Chapter Twenty-One #3
He fucked her with his fingers in deep, measured strokes, curling them against the sensitive front wall of her core while his other hand reached around to find her clit.
He rubbed firm circles, matching the rhythm of his fingers, until her thighs began to tremble and wetness coated his hand.
Every time her breathing turned high and thin he slowed, denying her the edge.
He kept her there for long minutes—working her open, stretching her, reading every shift of her body—until she was shaking and silent only by force of will.
When he finally withdrew his fingers she made a soft, frustrated sound. Taddeo brought the slick digits to her mouth.
“Clean them.”
She hesitated only a second, then opened for him. He pushed his fingers between her lips and watched her suck them clean, tongue moving obediently. The sight sent a dark pulse of satisfaction through him.
“Good girl.”
He turned her back to face him, freed her hands from the tangled blouse, and stripped the rest of her clothing away.
Then he lifted her onto the edge of the desk as if she weighed nothing.
Papers scattered. He didn’t care. He stepped between her spread thighs, still fully dressed, and looked down at her naked body arranged for him on the surface of his own desk.
“Stay exactly like that.”
He unbuckled his belt, opened his trousers, and freed his cock. It was thick, heavy, already hard and flushed dark at the head. Isolde’s eyes dropped to it. Taddeo caught her chin and forced her gaze back up.
“Eyes on me when I fuck you.”
He lined himself up and pushed in with one long, controlled thrust.
The stretch forced a sharp cry from her throat. He filled her completely, the thick length of him pressing deep until his hips met hers. Isolde’s hands flew to his shoulders; he caught both wrists and pinned them to the desk on either side of her hips.
“I said stay.”
He held still, buried to the hilt, letting her feel every inch while her heat fluttered and adjusted around the intrusion. Only when her breathing steadied did he begin to move.
He fucked her in deep, relentless strokes, each one dragging along the front wall of her core, each withdrawal leaving her empty before he drove back in.
The desk creaked beneath them. The wet sound of his shaft sliding in and out of her filled the office.
Taddeo kept her wrists pinned, kept her thighs spread wide by the press of his body, and watched every expression that crossed her face.
“You feel that?” he asked, voice rough. “That’s me taking what you offered. No more arguing. No more fighting. Just this.”
Isolde’s eyes were glassy, lips parted. She nodded.
“Words.”
“Yes—yes, I feel it.”
He shifted the angle, driving deeper, and her walls clenched hard around him. Taddeo felt the first flutter of her orgasm approaching and deliberately slowed, grinding instead of thrusting, keeping her right on the edge without letting her fall.
“Not yet.”
She made a desperate sound. He ignored it, continuing the slow, grinding pressure until the urgency eased, then resumed the deeper thrusts. He edged her twice more that way—building her high, then denying her—until she was trembling and wetness ran down onto the desk beneath her.
“Please,” she whispered.
Taddeo leaned over her, still buried deep, and spoke against her mouth.
“You don’t get to come until I say. That’s part of what you gave me.”
He straightened, withdrew almost all the way, then thrust back in hard.
The sudden force wrung a cry from her. He set a steady, punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, shaft filling her completely on every stroke.
One hand left her wrist to reach between them and find her clit.
He rubbed firm, exact circles in time with his thrusts.
“Now,” he ordered. “Come on my cock.”
Isolde shattered. Her orgasm tore through her in violent pulses, core clamping down around him, milking him tightly. She cried out, back arching, thighs shaking. Taddeo fucked her through it without slowing, drawing every last wave out of her until she was gasping and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull free.
Isolde slumped back against the desk, chest heaving, legs still spread. Come wasn’t the issue yet—he hadn’t finished—but her own slick glistened on his shaft and coated her thighs. Taddeo looked at the mess with open possession, then reached for her.
“Up.”
He helped her stand on unsteady legs, then guided her around the desk to the large leather chair behind it.
He sat, still mostly dressed, shaft hard and wet, and pulled her into his lap facing him.
Isolde straddled his thighs. He positioned her carefully, then gripped her hips and lowered her onto him in one slow, controlled descent.
She took him again with a broken moan. The new angle seated him even deeper. Taddeo held her hips and rolled his own upward in short, grinding thrusts while she was still adjusting.
