8. Adrian
Chapter eight
Adrian
I ’m barely holding on to reality, the sensation of Isabella’s mouth on me sending me close to the edge. She’s got skills that could turn a saint into a sinner, and I’m no saint. The way she works me—holy hell, it’s like she’s got a PhD in pleasure. I groan, my head hitting the pillow like a sack of bricks as her tongue does this thing that should probably be illegal.
“Isabella,” I manage to gasp out between ragged breaths, “as much as I enjoy your current … uh, position, I need you to stop.”
She looks up at me, her green eyes glinting with mischief and not a hint of innocent confusion. This woman knows exactly what she’s doing to me. With deliberate slowness, she releases me from the warm haven of her mouth, and I swear I nearly see stars.
“Come here,” I say, half-command, half-plea. I reach over to the nightstand, my fingers fumbling for a second before they grab hold of the foil packet. It’s a miracle that I don’t rip the damn thing to shreds as I roll the condom onto my cock, which stands at attention like a soldier ready for battle .
Straddling me, she positions herself above me, and I can’t help but assist, guiding her hips until I’m sinking into her. There’s a tightness in my chest that matches the one where we’re joined.
“Jesus, you’re—”
“Biggest you’ve ever had?” I finish for her, a cocky smirk playing on my lips. I can’t help it; her awe strokes more than just my ego.
“Shut up,” she retorts, but there’s a breathlessness to her words that tells me she’s not really annoyed. “It feels … so good.”
“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” I assure her, and I mean it. Every inch of her envelops me like I’m made to fit inside her, and maybe in this moment, I am.
“Then let me make it feel even better,” she challenges, as if she’s daring me to doubt her ability to rock my world. I chuckle because she clearly doesn’t know who she’s dealing with—or maybe she does, and that’s why she’s here.
“Go ahead, impress me.” I lay back, hands behind my head as I admire the view.
Her body is something else, curves that make my palms itch to touch, to explore. But I resist because this—watching her take control—is a rare and beautiful thing.
“Ride me until you come again,” I instruct, or maybe plead—it’s hard to tell when my thoughts are fogging up like a car window on a cold day.
Isabella doesn’t need telling twice. She finds a rhythm that has both of us gasping for air, and I think this must be what heaven feels like—if heaven comes with a side of sin and sweat-slicked skin.
Her hips move with a rhythm that has me nearly spellbound. My fingers trail up her stomach, lingering on the softness there before reaching the swell of her breasts. Her skin is like silk under my touch, and I’m half convinced she’s some sort of sorceress, because every move she makes has me more entranced.
“Adrian,” she gasps, and the way my name sounds on her lips is better than any symphony.
“Turn around for me,” I growl, my voice rough with need. She doesn’t hesitate, adjusting herself with a fluid grace that makes it clear she’s as into this as I am. Now she’s facing away, riding me reverse cowgirl, and damn if the view of her round ass isn’t a vision straight from my wildest fantasies.
“Feels even better,” she cries out, and I can hear the pleasure in her voice, thick and undeniable.
“Don’t stop,” I command, not above begging if that’s what it takes to keep this moment going.
Her moans fill the room, a sweet chorus that’s music to my ears. “Adrian!” she screams as she rides me, and hearing her cry out my name is a rush of power and pleasure that I can’t get enough of.
We’re in sync now, chasing that edge together, and when we come, it’s like an electric current passes between us, binding us together in the most intimate of ways. She collapses onto my legs, and I can’t help but give her ass an appreciative rub—god, she’s incredible.
“Come here,” I say softly, helping her up and laying her down next to me. We kiss, fervently, like we’re trying to memorize the feel of each other’s lips, and I’m not thinking about tomorrow or consequences or anything past this room and this woman.
I rise to take care of the condom, a brief interlude in the bathroom, and when I return to bed, I pull Isabella close. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, the picture of serenity.
“Stay the night?” I ask, almost holding my breath for her answer.
