Fairytale Come Alive (Ghosts and Reincarnation #4)(76)

She wrapped her legs around his hips, her arms around his shoulders and held on.

She watched him move over her, her eyes barely open, glorying in the feel of Prentice driving deep inside her.

His hand went to the side of her face.

“Christ,” he bit out, his breath coming fast, his strokes coming faster, pounding harder, thrusting deeper, “You’re so f**king beautiful.”

She gazed at him for a mere moment, feeling all the magnificence that was Prentice wrapped in her limbs, pressing her to the couch, slamming deep inside her, before his head came down and he kissed her.

She accepted his groan in her mouth as he reared one last time, plunging so deep it felt like he pierced her heart.

His lips slid from her mouth, down her cheek and he buried his face in her neck.

He pressed his h*ps into hers. Her limbs tensed, holding him tighter.

She loved every inch of him.

At that thought, her turbulent mind settled and reason intruded.

She stiffened.

The instant she did, he felt it.

His face came out of her neck as she whispered, “Pren –”

She didn’t finish his name. He kissed her.

Her mind descended back into beautiful chaos.

His mouth released hers and he pulled out, lifted up, tugging her up with him until they were on their feet.

He’d unzipped her knit jacket and pulled it down her arms and had his hands in her camisole when her thoughts yet again cleared.

“Prentice, we shouldn’t –”

He whipped off her camisole and before her arms settled down to her sides and his swift actions settled through her brain, she was in his arms and his mouth was on hers again.

He kept her mind jumbled with his kisses as he disrobed, turned out the light in the sitting room and then carried her to the bed.

When he had her on her back, the covers pulled over them, his heavy warmth pressed down the length of her side, his elbow in the pillow, head in his hand, other hand resting at her neck, eyes resting on her face… only then did he speak.

“Now you can talk.”

“I –” she began to tell him that she was sorry, she shouldn’t have started this, this was wrong, wrong, wrong.

And selfish.

And stupid.

And a million other things.

But he interrupted her, “Tell me about the dream.”

Her mouth snapped shut.

His hand tightened on her neck but his voice was gentle when he demanded, “Elle, tell me.”

“What…” she stammered, unsure of the state of affairs and equally unsure she wanted to explore said state of affairs. She’d rather talk about her dream which was saying something since she hated those dreams. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“You’ve had it since it happened?”

She nodded but said, “Not so much anymore. Just occasionally. Only when I’m stressed or anxious.”

“You had them when you were with me?”

She pulled in breath. Obviously, she’d never told him about the dreams.

“Yes,” she whispered, terrified about his response.

It wasn’t the insulted betrayal she expected, the betrayal he felt and angrily shared with her when he found out about her mother. Instead, his head tilted toward her, he touched their foreheads together a moment and he sighed.

This tender reaction made Isabella relax.

No, she didn’t relax.

She relaxed, her body, her mind, her heart, even her soul felt like it relaxed.

He drew away and said, “You need to talk to someone about it.”

“I have,” she explained softly. “They couldn’t help.”

His fingers flexed then eased.

His voice dipped lower when he asked, “Your father said you were weak?”

She couldn’t decipher if he was angry or disturbed by this.

She also didn’t answer verbally.

She just nodded.

This was met by silence.

Then in a voice that was lower, rougher and definitely angry, Prentice bit out, “He’s a f**king piece of work.”

“He’s out of my life,” she assured him quickly.

“He didn’t seem out of your life when he waltzed into a f**king wedding reception and right in front of everyone, including me and my children, literally brought you to your knees.”

All right.

Well.

Since his voice was even lower, rougher and now rumbling, Isabella thought it was safe to say he was now seriously angry.

“Prentice,” she murmured placatingly.

“Tell me how he’s out of your life,” Prentice demanded, not sounding placated even a little bit.

“We had words. He’s disinherited me.”

There was silence for a moment then Prentice’s head went back and he laughed. Regardless, he didn’t sound amused.

This alarmed her at the same time it confused her.

“Prentice?” she called.

His laughter died away and his head tipped back to look at her.

“He disinherited you. That’s rich. I love that. What an unbelievable ass.”

He wasn’t wrong about that. And he didn’t love it at all. He was angry on her behalf.

Oh dear.

She was beginning to think she was in trouble.

Prentice fell silent. Isabella couldn’t cope with silence.