“Then do it,” I breathe.
He makes a sound that’s almost a growl, and then we’re moving. He carries me across the studio like I weigh nothing and I’m vaguely aware of passing the front desk, the coat hooks, the small hallway that leads to the office.
“Where—”
“Somewhere with a door that locks.”
The office. Of course. He kicks it open, somehow managing not to drop me, and then we’re inside and he’s laying me down on the couch I’ve used for countless breaks between lessons. The leather is cool against my heated skin, and I arch up into him as he settles over me. The new position puts our bodies in perfect alignment. When he rolls his hips, the exquisite friction makes me moan.
“There,” he says against my throat. “That sound. I want to hear that every day for the rest of my life.”
The rest of my life.
The words should send me running. Instead, they make me pull him closer.
His hands work at the buttons of my blouse but they’re too slow and I bat them away impatiently, yanking the fabric over my head instead. His breath catches as he takes in the simple black bra underneath.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Less talking. More?—”
He silences me with a kiss, and then his mouth is trailing lower—across my collarbone, down the center of my chest, over the swell of my breast. When his lips close around my nipple through the fabric, I nearly come off the couch.
“Oh—”
“Good?”
“Yes.”
He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, until the fabric is soaked through and I’m writhing beneath him. His hands are on my waist, my hips, sliding down to the waistband of my pants.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says, fingers hovering. “At any point. I need to hear it.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
“Isadora—”
“Please.”
The word undoes him. His fingers make quick work of the button, the zipper, and then he’s peeling the fabric down my legs and I’m lying beneath him in nothing but my bra and underwear.
His gaze travels over me slowly, reverently. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you’d be perfect.” He traces a line from my knee to my hip, watching goosebumps rise in his wake. “Every inch of you.”
“I’m not?—”
“Don’t.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to my stomach. “Don’t argue with me about this. You’re perfect. End of discussion.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. No one has ever looked at me the way he’s looking at me now—like I’m something precious, something worth cherishing.
His fingers hook under the edge of my underwear. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
He pulls them down slowly, and I resist the urge to close my legs, to hide. His sharp intake of breath tells me everything I need to know.
