Hunter’s next grumble is for himself, but in the dead quiet of my office, I still hear it. “Yet, you won’t give her the chance to do the same. Sounds about right.” My growl ramps up his breaths and the volume of his voice. “You asked me to look for a connection between Ophelia and Brandon. I’m telling you there isn’t one to be found.”
“That doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”
He swallows before adding, “True. But since the real questions you want answered can’t be found on an internet browser, you’ll never get them from me.”
I grip my phone tight enough to crack it, but I don’t respond. How can I when every word he speaks is true? A lot of my anger today commenced with my mother, so I could be misinterpreting the niggle in my gut that hasn’t quit all day, but the last time I ignored my gut, it cost me dearly.
I can’t do that again. I’d rather surrender every penny I have to avoid that type of pain again, but I also don’t want to be played for a fool, so I guess that leaves me with only one option. I must confront Isabelle, and since the only time she is truly honest with herself is when she is naked, I’ll have to do it without a stitch of clothing covering her delectable skin.
When I stray my eyes to my laptop screen, a bout of anger zaps through me. It confirms my suspicion that my frustration today stems from my mother’s ability to continually gut my father because no matter how many times I view the imagery of her entering a hotel on Jared’s arm, the heat it boils through my veins doesn’t weaken.
She’s portraying my father as a fool in my hometown, which confirms my refusal to have the same level of disdain attached to my name.
“Continue looking. If there is a link between Ophelia and Brandon, I want to know about it.” I wait for Hunter to murmur in agreement before I disconnect our call, then snag my jacket off the coat rack in the corner of the room.
I’m too overheated with anger to place it on, but my firm clutch on its expensive material clears a path between Hugo and me. No one is game to approach me—not even Hugo when I slide into the back seat of my town car and tell him to circle the block before pulling into the front of Isabelle’s building to collect her.
“If I’m being watched, I want to know it.”
Hugo lifts his chin before merging my town car into the flow of traffic. When our detour occurs without a tail, he pulls into the loading bay at the front of Isabelle’s building half a second before she steps onto the sidewalk. I won’t lie. Even with my blood thick enough to choke my arteries, my cock twitches when she jogs around the car to slip into the front passenger seat. Her steps are springy and free but also weighed down. Something is plaguing her thoughts as poorly as mine.
“Hey, Isabelle,” Hugo greets her, his tone tinged with a slight amount of unease. He’s confused by my arrival but forever optimistic, he is hoping I have good intentions.
I do, although he may not believe the same when his slow merge into traffic pops an inane thought into my head. Isabelle doesn’t give me an inch unless I’m balls deep inside of her, and we have at least an hour to fill with peak hour traffic and a car that has a world-renowned privacy partition.
This couldn’t have worked in my favor any better if I had planned it.
While Isabelle returns Hugo’s greeting, I send him a text, reminding him about the discretion I value before issuing Isabelle my own greeting. The gruffness of my voice exposes how dithering my mood is compared to the one she experienced this morning, but she gobbles it up like it is a thick strawberry shake with an extra helping of whipped cream.
After dragging her eyes over my dress shirt rolled up at the elbows, mussed hair from how many times I ran my fingers through it this afternoon, and the crinkle pop between my brows, she tosses off the seat belt she only just fixed into place before she dives over the partition.
Her eagerness to join me in the back seat almost squelches my desire to exact the truth from her one withheld orgasm at a time, but Hugo steals any chance of her leaving this car unscathed when he slaps her backside during her daring maneuver.
“Hi,” she says with a breathless grin, her one word a mix of happiness and despondence.
While raking my eyes over her beautiful face and body, I take a moment to consider my objectives. I’m naturally dominant, and Isabelle craves it as much as she does her next breath, but it isn’t just Isabelle’s smarts that vanish when we’re within touching distance of each other. Mine fly straight out the window with hers.
Then I guess I better keep my distance.
Isabelle’s teeth rake her lower lip hard enough to mark when I push the button responsible for locking the privacy partition into place. Her breathing shallows, and a vein in her neck thrums, but she remains as quiet while watching its fast yet teasing climb.
Once it’s locked into place, and the digital console at my side announces the speakers in the front half of the cab are at the highest setting, I lock my eyes with Isabelle, then demand, “Remove your clothes but leave your panties on.”
Her scent already has my plan faltering. It will be null and void entirely if her pretty pink pussy is put on display.
When panic flares through Isabelle’s eyes, I assure her I’d never veer her toward a vulnerable situation. The partitions in my town cars are the same used for the President’s fleet. They can handle multiple bullets, and no amount of light manipulation can alter their privacy grade. “Hugo can’t hear or see anything.”
Her deliberation on whether I am telling the truth or not lasts for barely a second. While wetting her dry lips, she tackles the buttons on her blouse before she shimmies out of her skirt. Once her lace bra joins them on the floor, she angles her torso to face me.
As her nipples bud, begging to be touched, I slide down my zipper before pulling my painfully erect cock out of my trousers. Isabelle’s sharp exhale adds to the heat teeming between us when I wrap my hand around my cock so I can give it a hearty squeeze.
When her knees pull together, I slide my hand to the base of my shaft before slowly returning it to the tip. The tension between us is so perverse, this could only feel better if it were occurring with Isabelle’s pouty lips hovering above the tip. She is skilled at giving head, but before I can give her another chance to showcase that, I need to know how competent in deceit she is.
“Tonight, you’re not allowed to touch me, Isabelle.” That was harder to deliver than it should have been. Her inability to answer the pleading whims of her body saw me taking matters into my own hands multiple times the past three months, so stroking my cock shouldn’t seem like a punishment, but it feels that way. Very much so.
When Isabelle settles in for a show, I give her one. I rock my cock in and out of my fist in rhythm to the rise and fall of her fantastic tits, groaning when the collection of pre-cum on the tip of my thumb increases the shadowing of her panties. She’s drenched, and the knowledge has me working my cock in and out of my fist so fast, cum crests at the base a short time later.
I won’t come, this isn’t about me getting off, but I don’t let Isabelle in on the act. I keep her so enthralled she’ll soon beg to become a participant. Then, as her guard slowly lowers, I’ll chip at the exterior that only weakens when I’m balls deep inside her.
