The Spoilt Beauty And Her Beasts

"Eh, at least let me go," Isabella said, shifting slightly in his arms. She tried to sound casual, but her voice came out a little breathier than she liked.

Kian raised a single brow, his grip loosening just enough, but not completely. "Are you sure you want that?"

Isabella bit her bottom lip, a mischievous glint flashing in her eyes as she pretended to consider it. "Actually…" she began, voice trailing into a playful hum, "I think it's the perfect time to fulfill a very important promise I made to myself."

Kian's other brow lifted now, both of them arched like twin peaks of curiosity. "What wish?"

She stepped back a little, just enough to create space between them, but not enough to actually escape his arms. Her eyes dropped deliberately.

"Hehe," Isabella giggled, then gave him a cheeky, unrepentant smile as her gaze fixated—without shame—on his perfectly sculpted abs. "I was always in love with these," she confessed boldly, a hand reaching out to lightly trace a line down his abdomen. "Since the first day I laid eyes on them."

Kian followed her gaze, eyes flicking downward, then looked back at her. "Just so, so perfect," she added dreamily.

"Haha," Kian chuckled, the sound low and rich, like he wasn't quite used to being admired like this so directly.

"Oh gods," he said, deadpan. "You're strange."

Isabella looked up sharply, blinking like she'd just been personally attacked. "I'm strange?" she repeated, placing a hand on her chest as if mortally wounded. "You're the one walking around like a walking sculpture and expecting me not to notice!"

"At least I am not the one confessing her love to someone's abs," he replied, completely straight-faced.

She narrowed her eyes. "You know what? Be quiet."

"Okay," Kian said with a smirk, leaning back slightly as if offering her the spotlight. "Carry on if that'll make you happy."

That made her freeze. He said it like it didn't matter to him—but she could tell. That little softness in his tone, the slight rasp in his voice... he didn't not want it.

And just like that, a slow, evil smile curled on Isabella's lips.

The kind of smile that said: You have no idea what you just allowed.

She licked her lips.

"Oh," she murmured sweetly, "you're going to regret that."

But Kian didn't flinch.

If anything, he looked curious.

And maybe just a little too pleased.

An evil smile appeared on Isabella's face, slow and wicked like syrup sliding down a warm spoon. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

She placed her hands on Kian's chest, fingers splayed across those maddening abs she'd shamelessly confessed to craving. His skin was warm beneath her palms—too warm. Like he had fire instead of blood in his veins.

"Huh," she murmured, tapping one finger against a ridge of muscle. "They're even firmer than I imagined."

Kian looked down at her, amusement flickering in his gaze like embers that hadn't decided if they wanted to burn or behave. "You imagined them?"

"Oh please," Isabella said, voice sultry and teasing, "don't act like you didn't know. I'm sure you've caught me staring before."

"I thought you were trying to set me on fire with your brain," he replied, deadpan. "Turns out you were just mentally mapping my torso."

She laughed—a soft, dangerous little thing—and stepped closer, until there was no space left between them. Glimora let out a faint snore in the corner, completely unaware of the shift in air pressure.

"You talk too much," Isabella whispered.

"Do I?" Kian asked, gaze darkening ever so slightly.

"Mmhmm," she nodded slowly, her fingers now trailing along the lines of his stomach, feather-light, like she was studying the anatomy of desire.

His breath hitched—but only slightly. The kind of hitch that would've gone unnoticed by most.

Not Isabella.

She caught it. Filed it away.

"Well then," she murmured, voice now barely a hum, "maybe you should stop me."

Kian didn't move.

Which meant, in Isabella's world, that she had full clearance.

She dragged her fingers up to his collarbone, brushing gently over the hollow there, and then ran them down the slope of his shoulder like she was sculpting him out of clay. Her other hand joined in, trailing along his waist, her touch deliberate—casual, but not.

Kian watched her, saying nothing, but his jaw had tensed.

Good.

"That's right," Isabella whispered with mock innocence, "just let me… admire."

"You're dangerous," Kian said lowly.

"And yet you haven't moved," she shot back, smirking.

His eyes fell to her lips.

Dangerous territory.

"I should," he muttered, but his arms didn't move. His body stayed perfectly still—as if afraid that even a twitch would shatter the restraint he'd built up like a fortress.

Isabella tilted her head, gaze bold and unafraid. "Why don't you?"

There was a pause. A silence so thick and loaded it pressed on the skin like steam.

"Because you look like you'll cry if I do," he said bluntly.

Isabella gasped in mock offense, slapping his chest. "Excuse me! I am a strong, independent woman!"

"With a growing obsession for abs," Kian replied.

"Respectfully," she corrected with a cheeky grin. "A respectful obsession."

Then, with a breathy little sigh, she dipped her head, letting her lips hover just a whisper above his skin. She didn't kiss him. Not yet. Just let her breath fan across the line of his sternum.

Kian's fingers twitched.

She smirked.

"Still not moving?" she asked, lifting her eyes to his. "How disciplined."

He didn't answer.

Which, again, meant go ahead in Isabella's book.

She pressed her lips—soft, warm, teasing—just under his collarbone. A single kiss. Then another. Then lower.

Kian's hand came up—not to stop her, but to bury itself in her hair. Gently. Slowly. As if he was trying to keep her close without fully understanding why.

And then she looked up at him again, her lips parted slightly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something else—something deep.

"Kian," she whispered, "are you even breathing?"

"Barely," he said, voice strained.

"Well, I'll be gentle," she purred, already moving again—

But suddenly, Kian's hand tightened ever so slightly at the back of her head, holding her still.

"Stop," he said, his voice no longer playful.

Her eyes widened. Not in fear—just surprise.

"What?" she asked, breath catching.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. And his eyes were on fire. Not with anger—but with something raw and barely restrained.

"If you don't stop now," he murmured lowly, dangerously close to her lips, "I won't be able to."

Silence. Stillness. A moment where everything went tight and loud and breathless between them.

Isabella's heart flipped in her chest.

"Oh," she breathed.

She'd won the game.

But she hadn't realized until now just how much she liked playing with fire—especially when it was looking at her like that.