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“Sophia,” Isaac says. There’s a pained expression on his face. “Please don’t.”
I watch him across my living room. Recklessness and something else, something wild, beats beneath my breastbone, and I let my top fall to the floor. “Why not?”
“You know why not.” He’s still not looking at me, like my sports bra and bare stomach are Medusa. His face looks carved in stone.
“Because you don’t mix business and pleasure,” I say, “or because you don’t want me?”
"You know that’s not it.”
“Do I?” I walk backwards through my living room, my feet sinking into the plush carpet.
His hand turns into a fist at his side. “You deserve so much more than this. Proper fucking dates over candlelight. Flowers and gifts and a slow seduction.”
“I don’t want that. I’ve had that.”
“I know,” he says, and curses again. I've never heard him swear this much. “You think I don’t want you? You’re all I think about, day after goddamn day, and it's been that way for much longer than it should've."
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