Chapter 2: Is it you?
Two weeks had bled by, each day a dull echo punctuated by the nightly pilgrimage to Eclipse. He’d stand at the back, a ghost in expensive suits, watching the red dress swirl under the lights, but the bouncers, thick-necked and impersonal, always blocked the stairs to the private rooms. The denial was a physical ache. Sleep, when it came, was worse. In the dream, the mask was on his floor, and she was beneath him, her thighs tight around his head as he fucked her with his tongue, tasting salt and honey until her screams were raw, until she tried to scramble away only for him to drag her back by the hips for long, slow strokes that made her sob his name. He woke in a cold sweat, his cock throbbing against the mattress, face buried in the pillow he’d secretly sprayed with Izzy’s favorite gardenia perfume. The scent was a lie, a pathetic substitute that choked him every morning. His penthouse walls, once lined with clean architectural sketches, now bore the frantic, charcoal ghosts of her body—the curve of a hip from memory, the slope of a shoulder from the club’s shadows. He avoided Marco’s calls. He ignored the world. The only real thing was the haunting, and the hunger that grew, sharp and feral, in the hollow of his chest.
The hunger finally snapped his control at two in the morning, the silence of the penthouse screaming in his ears. He called her, the phone ringing into a void that seemed to swallow the sound. “Izzy,” he said when she answered, her voice thick with sleep, and the word felt like broken glass in his throat.
“Liam? What’s wrong?” He could hear the rustle of sheets, the intimate sound fueling his madness.
“I need you to come over.” He stared at the charcoal sketch of a masked woman taped to his fridge. “Right now.”
A pause, too long. “It’s two a.m. Are you drunk?”
“I’m sober.” He swallowed, the truth a corrosive acid. “I just need to talk. I need to see you.”
“This is insane.” But he heard her moving, the faint jingle of keys. “Give me twenty minutes.”
When she arrived, dressed in loose sweats and with her hair in a messy knot, she looked like the old Izzy, but her eyes were the Vixen’s—watchful, guarded. He didn’t offer her a drink. He just stood in the middle of the room, the city lights casting long shadows across his face. “It’s you,” he stated, the words flat and final. “At Eclipse. In the red dress. The mask. It’s you.”
She didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms, a shield. “You’re having a breakdown. I told you, I was watching documentaries.”
“Bullshit.” He took a step closer, invading her space, smelling the sleep on her skin. “The way you move. The fucking noise you make. I know it’s you.”
“You don’t know anything.” Her voice was low, a warning. “You’re obsessed with some stripper, and now you’re trying to make her me because you can’t have her. Or because you’re too fucked up to admit you want me.” She denied it again, her jaw set, her eyes blazing with a defiance that was pure Isabella Rossi. “I am not your fantasy.”
“You’re a liar.” The words were a low snarl, torn from a place of shredded restraint. “I tasted you in my dreams, Izzy. I know the sounds you make when you come.”
Her hand came out of nowhere, a sharp crack that snapped his head to the side. The slap was hard, harsh, stinging his cheek with a fire that felt more real than anything in weeks. He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed her, his arms locking around her writhing body, pulling her flush against him in a crushing embrace that was part cuddle, part cage.
“Get off me!” she shouted, her fists pounding against his back, but he only tightened his hold, his mouth against her hair.
“Was it the sculptor?” he demanded, his voice a ragged whisper in her ear. “Did he teach you how to move like that? Did he get to see you first?” His hands gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Tell me why. Tell me what you’re trying to prove.”
She struggled, her breath coming in hot, angry pants against his neck. “You don’t get to ask me anything!”
“The fuck I don’t.” He spun her, pushing her back against the cold glass of the balcony door, his body pinning hers. The city lights haloed her furious, beautiful face. “You paraded yourself in front of me. You ground that perfect little ass against my cock and called it a dance.” He gripped her chin, forcing her eyes to his. “Did you know it was me? Was that the whole fucking point?”
Her defiance faltered, a crack in the armor. A shaky breath escaped her. “Yes.” The admission was a poisoned dart. “I knew.”
The word hung between them, a live wire. He stared, his grip on her chin slackening from pain to something worse—a staggering, horrible understanding. “Why?” The question scraped out of him. “For money? Were you that desperate?”
She let out a sharp, humorless laugh, her body going limp against the glass. “Money? No. It was honestly out of boredom.” She looked past him, her voice dropping to a whisper he had to strain to hear. “And I wanted to know what it felt like. To have you look at me like that. To have you want me so much it made you stupid.” Her eyes found his again, glistening. “Knowing I couldn’t have you back. Because of Marco.”
The confession demolished him. Every noble restraint, every loyal lie, incinerated in that single breath. A raw, guttural sound broke from his chest. He crushed his mouth to hers, the kiss a savage claim of teeth and tongue, a violent answer to her silent, years-long question. She met him with equal hunger, her hands clawing at his shirt, yanking it open until buttons scattered across the floor like hail.
