Page 67 of Sunday Morning
“Our?” I lifted my eyebrows.
“Don’t.” Isaac stood, shaking his head. “Don’t pretend that this is one-sided. You can be angry or feel guilty about it, and you can try to deny it, but that would only make you a liar.”
“What if I told you I don’t like sex?” I needed a good argument or deterrent, but the second that left my mouth, Iknew it wasn’t an argument; it was an embarrassing confession.
“I’d say you need better lingerie so Matt thinks he’s having sex with his hot girlfriend instead of his pastor’s daughter.”
I glanced down at my shirt and grinned. “Nice try. I wasn’t wearing this shirt when we had it. And I don’t think it was his fault. I just think it’s not my thing.” I shrugged, owning my truth.
Isaac crooked a finger at me.
I shook my head.
He didn’t stop.
I ignored all good sense and surrendered the three steps between us, swallowing hard as I stared at his gray T-shirt that hugged his chest and biceps.
“Do you want to touch me?” he whispered.
I shook my head.
A lie.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
Another headshake.
Another lie.
“CanI touch you?” he asked.
My pulse doubled because I could feel the heat from his body and smell his cologne. And I couldn’t stop staring at his large, calloused hands and veiny, tattooed arms. Without a sane or coherent thought, I slowly nodded.
Isaac represented freedom. I didn’t idolize him, but I wanted to shrug off other people’s opinions the way he did. He was self-aware and had an enviable confidence. I wanted to focus on things like chemistry more than following a moral compass that confused me because not everyone needed to walk in the same direction.
“When I saw you in church on Easter Sunday,” Isaac said, lifting my shirt over my head.
My heart ricocheted off the walls of my chest. This wasn’t really happening. My thoughts swam in a dream state, a twisty, dizzying whirlpool.
“I knew I was fucked. Going straight to Hell.” He dropped my shirt onto the floor. “But when you sang ‘Bette Davis Eyes,’ I knew I was going to wind up dead in a ditch either at the hands of your dad, mine, or my brother.”
“Why?” I whispered in a shaky voice.
He unbuttoned my jean shorts, and my lips parted, each breath audible and ragged.
“I’m showing you why,” he murmured, squatting to pull my shorts down my legs and remove my shoes with them.
When he stood, his gaze landed on my breast. It was red from a final scrub so Matt wouldn’t see his brother’s name on me. Isaac’s gaze shifted to mine and he shot me a knowing grin. But I had no response because I was too drunk on the high I felt standing before him in nothing but my white bra and matching bikini underwear.
I didn’t like sex, but I liked feeling sexy, and Isaac excelled at eliciting that from me. And I knew I needed to tell him we weren’t having sex, but I wasn’t ready to let go of that feeling.
“You are truly,” Isaac pulled my hair away from my shoulders as he positioned himself behind me, “the most breathtaking woman I have ever seen.” He kissed my shoulder and ghosted his fingertips down my arms until they were covered in goosebumps.
I closed my eyes and drew in a slow, shaky breath.
“Dare I say angelic?” He lifted my right arm, kissed mypalm, and rested it at the side of his neck. Then he feathered his hand down the inside of my arm to my breast.
As I tried to inhale, it caught in my chest. I couldn’t breathe with his hands on me.