If you're not getting this book from Em's Emporium then the person who uploaded this book didn't care for this group. Such an ignorant person who gain benefit for her own purposes
Why do you support this person?
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Gabriel
"Tell me the ending, Isla."
She looks at the wine glass, her fingers inching towards it, before she pulls them back with a faint shake of her head. "We obviously didn't kiss that day and then I thought you were hooking up with Cicely."
"That's unfortunate," I quip.
"She seriously made it sound like you were dating." She rolls her big blue eyes. "I bought into that. I totally believed she was your type."
"You are my only type." I lean back in my chair, feeling much less anxious than I did ten minutes ago.
She dips her chin down but not before I see the faint rush of pink that takes over her cheeks as she blushes.
"I was excited when I saw you a
t the charity event at the symphony." She pushes her hair back over her left shoulder, a few strands clinging to the fabric of her black dress. "You look amazing in a tuxedo, by the way."
I smile, not wanting to interrupt her.
"I've kissed men before," she admits with a tilt of her hand in the air. "I mean of course I have, but it was different when you kissed me in your car."
"Different in what way?" My curiosity, when it comes to Isla, is an uncontainable beast.
"Intense, powerful, the connection between us felt basic and primal."
"It was that way for me as well." I adjust my legs, crossing them in a thinly veiled attempt to mask my growing erection. Kissing Isla is almost as sensual as licking her cunt or fucking her. It's a treasure of flavors and sensations. It's something I could do for hours.
"Please don't think I'm foolish." Her voice cracks with the words. "I'm not a foolish person."
"You're an incredibly special person. The most special person I know. I don't consider you foolish at all."
She nods as she leans back in her chair. "I write poetry. I used to write poetry."
The admission pushes me back as well. Not only physically in my chair, but on an emotional level as well. I don’t want to derail her right now, but I'm on the edge of understanding so much. I don't want to lose that.
She tilts her body to the left, pulling up her bag. It's a larger purse than I've seen her with before. It's black, tattered and it's obvious she's had it for years. "I brought my poetry with me."
Her small hand dives into the bag and pulls out a blue notepad. The pages are askew, single papers jutting out from the sides. It's a complicated mess.
"I wrote my first poem the day after my grandmother died."
She opens the pages slowly. Her hands delicately smoothing over the paper. "Would you like to read it?"
I'd love nothing more. "Yes."
Tears fill her eyes, making the irises more vibrant than they normally are. She's so fragile and strong and such an intricate, incredible person.
"It's called Haze."
I try to drop my eyes to the paper but as I look at the tears streaming down her face, I understand. "How many poems have you written, Isla?"
"Hundreds."