The Date
ESTELLE
When Carlos walks out of the bathroom, he’s wearing sweatpants hanging low on his hips and a snug white t-shirt.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything other than his prim suits, and I suddenly don’t know where to look.
Every part of him looks so good.
He takes a seat next to me, tries—and fails—to cover the wince with a tight smile.
“What did you prepare for us?” He uncovers the plate.
The slice of lasagna is still steaming hot, with the Caesar salad on the side. He smiles softly before looking up at me.
“Estelle,” he nods toward my own plate, “eat.”
I uncover the meal and grab a fork, my hand still slightly shaking.
“I’m okay. I promise,” he reassures me.
We look at each other for a long moment, and I exhale a shaky breath, forcing my body to relax.
“Okay,” I mumble.
He digs in, eating like a starving man, neither of us talking for a while. I keep my eyes on my plate.
“I’m eating like a caveman. The last time I had anything to eat was late last night,” he says, pouring wine in my glass, then his. “Martha’s Vineyard. Nice choice.”
I gulp down the wine, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, embarrassed when I see him watching me.
“Long day?”
I shake my head. “Steadying my nerves,” I whisper, using the same words he used when he poured me the brandy in his study.
He chuckles.
“How are Elsa and your nephew?”
“Great. They’re moving to an apartment close by.”
He brings a generous helping of lasagna to his mouth, and my breath hitches as I watch him chew with his eyes closed.
“They—I’m happy Karl hasn’t bothered us again,” I stutter.
“He won’t come by again," he says, chewing quickly then swallowing. “He’s leaving the state.”
He speaks casually but with finality.
“That’s...great,” I sigh.
“Did you always want to be a chef?”
“Yes. My mother loved to cook, and I think my first memory is helping her knead dough.”
His plate is empty before I’m halfway done. He watches me eat while sipping wine.
“Your father?”
I’m caught off guard by the question, and my whole body tenses before I can regulate my reaction.
“What about him?” I ask tightly, not looking up.
“Not a good man?”
I shake my head.
“He was a man like Karl,” I whisper before downing the rest of the wine.
“Estelle." His hand reaches out to mine over the table. “Come.”
I place my hand in his much larger one. He pulls me to him gently and I go.
Carlos is unbuttoning my pants as soon as I’m standing in front of him. I don’t protest. Maybe it’s the wine making me hot.
“Take them off,” he commands once the zipper is lowered. “With your panties.”
I hike my thumb inside the hem of my pants and the thin straps of my panties, and slide them smoothly down until they land in a heap at my feet.
“The jacket, too.”
I do as he says.
One button at a time.
Slowly.
Our eyes hold each other hostage. His gaze lowers as I shrug the jacket off my shoulder.
Hot, dangerous eyes caress my skin, from my chest to my stomach, landing on my pussy.
I know what he sees.
I’m shaved bare, the piercing protruding between my lips.
Ready.
Waiting.
“Closer,” he rasps.
I go to stand between his legs. Carlos’s hooded eyes drink me in for a long moment. Hunger coils tight in my belly.
“Straddle me, baby.”
“You’re hurt,” I say.
He scoffs.
“I assure you the part that matters most right now is working perfectly fine.”
I lift one leg over his hips, then the other. He pulls me close the rest of the way, wincing.
“Carlos—”
“I’m fine,” he groans, before pulling the bra cups down and freeing my breasts. He moans low. “So fucking fine.”
His mouth closes around one breast, sucking both my nipple and the sensitive area all around. I cry out, grabbing a fistful of the hair at the back of his head to keep him there.
“Yes,” I groan.
He’s not gentle.
Not careful.
When his fingers find my already wet and spread-open pussy, it’s a shock. Long fingers find my core and thrust hard, setting a steady rhythm that drives me mad.
“Carlos,” I moan, climbing higher, desperate for him.
He releases my breasts with a loud, wet sound.
“What do you want, Estelle?” he asks, looking into my eyes while his fingers pump hard inside me.
Deep.
So deep.
My hips start to move on their own, rubbing my clit against his hand, desperate for relief.
Back and forth.
More.
I need more.
“Fuck me,” I whisper raggedly.
His fingers slide out, then he leans back against the plush chair. He brings his wet fingers to my mouth and I suck them dry, never once breaking eye contact with him.
Our eyes are pools of lava.
Scorching.
Desperate.
“Ride me,” he says, his voice dangerously calm.
I reach for the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, and he shifts just enough for me to lower them slightly over his narrow hips.
His dick springs free—hard, long, and heavy, coming to rest against his flat stomach.
I groan.
When my fingers close around him, Carlos lets out a shaky breath. “Fuck,” he hisses.
“Don’t move,” I say.
I want to see him unravel at my hand. I want to see that tight mask of control fall off completely like it did in the study and in the hallway.
I grasp him firmly, my fingers barely touching around his girth, and I stroke downwards, curving my movements when I’m almost at the base. My other hand fondles his balls.
He groans, his head falling back.
“Shit. Fucking hell, Estelle.”
I smile slyly.
I don’t let up, not until he’s panting, his hands gripping the wooden arms of the chair so tight his knuckles are white.
“Baby,” he moans. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to come.”
“We don’t want that,” I drawl.
I let him go, then shift closer using my feet for leverage, and bring the head of his dick to my soaked entrance.
“Carlos,” I whisper. “Look at me.”
He opens his eyes with great effort, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists.
I lower myself, taking all of him in one smooth motion.
I gasp.
Then groan.
And whimper.
There’s so much more of him than I realized. He stretches me until my walls burn and reaches deeper than anything I have ever felt.
When I’m fully seated on his lap, shaking and struggling to adjust, his thumb finds my aching bud.
The first contact is like lightning, making me tremble.
He twirls the piercing, testing to see which stroke and pressure makes me moan the most. When he finds it, he’s like a man obsessed.
“Ride me,” he commands again.
I obey.
Shifting forward slightly, I lift off him slowly, gasping at the sucking sound as his dick slides out, my tight walls refusing to let him go. When only his head is in me, I let myself fall, hard and quick, watching his face crumple with pleasure.
I do it again.
And again.
Panting, I grab onto his shoulders. My core is tight, the pleasure sharp, and my muscles burn.
But I can’t stop.
His strokes on my clit are relentless.
My movements start to falter, hips rising jerkily as I teeter on the edge.
“Carlos,” I cry.
He rubs harder.
The piercing does something to my engorged clit that is painful ecstasy.
I come with a shout, riding like a madwoman, moaning as my walls spasm around his hard dick. Another orgasm crashes into me on the heels of the last one.
“Fuck,” he groans.
Steel arms wrap around me, and suddenly I’m a rag doll, lifted and lowered harder, faster, his hips pistoning inside me roughly, almost unbearably.
I come again with a shocking scream just as he goes still inside me. I feel hot, wet spurts bathe my walls.
We’re both struggling to catch our breaths, wrapped in each other’s arms, when the door slams open, hitting the wall hard.
Grayson runs into the room, gun pointed in front of him, his eyes sharply scanning around.
Then his gaze lands on us.
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