toward me, chest bare, heat radiating off him like he owned the air in the room. "Relax, doll. I asked Damien's assistant to buy you some stuff. So you'd feel more comfortable here… and maybe, you know, want to stay." I blinked. My stomach twisted. "I'm his assistant," I snapped. "I mean Alex," he corrected with a shrug. "His personal assistant." Of course. Fucking Alex. I rolled my eyes so hard they almost began to hurt.
I turned away, jaw tight, but I couldn't stop myself from glancing at the price tags attached to every piece of clothing upstairs. Each one thousands of dollars. That wardrobe probably cost more than my entire college tuition. The insane part? He spent it like it was pocket change. And me? I can't even fucking scrape together enough for my tuition half the time. I can't even breathe without worrying about money.
I hated him for that.
I couldn't help but despise him for how easy life seemed for him—how he could throw around money, gifts, whole wardrobes—while I was still clawing for scraps.
And the worst part? Some part of me liked it. Liked being spoiled... by him.
I hated that even more.
"You can't keep buying me stuff," I snapped, my voice firmer than I actually felt. "And why is that?" he asked, smirk tugging at his lips like this was just another round of our banter.
"Because you can't. It makes me uncomfortable," I shot back, my arms folded tight against my chest like armor.
"Please don't be," he said smoothly, unfazed, like money wasn't real to him. "It's my pleasure. I hope they all fit well."
He stepped closer, deliberately slow, like a predator who knew damn well I wasn't going anywhere. My back hit the counter, trapping me between cold granite and his stupidly warm body.
"Jacob…" My throat tightened, not just from his nearness but from everything bottled up in me since last night. I forced the words out before I could chicken out. "Why don't you want me? You keep playing games with me and I'm getting tired. Please, no bullshit—what's your deal?"
For once, the smirk faded. His hand stilled on the counter beside me, his gaze dipping as if my question cut deeper than I'd meant it to. When his eyes finally met mine again, there was something raw there. Nervous, almost guilty.
"Sweetheart…" he began softly, his voice stripped of its usual cocky edge. "Please. I'll explain. Just don't turn your face away from me." His hand brushed against my chin, coaxing me to look at him.
I swallowed, my chest burning with equal parts anger and desperate need to understand.
"I don't know if you're ready," he admitted, hesitation leaking into every word. "But you deserve an explanation. That—I intend on giving it to you. Soon."
He looked almost… afraid. Like the truth wasn't just some little thing he'd been hiding, but something massive, something that could shatter everything between us.