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“Get out. This is not your chamber,” she demanded.
“Mine was occupied.” He closed the book with a snap and set it on the floor. “Come here.”
“No. I do not play in this room.”
“I’m not playing. What do you want, Isabelle?”
A melting fire started in her core at the sound of her name. The way a lover would say her name. She refused to answer.
“Remove the towels,” he said.
She shook her head, wanting to deny him. Trying to control the outcome of their arrangement—and failing.
His shirt came off again. Then his smallclothes. She stopped breathing. His beauty was unlike that of any man she’d ever seen—sculpted, a scar on his thigh, dark hair in a thick V tapering to his bellybutton—and lower.
Lower—to the reason they were here. The sight common enough to her. As she had discovered, men were pretty much the same. Dorian, however, wasn’t common. His upthrust cock was proud, beautifully wide and tapered to a round, ruby-colored head.
Yes, the sight was common enough, except for one small factor. What could he do with it? she wondered.
“The towels,” he said again, his brows rising in an arched command.
Isabelle flung the one in her hand away from her. Across her shoulder, another was draped. She slid it down her arm and it floated to the floor. Unable to move, she bit at her lips. Her chest heaved. Never had she wanted a man the way she wanted him. This was truly whoring. All others were business arrangements. This wanting—this needful, pooling, burning ache in the pit of her belly confirmed what she’d always known. She was a whore to her very heart.
If he gave her true gratification, she’d return his money. She’d never known the “little death”. She wanted to die in Dorian’s embrace.
The money had blinded her to her calling. She wanted to know real pleasure, real intimacy with a man.
Dorian had approached. His finger traced the edge of the towel where it caught under her arm. He tugged. The towel fell away, revealing her nakedness and the colorful dragon she had drawn.
His gaze raked her body.
“Merde!Who the hell did that to you?” He stepped back, the shocked look on his face and his thunderous words startling her.
His reaction could not have pleased her more. She did it for him. Dorian Montgomery would get all of her skills, all of her knowledge, all of her enticements.
His nostrils flared. His eyes squinted as he looked at the body painting she’d done. A green, red and gold dragon crawled up from her thigh, sprawling across her belly, one claw around her bellybutton. One of her Arabic house servants at her Italian villa had shown her how. It had taken Isabelle three days to paint. The tattoo would wash off after a month and she’d drawn it just for him.
The same woman had shown her how to remove body hair. The first time she’d done it, she felt and looked like a young girl. The body hair she’d had as an adult, she now thought ugly.
Dorian did not touch the dragon. He smoothed the back of his hand over her hairless, plump mons, staring as though he just now realized some grand secret, even though his fingers had already caressed between her legs.
If he could resist her now, she’d failed him. His reaction told her what she suspected—he wanted her desperately in spite of his cool reserve earlier. His manhood bobbed and strained toward her, his breathing rapid and shallow.
Isabelle waited for him to toss her on the bed and ravish her with quick, uncontrollable thrusts. She loved to push men to the brink of their endurance and then speed them to the quick, hard rush of their release. She knew how to do it. She also knew how to keep a man poised on the razor’s edge.
The palpable air of desire floated around her and caressed her. He wasn’t immune to her charms. In fact, she suspected he wanted her more than any of the others had wanted her. She could not fathom how he had the fortitude to wait.
“Sweet mother of…” he whispered as he turned her. His hands and fingers splayed across her waist. He pressed his body into her back, his hardness to her soft, yielding bottom. She felt his tender touch between her legs, then he stroked up her body.
She arched backward, her breasts cradled inside his large palms.
He nipped and kissed at her shoulder. The throaty moans she heard were all his.
Now that she’d broken him, she didn’t mind so much they would enjoy their quick session on her bed. Soon she’d have him at her beck and call.
Escaping his arms, she walked to the bed, her body swaying in a rhythm designed to torment him. Men were fundamentally the same, she knew. Exotic and rare, hard and fast, free and unencumbered—it was all they wanted. It was all she provided.
Near the bed, she climbed over the yellow coverlet on all fours. And waited. No man could resist her pose.