“Ride me,” he said. “Slow. I want to feel every inch of you.”
Isolde began to move. She lifted and sank, taking him deep each time, hands braced on his shoulders.
Taddeo watched her face, watched the way her breasts moved, watched the flush that spread down her chest. When she tried to speed up he tightened his grip on her hips and forced the pace back to the slow, deliberate rhythm he wanted.
“I said slow.”
She obeyed. The friction was intense, almost unbearable.
Every downward slide stretched her around the thick base of him; every upward movement dragged him along her sensitive inner walls.
Taddeo kept one hand on her hip and used the other to stroke her clit in lazy circles, never quite enough pressure to push her over again.
He made her work for it. Minutes passed in the quiet office, the only sounds their breathing and the wet slide of her folds over his cock. When her thighs began to shake from the controlled effort he took over, hands gripping her ass, lifting and dropping her onto him in deeper, harder strokes.
“Again,” he ordered. “Come for me again.”
Isolde’s second orgasm hit harder than the first. She cried out, body locking tight around him, pulsing in long, rhythmic waves. Taddeo held her through it, grinding up into her, prolonging the climax until she collapsed forward against his chest, trembling.
He was still hard inside her.
He let her rest for only a minute, stroking her back, then spoke quietly against her hair.
“We’re not finished.”
He stood with her still impaled on his cock, one arm under her ass, the other supporting her back, and carried her out of the office.
Isolde made a soft, startled sound and locked her legs around his waist. He walked the corridor with her wrapped around him, still buried deep, each step jostling her on his cock.
The bedroom door was already ajar. He kicked it open, crossed to the bed, and laid her down without withdrawing.
Then he stripped the rest of his own clothes with efficient movements and settled over her again.
He pushed her thighs wide, hooked them over his arms, and began to fuck her in long, deep strokes that filled the quiet bedroom with the wet sound of skin meeting skin.
Isolde’s hands clutched at the sheets, then at his back.
Taddeo caught both wrists and pinned them above her head once more, holding her completely open beneath him.
“This is what you offered,” he said, voice low and rough against her ear. “My control. My pace. My cock inside you for as long as I decide. You don’t get to hold anything back tonight.”
He drove into her harder, angling so that every thrust ground against the sensitive place inside her. Isolde’s third orgasm built with shocking speed under the relentless pressure. Taddeo felt the moment her core began to flutter and clamp.
“Look at me when you come.”
She forced her eyes open. The intensity in his gaze was almost too much, but she held it as the climax tore through her. She came hard, pulsing around him, a broken cry leaving her throat. Taddeo fucked her through it, then kept going, chasing his own release with deep, powerful strokes.
When he finally came it was with a low, guttural sound. He buried himself to the hilt and emptied inside her in long, hot pulses, flooding her until she felt the excess begin to leak out around his cock. He stayed locked deep, breathing hard against her neck, still twitching with aftershocks.
Only when his heartbeat had begun to slow did he carefully withdraw.
Come spilled from her in a warm rush onto the sheets.
Taddeo looked down at the mess between her thighs—his come leaking from her swollen, well-fucked center—with dark, open satisfaction.
Then he rolled onto his back and drew her across his chest so that her hair spilled over his shoulder and one bare leg tangled with his.
He kept one heavy arm draped over her waist, holding her there while their breathing gradually evened out in the dark.
Much later, Taddeo lay on his back in the dark with Isolde half across his chest and the sheet pulled loosely over both of them.
Wind moved around the western side of Northglass, and whenever it shifted direction he could hear the muted Atlantic beyond the windows, but his body remained too alert for sleep even as Isolde drifted toward it.
One of her hands rested against his ribs, fingers moving occasionally in absent patterns as though she had not yet decided whether she was awake.
“You look smug,” she murmured.
Taddeo glanced down. “Your eyes are closed.”
“I can feel it.”
“That seems medically unlikely.”
“I've developed a specialized sense for your arrogance.”
His hand moved slowly over her back. “You were not complaining earlier.”
Isolde opened one eye and looked up at him. “You have approximately thirty seconds before I regret letting you discover ownership vocabulary.”
“I didn't discover it tonight.”