MOODY

There are two things in this world that I love, fighting and sex. And I’m damn good at both. What I’m not good at is commitment. It’s one of the reasons I’ve kept my distance from Izzy.

She deserves a hell of a lot more than anything I have to offer.

But seeing her two nights ago at that cursed engagement party has fucked with my head. Emotions I haven’t allowed myself to feel in years rise to the surface. Because I need to have her. Need to touch her. Taste her. Feel her come apart in my arms.

For four years, I’ve dreamed about her. The way she whimpered my name when I was balls deep inside of her. Dreams so scorching hot I’d wake up rock hard and end up pumping my own cock like a fucking teenager in heat.

Still, I managed to stay away, knowing it was for the best.

Because the woman deserves it all – the white-picket-fence, two-and-a-half-kids kind of life that all the chicks want. But hell if I’m going to sit back and let Jason Reagan give it to her. The guy is a class-A asshole.

“You’re seriously going to let Izzy marry that bastard?” I growl out when Griffin sits down next to me at the bar.

He studies me for a moment, then shakes his head. “It’s not my call.”

“You’re her brother, and he’s the fucking jackass that–”

“That what?” Griffin sighs heavily. “What are you more upset about? That he sanctioned a fight that I wanted to participate in, or that his family leant me money to pay off my medical bills?”

“At thirty-five percent interest.” He won’t tell me how much he owes, but I know it’s a shitload.

Griffin leans back and breathes out wearily. “You’re always looking for someone to blame. But it wasn’t his fault, and it wasn’t yours. And if you haven’t noticed, I’m still alive. Time to move on.”

I give a small grunt and motion to the bartender to bring two beers, which he returns with promptly.

Time to move on. That’s what I’ve been trying to do. But seeing her again, feeling the connection that’s still there, made me question why I’ve been fighting it for so many years.

She wants me. At least, her body does. I saw the way she responded when I touched her. Saw the arousal burning across her cheeks.

I know women. How to pleasure them. How to read them. And there’s no denying that the attraction is mutual. It was there. Just as hot and explosive as it was four years ago. Despite how much I fucked things up. Or even how much she hates me.

It’s something. But it sure as hell isn’t enough.

“You really think Izzy’s going to be happy with that guy?”

“I don’t know.” Griffin stretches his legs and tips his beer at me. “But after the shit she went through with the last guy she was with–”

“What shit?” I clench my back teeth so hard I feel like they’re going to break.

“I don’t know the whole story. Just the broken pieces that I’ve put together from when I was in the hospital. Whoever the asshole is, he left her devastated.”

I have a sinking feeling I know exactly who the asshole is.

“She didn’t give you a name?”

“No. I just know he took advantage of her, got her knocked up, then took off.”

I choke on my beer. “She was pregnant? Did she…have the kid?”

Griffin shakes his head. “She miscarried in the fourth month. I doubt Izzy would have told anyone if she hadn’t ended up in the ER.”

My head is a clusterfuck of emotions.

Why the hell hadn’t she told me? I know why. Because I was a selfish, arrogant prick who made her feel like nothing more than one of my one-night stands. Guilt floods through me like a tidal wave.

I need to talk to her. Apologize. Explain why I ran. I was trying to protect her. Even as I think it, I know it’s a bullshit excuse. I was too much of a coward to admit the feelings I had for her, to fight for what I wanted.

“Does Izzy even know about your connection with Jason?” I shift in my seat and eye him.

“No. And it’s going to stay that way.”

I grunt and take a long swig of my beer.

Griffin studies me, his gaze hard. “I’m not going to fuck things up for her. She’s finally happy.”

“Maybe.”

Or maybe it’s time I start fighting for the one woman who ever meant anything to me.

I tilt my bottle back and take a deep drink. Then, a small smile tugs at my lips, because that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

White picket fence or not, Isabelle Stewart is mine.