4. Chapter Four #2
“Am I right?” Sophie pushes. She throws back her head with a cackle when I don’t respond. “I am! I knew it. You have everything, but it turns out that not even money or a feature on the cover of GQ can bring a woman to pity you.”
I hold my tongue. I know better than to respond to taunts.
But Sophie takes it a step further as she pulls away from me, putting distance between us. She sighs and her mouth flattens in mock pity. “That’s so sad, Mr. Moretti. So, so sad. To be a big prude at your age.”
Her skirt falls off.
Fucking hell.
Her breasts are almost spilling out of her bra from the effort it took to get out of her skirt and underneath the skirt… lace panties. The sheer material barely covers anything, and the patch that slides between her legs is a fucking slip that leaves much to the imagination.
I wipe my hand over my mouth as I curse under my breath.
I could walk over, pin her against the wall, and make her take the words back. She’d swallow them in seconds, and I wouldn’t stop until she begged me to make her come.
When I speak again, I don’t recognize my own voice. It sounds like wet concrete poured on gravel and threaded over with a truck tire.
“Good night, Sophie,” I say, dragging my feet away. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Are you scared?”
Ignore.
“That you’d end up feeling even more helpless? Because I could tell how much it pissed you off when your plan to get me drunk didn’t work.”
“You’re drunk,” I remind her without looking back.
“I’m not,” she retorts. “You think I’m the kind of woman who’s easy to take advantage of.” Her voice comes across clear and sharp. “Well, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not scared of you, Mr. Moretti, because you’re all talk and nothing else.”
I react before my brain predicts it. One second I’m standing in the hallway, and the other I’m in front of Sophie, watching her breasts rise with every inhale.
“You know nothing about me, Sophie,” I say.
Her chin lifts, proud and unflinching. “Then prove it.”
I raise a finger to her cheek, letting it brush her skin with the lightest touch. As expected, she draws in a sharp breath, but her eyes never leave mine.
Good. Let her keep looking. Let her watch herself unravel without a single place to hide.
My finger traces the curve of her chin, down the delicate slope of her neck, stopping at the line of her collarbone.
“You’re shivering,” I murmur. “And I’ve barely touched you.
What do you think would happen if I took this—” I slide another finger under the thin strap of her bra, “off? Still think I’m the prude here? ”
She doesn’t blink. “Turns out it’s just cold.”
I pause. Ah . So that’s how she wants to play it.
Without breaking eye contact, I slip the strap down her shoulder deliberately, then the other. My fingers find the clasp, and with practiced ease, I undo it.
Her bra loosens. Slips just inches away from falling off. I imagine it—taking it off all the way and having her breasts spill free, soft and tempting. As I step back to admire the scene, Sophie draws another breath, this one shakier.
Her defiance flickers, but it’s still there, simmering beneath the surface.
I don’t touch. I watch her, watch her struggle under the weight of my gaze.
“You’re not cold anymore,” I murmur, voice low and rough as her skin takes on a shade of light pink. “Are you?”
“Maybe?” She shrugs. “My clothes are off after all.”
“Not all,” I say as I step forward, bringing my lips inches from her ear. “It’s fine to admit defeat at this point, Sophie. I won’t hold it against you. You were simply out of your depths, that’s all.”
I pull back as she bites her lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh.
This is fun.
My thumb brushes the outline of her mouth—a featherlight caress—and her lips part with a quiet whimper. It’s the first crack in her defenses, the first sound she doesn’t mean to give me.
She feels it, too. Her shoulders straighten, like she can will the weakness away. Like pride alone can hold her together.
I don’t push.
Instead, my thumb continues downward, tracing lazy, deliberate patterns across her chest. Each stroke gets closer, more dangerous, flirting with the fragile edge of her slipping bra.
It hangs on by sheer stubbornness—just like her. My hand drifts to her waist, skimming the zipper on her skirt. I pause there, not moving further.
“One last chance,” I murmur. “Admit it. The only reason you’re still standing here is to prove a point.”
She doesn’t blink or back down. I didn’t think it was possible, but the fire in her eyes flares even brighter, and I find myself slipping and leaning in to feel her breath on my face.
“Maybe I am,” she says, quiet but unflinching. “But I’m still standing.”
