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As I inch closer, unsure what to do now, the light flickers to green. The door eases open with a soft click. No one is there to greet me, only Walker’s voice softly flowing through speakers I don’t see.
“Enjoy my home,” he says, a hint of something indefinable in his words, “I'll be there as soon as possible.”
“Your… home?” I murmur to myself, crossing the threshold into the unknown. Every fiber of my being is alight with curiosity, nerves, and an undeniable trace of desire. Walker Blackthorne, the ex-gang member, has opened his world to me, and I can't help but wonder if my heart will survive the encounter.
Stepping into the vast expanse of Walker's penthouse, I'm momentarily blinded by the sunlight that floods the space. The sun seems to bow to the grandeur of this place, its rays kissing sleek surfaces and shimmering on polished marble floors. My eyes trace the lines where ceiling meets sky, framed by the monumental windows, and I can't help but feel like an intruder in a world too rich for my simple tastes.
“Miss Anderson.”
The voice snaps me back to reality, and I whirl around to find a man regarding me with a friendly expression. His attire is crisp, professional, the kind you'd see on someone who takes pride in their craft.
“I'm Charles, the house chef.” He extends his hand, and I notice the faint creases around his eyes, marks of countless smiles given freely. “Would you like a drink, snack, or dessert?”
My throat feels dry, my words lodged somewhere between awe and intimidation. I manage a shake of my head, coupled with what I hope is an appreciative smile. It seems enough to convey my gratitude, as he gives me a polite nod and a knowing wink.
“You'll be just fine, Miss Anderson.”
“Please, call me Isla,” I say, my voice steadier than expected. Charles acknowledges with a nod and disappears, presumably back to the kitchen.
Alone again, I drift through the space, touching the cool marble of a tabletop, marveling at the high ceilings adorned with intricate light fixtures that resemble modern art more than sources of illumination. How casually he had lounged on our worn sofa at mom's, yet this—this cathedral of wealth and taste—is his norm. A tightness forms in my chest as I swallow down the rising sense of inadequacy.
My phone breaks the silence with a chime, vibrating against my thigh. It's Walker. His text reads like his fingertips stroking my bare skin, both apology and demand: I apologize, this meeting is running longer than expected. I might not be back for two to three hours. Please make yourself at home. Relax, take a bath, ask Charles for something to eat, or take a nap. My home is your home.
The words send a shiver down my spine, stirring a potent dose of excitement and nervousness within me. His home is my home? The notion has my heart skipping a beat, dancing to a rhythm of possibility and fear. Obviously, I’m reading too much into his polite statement. But still, here, surrounded by his presence yet devoid of his voice and touch, I wonder if I'm edging closer to ecstasy or destruction.
The lure of Walker Blackthorne is powerful, undeniable, and as dangerous as the man himself.
Chapter Twenty-One
Walker
My front door swings open, but I’m in a rush I’m not used to experiencing. I step into the shadow-dappled foyer, the lingering annoyance from that drawn-out meeting dissolving like mist under the sun's dying rays. But it's not the sunset that warms me—it's her. Isla, draped across my couch as if she's always belonged there, gazing through the windows at the brilliant horizon.
“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than intended. She turns, and the setting sun catches in her eyes, lighting them aflame with colors that outshine even the sky.
“Hi,” she says in response, her voice a whisper lost to the vastness of the room.
I move to her side, fueled by the sight of her here, in my home. Dipping down, my arms sweep around her delicate frame, and I pull her against me and stand back up. Her body trembles, a quiver that reverberates through my chest. Those wide eyes catch mine—fear, excitement, longing all swirling in their depths.
“I missed you,” I murmur against her hair, and without another thought, I begin to move. Her gasp is music to my ears as I carry her toward my bedroom, each step intensifying the thundering in my veins.
I step past the threshold, and the last rays of sunlight cast a golden glow on her. The cool contrast of my bedroom walls—the black and white hint birch trees that fade into the paint—frame her like a living piece of art, enhancing her natural beauty. My fingers itch to free her from the confines of her clothing, to explore the softness of her creamy skin.
“You’re beautiful.” I breathe out, barely recognizing my own voice it’s so thick with desire.
“Walker.” My name on her lips is a plea wrapped in innocence.
Just as I'm about to give in to the temptation of undressing her so my eyes can trace her perfection, a knock rings out in the quietness of my room where the only sound is our breathing. I growl an impatient sound, but know I need to respond. “Come in,” I say as Isla and I put a little distance between us, not that space cools my deep burning desire for her.
“Your phone, sir.” Evie's voice doesn’t belong in the charged air of my bedroom as she steps in, placing the forgotten device on a nearby table. “And dinner?” Her gaze sweeps over Isla, one eyebrow arching in silent inquiry.
“She hasn't eaten,” she adds pointedly.
“I wasn't hungry.” Isla’s soft, shy voice does things to my insides, and her eyes still lock on mine. But then she shrugs, mischief playing at the corners of her mouth. “I was waiting for you.”
I sense the comment means more than it seems on a surface level, and my mouth waters for her. “Please tell Charles to make a meal for two,” I tell Evie, dismissing her with a wave. The house manager nods, a knowing smirk on her lips as she exits, closing the door behind her.
“Where were we?” I ask, turning back to Isla, who smiles playfully at me.
