A smile cuts through the tension on his face. “You like praise, sweetheart?”
My cheeks flare with embarrassment. The sentence had just slipped out of me, and now I can’t take it back.
But Isaac doesn’t miss a beat. “When you walked into that conference room,” he says, and tweaks one of my nipples, “the first thing I imagined was how good your body would feel against mine.”
My breath is coming fast. “Oh.”
“I knew it was inappropriate, of course. But that’s where my mind went on its own. And when I saw you on the tennis court in that skirt and ponytail?” He trails his hand over my hip and rests it between my legs, his hand cupping me over the lace. “My first thought was what you looked like beneath it.”
“Not winning?” I ask. The words sound breathless.
He curls his fingers, brushing them against sensitive flesh. “You know I love to win.”
“Mm-hm,” I say. “So do I.”
“But I wanted you more,” he says, and tugs the lace of my panties aside. His fingers brush against my bare skin and he gives a hoarse groan. “This still feels like victory, though.”
He’s touching me like he had been in the shower, only now he’s watching me as he does it, his eyes roaming between mine and the movement of his fingers.
It’s intimate in a way the shower hadn’t been.
His fingers circle, finding the spot he’d so expertly manipulated last weekend. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “God, you’re so soft.”
I roll my hips against his hand. He taunts and teases, sends me rising. Lingering, as he put it, until I can’t take the teasing hands anymore. I reach between us for the belt of his pants.
He lets me undo it, his hands drifting up to my hips.
“You wouldn’t let me take off your shorts last weekend,” I say.
He groans when I pull the zipper down over the distinct hardness beneath. “No, because condom or no condom, I would’ve wanted to get inside you if you had.”
I run my nails over the bulge in his boxer-briefs. “You’ve teased me a lot,” I say.
“Only fair,” he murmurs.
I slide down from the chair, between his splayed legs. My hands have a goal and he must be anxious to help because it takes us less than five seconds to tug at his pants, to pull the elastic down, and then he’s there.
Bobbing hard and big in front of me.
“Sophia, I—”
His words end when I start to stroke, and when I close my lips around him, he gives a sharp breath. From the corner of my eye I see his hands curving around the armrests of the chair, the knuckles turning white.
Excitement races through me at the sight.
Knowing he’s coming undone by me,becauseof me, is thrilling. Losing control, being vulnerable… I know without asking him that’s not something he allows himself often.
His hand runs over my head, strokes over my bare shoulder. It tightens over my skin when I add fluttering strokes of my tongue.
“Fuck. Okay, you’re too good at this,” he says. “Like you are at everything.”
I want to smile. I want to laugh, I want to live in this moment forever, but I sheath my teeth and grip him tighter instead.
He groans and his hips flex, involuntarily, beneath me. “No more,” he breathes, and hands beneath my arms tug me upwards with too much strength to resist. “Come, I need… here, sit on me. Let me—” Then his hands pause on my waist. “Fuck, the condom.”
I chuckle. “Not again.”
He sighs like a man settling down to a task, hard and cumbersome, and stands with me in his arms. “Waiting,” he mutters, “for a good thing is getting old.”