Chapter Twenty-One #2
“You're going to have to survive the fact that men may find me attractive.”
“I have survived worse.”
“Your face suggests otherwise.”
Taddeo moved closer without touching her. “You seem unusually interested in how much I dislike it.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Why?”
The amusement left her.
Her palm remained against his chest, but the touch became less teasing.
“Because I think you've spent so much time worrying that wanting control makes you the same man who put me in that car that you haven't noticed there's a difference between taking control from me and me choosing to give you some.”
Taddeo went completely still.
The distinction reached him immediately.
He forced himself not to make the mistake of interpreting faster than she intended. “Be precise.”
A faint smile touched her mouth. “There you are.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.” Isolde's expression sobered. “Outside a private moment between us, if I say no, it means no. If I say a conversation is private, it stays private. If I tell you I don't want you making a decision for me, being afraid for my safety doesn't automatically give you the right to ignore that.”
“Yes.”
“If I decide I want to leave a room, I leave it. If I want to sleep in my own bed, I do. If I tell you I need space, you don't decide I only think I need it because I'm upset.”
“Yes.”
She searched his face before continuing. “But when we're alone, when I choose it, I like the way you take control.”
The words altered his breathing.
Isolde felt the change beneath her palm.
“I like you telling me what you want,” she said, quieter now. “I like not having to decide every next thing for a while. I spend most of my life resisting people who think they know what should happen to me. Choosing to hand that responsibility over for a few hours feels different.”
Taddeo's hand came slowly to the side of her neck, his touch light enough that she could move away without encountering resistance. “Different how?”
“Because I'm giving it.”
“And if you want it back?”
“I take it back.”
“When?”
“Whenever I want.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
Taddeo looked at her carefully. “If you give me ownership language, it belongs to the moment you give it in. It doesn't become permission tomorrow.”
Something in her face softened. “Exactly.”
“And if tomorrow Paul walks into your museum and asks you to dinner, I don't get to announce to him that you're mine because you let me say it tonight.”
The corner of her mouth curved. “You may privately suffer.”
“I expect to.”
“But you understand.”
“Yes.”
For several seconds neither of them moved.
Taddeo's thumb rested beneath her jaw, and the trust required for what she was offering frightened him more than he would have admitted.
Forced obedience had always been simple.
Soldiers followed orders because rank required it.
Men paid debts because consequences stood behind refusal.
Northglass itself was built to compel outcomes when persuasion failed.
Isolde was offering something else entirely.
“Ask me,” she said.
Taddeo's gaze sharpened.
“Are you certain?”
“Ask.”
He lowered his voice, not because he wanted the question to sound more dangerous but because anything louder would have felt wrong. “Do you want me to take control?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to use the ownership language?”
Her cheeks colored again, but she did not look away. “Yes.”
“Tell me what that means.”
“It means I want you to talk to me like I'm yours while we're doing this.” Her fingers tightened faintly in his shirt before she added, “It means I want to give you control because I trust you to return it the second I ask.”
“Not because you're afraid of disappointing me.”
“No.”
“Not because you think I expect it.”
“No.”
“Not because you're at Northglass and believe giving me this makes anything else easier.”
“No.” A hint of irritation appeared beneath the heat in her face. “Do you need a notarized statement?”
“Possibly.”
“That seems inconvenient.”
“I know people.”
She laughed softly, and the sound released some of the tension without diminishing what they were discussing.
Taddeo moved his hand from her neck to her jaw. “Who decides when it ends?”
“I do.”
“And if you change your mind halfway through?”
“We stop.”
“Whose choice is this?”
“Mine.”
“Whose idea?”
“Mine.”
He waited another second.
Isolde's expression shifted toward impatience. “Are you finished?”
“Almost.” Taddeo leaned closer, stopping before his mouth reached hers. “Say the part you keep avoiding.”
She knew exactly what he meant.
The flush deepened down her throat. “I want to be yours tonight.”
The words nearly broke the restraint he'd been holding since she entered the office.
Taddeo let himself kiss her, but even then he kept the first contact slow, waiting until Isolde moved into him before deepening it.