“Yes,” she murmurs, her eyes already closing. I wrap my arms around her tighter, marveling at how right it feels .
And then I’m drifting too, pulled under by the weight of sleep and the warmth of Isabella beside me. It’s been too long since I’ve felt peace like this. Maybe I could get used to it.
***
Sunlight trickles in through the blinds, casting a warm glow on the tangled sheets. I blink awake and immediately feel the soft weight of Isabella’s arm draped over my waist. It’s a strange sensation—comforting yet disconcerting. For years, my mornings have been about as peaceful as a courtroom brawl. But here she is, her breath a steady whisper against my skin, stirring something in me that feels a lot like tranquility.
I carefully slide from under her arm, half-expecting to wake up from this anomaly of a morning. As I stand beside the bed, I can’t help but watch her sleep—a little creepy, sure, but I’m too caught up in the unexpected softness of the moment. There’s no trace of her usual firecracker energy, just the gentle rise and fall of her chest. All I can do is smile at the sight.
Trying to shake off the sentimentality, I head into my walk-in closet to retrieve a pair of joggers and a white T-shirt, then pad into the kitchen. The sizzle of bacon hits the pan, eggs follow suit, and I’m slicing avocado like some sort of brunch maestro. Brewing coffee fills the silence, its rich aroma wrapping around me. Seriously, since when do I play breakfast chef for anyone? My ex-wife would’ve keeled over at the sight.
But Isabella isn’t Colette. She doesn’t throw fits over me not wanting an abundance of staff or pout if I work late. And she certainly doesn’t need me to take care of her—hell, she’d probably argue that point until we’re both blue in the face. Yet, here I am, wondering how Isabella would react to more mornings like this. Would she laugh it off? Raise an eyebrow with that “Are you serious?” look of hers?
As I lay out our impromptu feast, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. One wrong step and I’m free-falling, no legal strategy or boardroom maneuvering to save me. I should probably get my head checked for even considering this; perhaps Isabella King might be the one person who can handle the plunge with me.
Just then, Isabella steps out from the hallway, her arms outstretched as she yawns. She’s got nothing on but one of my old T-shirts that she must have found somewhere in the pile of laundry I’ve been meaning to fold. It’s oversized on her tall but delicate frame. And she looks sexy as hell.
I lean against the kitchen counter, spatula in hand, and try to appear nonchalant as she blinks away the remnants of sleep. “Morning,” I say. “Hope you’re hungry.”
She joins me at the kitchen island, glancing around with the kind of surprise that’s usually reserved for discovering you’ve won the lottery—or that your one-night stand can actually cook.
“Adrian, what are you doing?” Her voice is groggy but incredulous.
“Breakfast,” I announce, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Go on, have a seat. I’ll serve you.”
“Shouldn’t I help?” Isabella peers up at me, and I can’t help but notice how the morning light dances along her hair. With no makeup and drenched in a mixture of both our scents, I don’t think anyone can be any more beautiful.
“Nonsense,” I tell her. “You don’t have to do a thing. Just enjoy what I make you.”
“Can I at least make your coffee?” Her offer is almost challenging, like she’s daring me to let her contribute .
“That you can do. Help yourself to whatever you like in the fridge. I’m a cream and sugar guy.”
“Actually, I don’t drink coffee,” she says, and it’s like she suddenly just remembered.
“Really? But I’ve seen you drink it at work,” I counter, my lawyer instincts kicking in before the sun’s even high.
“Oh, um.” She scratches the back of her head. “I meant I don’t drink it anymore. Trying to cut back.”
“Fair enough. I’ll still take mine with cream and sugar.”
“Fine,” she relents, her movements still a little sluggish as she pads barefoot to the coffee machine. “I guess it’s juice for me then?”
“How about orange? It’s the most mature juice I have.”
She nods once. “I’ll take it.”