He broke the kiss only to spin her around, pressing her face against the cool glass. His hands shoved her sweats and underwear down in one rough jerk, baring her to the waist. He fumbled with his own zipper, freeing his aching, rigid cock. He didn’t wait, didn’t ask. He drove into her with one brutal, deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt in her tight, wet heat.
She cried out, a sharp sound swallowed by the glass, her back arching. “Fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. He pulled out almost completely and slammed back in, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm. Each thrust was a raw punctuation to their tangled lies. The city lights blurred below them. “You feel that?” he growled, his mouth at her ear. “This is what you wanted. This is what you asked for.”
“Yes,” she gasped, pushing back against him, taking him deeper. “God, yes.” Her fingers splayed against the window as he pounded into her, the slap of skin and their ragged breaths the only sounds in the vast, dark room. He knew he was hurting her, knew this was crossing a line that would never be redrawn, but he was beyond care, consumed by a need so profound it felt like annihilation. He came with a shattered roar, his body shuddering violently as he emptied himself inside her, his forehead pressed against her sweat-dampened back. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, and the terrible, beautiful ruin they had made.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, and the terrible, beautiful ruin they had made. He pulled out slowly, a visceral wet sound in the quiet, and she slumped against the glass, her sweats still tangled at her ankles. Without a word, he lifted her, carrying her to the bedroom where they collapsed onto the sheets, a tangled mess of spent limbs and unspent words. The silence was a heavy blanket, smothering the accusations and the confessions that still hung in the air between them. Exhaustion, deeper than physical, pulled them under into a fitful sleep, her back curled into his chest, his arm a leaden weight around her waist.
The first grey light of dawn found them still coiled together. He stirred, a faint ache in his muscles, the heat of her body a familiar anchor. Then a new, insistent heat engulfed him, a wet, sucking pressure that dragged him from the depths of sleep. His eyes flew open. The covers formed a tent over her head, a dark, moving shape at his hips. A low, shuddering groan escaped him as her lips slid down his shaft, taking him deep into the slick, relentless heat of her mouth. “Izzy,” he breathed, his voice shredded with sleep and instant, overwhelming sensation.
She didn’t stop. Her head bobbed with a focused, hungry rhythm, one hand cupping his balls, her fingers applying a gentle, maddening pressure. The wet sounds were obscenely loud in the quiet room. He could feel the scrape of her teeth, the flutter of her tongue along the sensitive vein underneath, every detail amplified. “Fuck, just like that,” he grunted, his hips lifting off the mattress involuntarily, seeking more of that delicious friction. She took him deeper, her throat opening around the head of his cock in a practiced, breathtaking swallow that made his vision blur.
It was too much, too soon, a direct assault on every frayed nerve. She was pulling the orgasm from him, ruthless and efficient, her lips sealed tight as she worked him. The pressure built, a coiling, electric tension in his groin that had nowhere to go but over. “I’m gonna come,” he warned, his fingers tangling in her hair. She hummed in response, the vibration traveling straight up his spine, and doubled her efforts. His back arched off the bed as he erupted, a raw, guttural cry tearing from his throat. She took every pulse, swallowing greedily, until he was spent and shuddering, utterly hollowed out. She finally emerged from under the covers, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes meeting his with a silent, challenging glow.
She finally emerged from under the covers, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes meeting his with a silent, challenging glow. “Still think I’m a documentary girl?” she asked, her voice raspy.
He couldn’t speak, his body humming, utterly spent. He pulled her up by her arms, crushing her against his chest, inhaling the tangled scent of sex and her shampoo. “Why the club, Izzy? Really.”
She went still, her breath warm on his skin. “Because when I’m her, I’m not your best friend’s little sister.” Her fingers traced the red marks her nails had left on his back. “I’m just something wanted. It’s simple.”
“This isn’t simple.” His arms tightened around her.
“It is right now.” She kissed his chest, a soft contrast to the ferocity of minutes before. The grey dawn light softened the edges of the room, making the aftermath feel fragile. He felt the frantic energy seep out of her, her body growing heavy against his.Exhaustion, deeper than the night at Eclipse or the confrontation at his door, pulled at his bones. His fingers, tangled in her hair, stilled. The last thing he was aware of was the steady rhythm of her breathing syncing with his own, a temporary, deceptive peace. He fell back asleep to find Izzy now gone
He woke to cold sheets and a silence so complete it felt violent. The space where her body had curved into his was just a hollow of rumpled linen, already losing her warmth. He sat up, the memories of the night—her mouth, the glass, her confession—colliding with the sterile morning light.
“Izzy?” His voice cracked in the empty room. He checked the bathroom, the kitchen, his heartbeat a frantic drum against his ribs. He called her, once, twice, five times, each ring cutting to voicemail with a finality that tightened his throat. He stared at his phone, willing it to light up with her name, with some explanation about coffee or a forgotten errand.
The text came through as he stood barefoot in the center of the living room, surrounded by the ghosts of his sketches. I’m happy I had you for one night, but that’s all it can be. We both need to explore other people without this secret. We can’t hurt my brother like that again. The words were a clinical dissection of everything that had happened. He read them again, the screen blurring. The apartment didn’t just feel empty; it felt ransacked.