Since her answer is delivered without an ounce of hesitation, an unexpected smirk inches my lips higher as a dominance I struggled to harness is unleashed in the most brilliant way. I step back from Isabelle before dragging my eyes down her shuddering frame.
My smirk extends to a genuine smile when she groans in frustration about the loss of my contact, and the tension it crackles between us dangerously boosts when I mutter, “Strip.”
Blood surges to the lower half of my body when she does as instructed without seeking clarification of my demand. With her eyes resting on mine, she unbuttons her shirt before sending it to the floor with the slightest shimmy of her shoulder.
My cock thickens painfully fast when I notice the color of the material barely containing the generous swell of her breasts. Any doubts that she’s being coerced to do something against her will fly out the window when I drink in the steel-gray coloring of her bra. It is the color of my eyes, and from the expression on Isabelle’s face when our eyes lock and hold, she bought it solely with the hope I’d see her in it.
“Leave the bra,” I demand when she bands her arms around her back to unlatch the material I’m mesmerized by, my voice as rough as the bite of my zipper digging into my cock.
Isabelle doesn’t seem to mind. While chewing on her bottom lip to lower the size of her smile, she undoes the button in her jeans, then teasingly lowers the fly. While cursing under my breath about her matching panties, I loosen my tie, needing to do something to distract my hands that are longing to caress every inch of Isabelle’s seductive body.
She has curves to bring men to their knees, a beautiful, unblemished face, and a pussy that would happily have men sustaining from sex for years just to sample it once. And I’m so fucking lucky, I get to taste it more than once.
The itch burning my hands doubles when Isabelle mutters, “Please don’t shred these. They cost way more than you think.”
I smirk before asking a question I’ve been dying to know since the speakers at 57 drowned out her moans two nights ago, “Are you a screamer, Isabelle?”
“No,” she answers breathlessly, as confident as me that I can change her answer.
Her seductive smell lingers in the air, along with the moan she can’t hold back when I mutter, “You’re about to become one.”
Too blinded by the lust burning out of her to wait for her true response, I bridge the minute snippet of air between us, weave my fingers through her long hair, then slide my tongue along her parted lips.
Just like all aspects of my life, I control our kiss as well. I nip at her lips, drag my tongue along the roof of her mouth, and swallow down every moan erupting from her throat. It is a furiously pent-up kiss that makes up for the last several weeks of sexual frustration. It is a kiss that rivals all others. It’s needy, possessive, and has Isabelle yanking at the buttons on my business shirt with so much aggression, she pops several of the buttons before straight-up ripping them off with sheer desperation.
“That shirt cost way more than you think,” I say with a groan, my mouth never leaving hers.
With her tongue matching the strokes of mine, she tugs on my black leather belt. “I’m sure you can afford another.”
As my chuckle amplifies the tension bristling between us, I curl her legs around my waist before moving for the only solid wall in the room. My cock knocks at the trousers’ zipper when Isabelle bears down to grind her clit against the head of my cock. Her patience is as thin as mine, and it’s heard in her voice when she huskily asks, “Do you have a condom?”
The lust in her eyes magnifies when I pull the condom out of my pocket, but it has nothing on the shallow breaths that lift and drop her fantastic tits when I tug my pants and boxer shorts to my ankles, then rip open the foil packet with my teeth.
While sucking in the scent of Isabelle’s arousal, I roll the rubber matter down my twitching shaft. I hate how tight it feels around the base of my cock, but it is a small price to pay to finally reach this stage.
Isabelle is mine, and come hell or high water, I’m going to claim her as precisely that.
My possession.
My obsession.
Mine.
With my condom in place and my eyes locked with Isabelle’s, I tug her panties off her body before watching their frail drop to the floor.
“You’re buying me another pair.” There’s no annoyance in Isabelle’s tone. No angst. She’s wanted this as long as I have, so a little bit of frustration is the last thing on her mind as she reacquaints our lips.
After returning the teasing lashes of her tongue, I mutter over her lips. “It will be my pleasure.”
Desperate to feel her heat surrounding my cock, I pull her hips forward before guiding her torso back. When her back balances against the wood-paneled wall, I rub the head of my cock through the folds of her sex, lubricating it with a substance that grows damper the more times the head swipes over the nervy bud between her legs.
When Isabelle strays her eyes to the bed, my promise at 57 slams back into me. I told her I wanted to fuck her on a bed, and although I plan to make her bowlegged, escapades on a springy mattress will have to wait. The flight fromMummo Kotito Ravenshoe takes a little over an hour. I don’t have a second to spare.
Isabelle smiles a smug grin when I mutter, “Next time.” But it up and vanishes when I warn, “Hold on, baby, this is going to hurt.”
Cockiness isn’t talking on my behalf. It’s both experience and the memory of how tight she was when I ate her for dessert against the door of the manager’s office at 57. She clamped around my tongue, so I have no doubt she’s going to experience some type of pain when I take her to the root of my cock.
A brutal grunt escapes Isabelle’s lips when I impale her with one precise thrust. Her nails dig into my shoulders as tears well in her eyes. She’s hurting but not enough to beg me to stop.