“Coming right up.” I pour her a glass, watching as she adds cream and sugar to my coffee with precision. There’s something about watching her do something so ... domestic that gives me a thrill I didn’t expect.
“Here you go,” she says, handing me the mug before taking her seat at the table, the bedsheet draped around her creating a statue-like silhouette.
“Thanks.” I set plates down, piling them high with bacon, eggs, and avocado toast—my impromptu attempt at culinary romance. Serving her first feels strangely significant, like I’m honoring some ancient rite of passage.
“Wow, this looks amazing,” she says, genuine appreciation in her eyes. And I can’t decide if she’s more impressed by the food or the fact that I’m the one who made it.
“Enjoy,” I tell her, sliding into the chair opposite her. We eat mostly in silence, the simple sounds of cutlery and chewing filling the kitchen. It’s comfortable, easy, like something we’ve done a thousand times before—even though we both know that’s not the case.
As I watch her sip her orange juice, sunlight catching those green eyes, I find myself caught up in a moment I never anticipated. For a man who prides himself on being ten steps ahead, Isabella King keeps tripping me up in ways I never see coming.
The final forkful of avocado toast disappears into her mouth, and she’s eyeing the last piece of bacon like it’s the holy grail. I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re quite the food critic. Should I be worried about my Yelp review?”
Her laugh, light and surprising, fills the space between us. “Five stars for the chef,” she says, a playfulness in her tone that’s as refreshing as it is disarming.
I lean back in my chair, the weight of the morning pressing against the silence that follows. There’s a warmth here, something palpable and unnerving in its intensity. I take a breath, feeling like I’m on the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the precipice.
“Isabella,” I start, and the words are there, ready to leap. “How would you feel about keeping this ... thing between us going? Casually, of course.”
She raises an eyebrow, green eyes sharp as ever. “Casual?” There’s a skepticism in her voice, but it’s not unwelcome. It’s Isabella, through and through.
“Absolutely. No strings.” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly aware of how absurd this must sound. “You’ve got your career path bulldozed straight ahead, and me—well, let’s just say I’m not exactly keen to dive back into the deep end after the matrimonial belly flop.”
She dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “But we work together. You’re my boss. Things could get really … ”
“I know. Don’t think I haven’t considered all of that. Even though I’m your boss, I’m also just Adrian. We’ve known each other since we were kids. Our dads have been best friends long before the thought of either of us was even conceived.”
“ You’ve known me since you were a kid. I’ve known you my entire life,” she points out. Right. The nine-year age gap. Now that she’s 27, it hardly feels like the monumental difference it did when we were younger.
“Maybe it’s only me, but when we’re together … it just works. And the sex. It’s—” I shake my head, unable to even describe how incredible the sex is. “I don’t think the English language even has a word for how good you make me feel.”
“If we’re going to do this, don’t you think we need to set some boundaries?” She’s folding her arms now, lawyer-mode in full swing.
“Fort Knox levels of boundaries,” I assure her. We both know we’re treading on a minefield, yet neither of us seems willing to step away.
“Fine. But the moment it gets complicated, we end it. Agreed?” The firmness in her voice doesn’t match the curiosity dancing in those emerald depths.
“Agreed.” It’s a pact made on a foundation of mutual self-delusion, but hell, it’s a pact nonetheless.
We finish our meal in quiet harmony, the unspoken agreement hanging in the air like a dare. As I clear the plates, I’m drawn to her by some magnetic force I can’t deny. I press my lips to hers, a soft claim that tastes like promise and warning all at once.
She responds with a heat that ignites a fire within me, and our kiss deepens, fueled by a passion I didn’t know we’d been stoking. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling me closer, and I’m lost in the sensation of her, the very essence of Isabella King.
We pull apart, breathless, our gazes locked in silent conversation. Words are unnecessary; the electricity between us speaks volumes. And as our lips meet again, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re diving headfirst into uncharted territory—with no map, no plan, and absolutely no idea what we’re getting ourselves into.