ISLA
”The wife,” Isla repeats, her voice low and her tone positively fiendish, though her stomach does do a little flop as he presses his hand over the top of hers. Her palm splays across his chest, and though they don’t have hearts to break or beat or flutter, it’s the thought that counts.
”Oof, well. That’s the last thing I want for you,” she murmurs with a fanged smile. ”I’d offer to kiss it better, but I don’t think you want me to cut you open any more than I already have.”
Hopefully his lips will do instead, Isla leaning in for another kiss, just as soft, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t itching to run her fingers through his hair, to make a slow exploration of his body in much more than a medical sense.
”Oof, well. That’s the last thing I want for you,” she murmurs with a fanged smile. ”I’d offer to kiss it better, but I don’t think you want me to cut you open any more than I already have.”
Hopefully his lips will do instead, Isla leaning in for another kiss, just as soft, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t itching to run her fingers through his hair, to make a slow exploration of his body in much more than a medical sense.
she's a runner
rebel, and a stunner
rebel, and a stunner