Her hands slid to his shoulders, and he felt the difference with startling clarity.
Nothing about this obedience resembled her presence at Northglass.
If he told her to step away now, she could laugh in his face.
If he asked for something she didn't want, she could refuse and leave.
That possibility was the reason her yes meant anything.
When he broke the kiss, Isolde's breathing had become uneven.
“You still want this?”
“Yes.”
Taddeo glanced toward the office door. “Close it.”
Her pupils widened slightly.
Isolde crossed the room and shut the door.
The click of the latch should not have affected him as strongly as it did. She rested one hand against the handle before turning back, and Taddeo understood with almost painful clarity that she had obeyed because she had decided his direction was something she wanted to follow.
“Come here,” he said.
She did.
When Isolde stopped in front of him again, he touched her face and made certain she was looking at him before saying anything else. “Tonight is tonight.”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow you can argue with every word out of my mouth.”
“I was planning to.”
“And if you tell me to stop?”
“You stop.”
“Immediately.”
“Yes.”
Taddeo allowed the darker edge of his desire into his voice only after every boundary had been made explicit. “Then for tonight, you give me the control, and I give it back the second you ask.”
The heat in Isolde's expression deepened. “Yes.”
“Still yours to take back.”
“Yes.”
His mouth brushed hers once. “Good.”
Taddeo’s mouth claimed hers with deliberate force, tongue sliding deep, tasting her thoroughly while his hand remained locked in her hair.
He didn’t rush. He took. Isolde made a soft sound against his lips and tried to press closer; he answered by turning them both until her back met the edge of his desk.
Papers shifted. Something small clattered to the floor. He ignored it.
He broke the kiss only long enough to speak against her mouth.
“Hands on the desk.”
She obeyed at once, palms flattening on the polished wood.
The position arched her slightly, presenting her body to him.
Taddeo stepped in close, one thigh sliding between hers, and ran both hands down her sides.
He mapped her slowly—waist, hips, the outer curves of her thighs—before sliding upward again to cup her breasts through the thin fabric of her blouse.
His thumbs found her nipples and pressed firmly.
“Already hard for me,” he murmured. “Good.”
He unbuttoned her blouse with unhurried precision, one button at a time, watching her face the entire time.
When the last button slipped free he pushed the fabric open and down her arms, leaving it caught at her wrists so that her hands remained effectively bound against the desk.
The bra came next. He unhooked it, drew the straps down, and let it fall.
Isolde’s breasts spilled free, nipples tight and flushed.
Taddeo made a low sound of satisfaction and closed both hands over them, squeezing, rolling the peaks between his fingers until she was breathing hard.
“Look at me.”
She did. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide, lips parted.
“You gave this to me for the night,” he said. “That means I decide how fast, how hard, and how many times you come. You don’t get to hurry me. You don’t get to hide. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
A flush climbed her throat. “Yes… Taddeo.”
He smiled, slow and dark. “That will do for now.”
He bent and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard.
Isolde’s head tipped back, a broken sound escaping her.
He worked the peak with tongue and teeth while his hand continued to torment the other breast, pinching and rolling until she was shifting restlessly against the thigh he still kept between hers.
When he finally released her nipple it was wet and swollen.
He gave the other the same thorough attention, then straightened.
“Turn around. Hands stay on the desk.”
She turned. The position presented the elegant line of her back and the curve of her ass.
Taddeo reached around her, unfastened her trousers, and shoved them down along with her underwear in one smooth motion.
She stepped out of them when he ordered her to.
Completely bare now from the waist down, blouse still tangled at her wrists, she stood exposed in the center of his office while he remained fully clothed behind her.
He ran one palm down the length of her spine, then lower, over the swell of her ass, and between her thighs. His fingers found her already slick and open. He stroked through her folds slowly, spreading the wetness, then pushed two fingers inside her without warning.
Isolde gasped. Her hands flexed on the desk.
“Quiet,” he said, though there was no true threat in it—only command. “Anyone walking past the corridor would hear you. Do you want that?”
She shook her head.
“Words.”
“No.”
“Then keep quiet while I feel how wet you are for this.”