That’s all it takes. The restraint snaps clean.
I grip her face and kiss her—hard. There’s no restraint or apology in the way my hand cradles her head and my other hand digs into her waist.
Just raw hunger—and all the frustration I’ve been burying since she walked into my office with those fire-lit eyes and that defiant mouth.
Her body arches into mine instantly, like her spine was made for this, like her resistance was only ever foreplay. There’s no hesitation, only heat. Reckless, stubborn, mutual need.
My fingers find the zipper at her waist and tug—slowly at first, then with purpose.
It gives with a whisper, and her skirt pools at her feet.
She stumbles a little, but I catch her easily, one arm sweeping around her waist, pulling her into me until her back hits the wall with a soft, breathless thud.
She gasps, and I drink in the sound like oxygen.
Her fingers slide into my hair—tight, possessive—and then rake down my back, her nails dragging hard enough to leave marks. My lips find her neck, hot and open, and I don’t hold back. I taste her skin, biting just enough to make her whimper and tilt her head, giving me more.
“God,” I groan against her throat. She smells like everything I should abandon, like the small voice of caution raging with desire at the back of my head.
It’s her soft skin against mine, the wild flutter of her pulse beneath my mouth, the way her body trembles but doesn’t break. It’s the little sounds she makes. Those breathless, aching noises that send heat surging low in my gut.
She doesn’t tell me to stop.
And if she moans again like that—needy and low, right in my ear—I won’t be able to.
Not here. Not now. Not without ruining us both.
“Dom,” she whimpers, breath shuddering as I flick the bra aside and lower my head. My mouth closes around her nipple, tongue swirling slowly and drawing tight circles until her back arches, offering more.
She’s trembling beneath me, restless and aching, her body begging for touch where it hurts the most.
And God , I want to give it to her. Want to tear through every layer between us and bury myself so deeply she forgets where she ends and I begin.
Until her scent takes over my senses and my mouth is buried between her legs, drawing out every last drop, and her throat is hoarse from screaming.
But for now, I savor it.
My tongue drags over her nipples again, lips closing tighter this time, sucking just enough to make her cry out. Her nails bite into my arm, and her knees falter, like she’s melting under the weight of need.
My pulse hammers as the blood rushes low, pressure building so hard it aches against my zipper. I groan low and strained as I lift my head and capture her mouth again, hungry, claiming.
My tongue plunges between her lips, and she moans into me, open and wild.
Her thighs part with the softest nudge, instinct taking over. I slide my hand down, fingers skimming the inside of her leg, and then—
“Fuck,” she breathes, broken and breathless as my hand finds her. She’s soaked. Needy. And all mine.
She gasps as my fingers reach higher, exploring slick, warm skin that pulses around nothing. The moment I touch her, her hips jerk forward, a soft cry escaping her lips as her head falls back against the wall.
I press my mouth to her throat, dragging my tongue along the line of her jaw as my fingers stroke slow, deliberate patterns over her clit. She shudders violently, her grip tightening around my shoulders, her body caught between surrender and desperation.
“ Please ,” she moans again, almost like a warning. Like she’s barely hanging on.
“Just like that,” I whisper against her skin, struggling too. “ Not so stubborn now, are we?” My mouth curves as her lashes flutter and her eyes open just a moment to give me a look.
It falters with a long, drawn quiver as I slip a finger inside her and then another, curling slowly, watching the way her mouth falls open, how she clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping her upright.
Like she’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart and the reason I’m so close to losing it all.
Her head falls on my shoulder, and her nipples brush against my shirt, dragging moans from deep inside her.
She’s unraveling fast, and I feel it in the way her body clamps around my fingers, in the wild, almost frantic roll of her hips, chasing friction, chasing relief.
And I give it to her.
I press harder, faster, flicking my thumb over her clit as her breath catches on a sharp cry. She clutches at me like she’s falling, her whole body tensing as the climax rips through her.
Her moan tears out of her throat like a sob, and I hold her through it, mouth on hers, drinking her down until she melts against me, limp and trembling.
But we’re far from done.
Not even close.
I flip her over, her nipples pressed to the cold wall as I cover her with my body. My thighs brace against both sides of her legs, and I tilt my hips, grinding on her ass.