My eyes snap to Isabelle when a painful howl ripples through her lips. Her expression exposes her past is as painful as mine and announces that I must immediately end this conversation.
I hate talking about my past, so I can only imagine what it is like for someone in Isabelle’s position. “That’s enough for tonight, Isabelle.”
After brushing away the tears clinging to her cheeks, I kiss her eyelids, hopeful the sexual energy that forever fires between us is stronger than the anguish attempting to swallow her whole. It is the fight of my life to hide the furling of my lips when seconds after returning my wanton stare, Isabelle inconspicuously rocks her hips forward. Her movements aren’t desperate and greedy as are most of our exchanges the past two days. They show she needs a bit of TLC and a heap of understanding.
Since I want to be her lover and the man she runs to in a crisis, instead of clawing at her clothes like her eyes desperately beg for me to do, I take things slow. I roll my hips at a similar pace to hers before I slide my hand under her shirt to trace figure eights on her silky-smooth skin. Her breaths fan my cheeks when I cup her engorged breasts to elicit the same dedication to her nipples.
Once the tension is at boiling point, I stand from the sofa, taking Isabelle with me before carefully guiding her onto the white fur rug on the floor. Her pupils widen when I fist the hem of her shirt to guide it over her head. Her curious expression exposes she’s enjoying the change in pace, but there’s still a glint of submissiveness in her eyes begging to be dominated.
“Stretch your arms above your head and clasp your hands together.” I try to keep my naturally engrained authority out of my tone. My efforts are borderline, but Isabelle doesn’t seem to mind. She does as instructed with nothing but a slight increase in her breaths, compliments to her excitement. After tying her hands together with her shirt, I say, “Keep them above your head.”
As she drags her teeth over her lower lip, she nods. Her teeth dig in deep enough to mark when I begin undressing. I give her a show, loving how every piece of clothing I remove lessens the groove embedded between her dark brows.
Once I’m stripped down to a pair of boxer shorts, my focus shifts to Isabelle’s clothes. Once again, she forwent my invitation to wear a dress sans panties, but mercifully, her jeans have loosened from hours of wearing, so they slide down her thighs with only the littlest bit of contorting. Her panties and bra soon join them on the floor.
I have everything ready for a thrilling evening until the quickest shimmer in the corner of Isabelle’s eyes steals my focus. Her tears have mostly dried, but a stubborn few are still glistening in her beautiful, rich corneas. They remind me that no matter how appetizing the feast, this isn’t about me. This is for Isabelle.
When the perfect solution pops into my head, I race into the guest bedroom on the lower level to snatch a full-size pillow off the bed. I want to ravish every inch of Isabelle, but her eyes will need to be on me for every meek touch I make.
The fret marring Isabelle’s beautiful face slips away when I return to the living room to place the pillow under her head. “Your eyes are never to leave mine, Isabelle.”
I wait for her to signify she understands my request before I join her on the floor. I don’t commence my exploration of her body on the regions you’d expect. I start at the faults that make her more valuable. Like the little scar on her left hip I highly doubt she knows exists and the circular burn on her right shoulder blade that’s no bigger than a dime before I drop my focus to a faint scar hidden high on her inner thigh. It’s rigid like a bitemark, but so faint, it no way represents the wounds a dog-attack victim was covered in when brought to Ravenshoe Private over eighteen months ago on her deathbed.
It also doesn’t represent an injury inflicted by an animal.
As guilt about marking Isabelle in a similar fashion to a permanent blemish on her skin swamps me, I devote my attention to a section of her body she’s thrusting in my face, begging for my attention. She’s relished every nip, kiss, and lick I’ve graced her skin with, and the gratitude is displayed by the glistening of her pussy lips when I blow a hot breath over them.
“Eyes,” I snap out when the briefest touch sees her head falling back and her eyes closing.
When they lock with mine over the thrusting globes on her chest, I spear my tongue inside her, then drag it up to her clit.
“Oh god,” Isabelle moans while fighting the urge to succumb to her desires so soon into our exchange.
I ensure she has no reason to be guilty. Over the next several long minutes, I devour her like a man starved of taste for decades. I fuck her with my tongue, my fingers, and my words. I tell her she tastes like heaven before I share some of the splendor by rubbing my damp thumb across her parched lips, easing the burn of her teeth’s numerous rakes.
I taste her.
Fuck her.
Then I make her scream my name so loud, even if my neighbors didn’t know I had a guest over, they do now.
Only once she is on the brink of exhaustion do I consider shifting my focus to the ache keeping my cock as firm as a rock. I’m dying to sink into her, to feel her pussy’s heat wrapped around my bare cock for the third time, but I need to wipe the fret in her eyes first because I promised myself the night Ophelia died that I’d never ignore the pain in someone’s eyes again.
Eyes are the gateway to a person’s soul, and Isabelle’s are even more telling than that.
While watching lust fire through her hooded gaze, I slowly make my way up her body, kissing and caressing every inch of her delectable skin in the process. When I reach her neck, I playfully graze my teeth over the area I marked before I nip on her lower lip with the same amount of friskiness.
“Are you ready?”
Asking permission is out of the ordinary for me. Don’t misconstrue. I would never take anything unwillingly given, but since I made sure my bed companions knew exactly what they were getting when I took them back to my apartment, conversations like this weren’t instigated, much less ones that required deliberation.
The métier doesn’t congeal well with Isabelle. I don’t just want her permission. I relish it.
When Isabelle nods without the slightest pause for thought, I kneel between her splayed thighs, guide her legs around my sticky waist, then use some of the many orgasms I coerced out of her the past hour to lessen the restriction she must eventually face to take me.
As I slowly inch inside her, my steady pace as unusual as my wish to nurture her instead of dominating her, Isabelle’s back arches off the rug, and her head thrusts back.
“Eyes, Isabelle,” I request, my tone equally as demanding as it is requesting.
