This is the second glimpse I’ve had of Isabella at her most genuine, at her most raw, and if I wasn’t painfully hard already, there’s no denying it now.

Saturday, minutes before noon, and she’s on her knees in my entryway. She doesn’t look quite like her usual self, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s because she’s wearing a sundress.

A sundress. 

Every other time I’ve seen her, she’s worn a smart skirt suit or sheath dress and blazer or, for the awards ceremony, a gown that took my breath away. I’ve never seen her so casual. That despite the fact that the sundress isn’t something cheap from one of the boutiques in the Bronx. It’s exactly the kind of sundress that I’d expect her to be wearing—not couture, not ostentatious, but quality, the fabric hanging delicately over her legs.

I’m at her side in an instant, lifting her chin in my hand so that she looks up at me. There’s a real desperation in her green eyes. It’s so sharp, so tangible, that I’m surprised there isn’t also a sheen of tears.

She raises one hand to mine, sweeping her fingers along my knuckles and then wrapping them around my wrist. “Please.”

Her eyes, so bright in the midday light filtering through my windows, along with the way she’s breathing, her breasts rising and falling underneath the neckline of her dress, twist my heart in my chest.

I want to give her anything she asks for. I want to give her everything.

As soon as the thought comes to my mind, there’s a part of me that recoils from it. An alarm blares in the back of my mind. I can’t get in this deep with her. I can’t get in this deep with anyone. My dad knows what the hell he’s talking about. I can’t throw myself in front of the same train.

I scramble for a compromise, a way to delay, but there’s nothing. I know what she’s asking for. I could force her to say the words, but I don’t. I can see what she wants in her eyes.

The worst thing? I want it too.

I’ve been spooling this out for as long as I can, and it’s been a single week. I met Isabella for the first time two weeks ago. It feels like a year. It feels like ten. She’s clearly at the breaking point, and I was there with her up until a moment ago. Now I’m skidding to a stop at the edge of the cliff.

Why? What could be so bad about this?

Everything.

Nothing.

I have to do something. 

“Get up.” It’s a command, and she responds, scrambling to her feet. I offer her my hand. She takes it.

Then we’re moving quickly through the penthouse, Isabella half a step behind me. I take her to the right, this time—the hallway that leads to the den, the guest suite....the master suite. My bedroom.

The master suite is at the end of the hall, taking up one full side of the building, and I push the door open in time to keep from running into it. Isabella breathes in deep as we cross the threshold, and I throw the door shut behind me. There’s nobody else in the penthouse aside from the chef, and he’s on the opposite side. 

My bed is on one end of the room. A fireplace in the center, sunken low so that it doesn’t block the view, anchors a small sitting area. A pared-down version of my office is on the opposite side, next to the hallway that leads to the bathroom. I scan each of the options in turn, images of Isabella in each scene flashing into my mind and back out again.

“Bend over the chair.”

Isabella doesn’t hesitate for an instant. She moves toward the chair in the sitting area. It’s another wingback, with sturdy arms, and she positions herself in front of it, hands on the arms. She bends so gracefully that I want to take a picture. It’s only then that I move toward her.

“No. This won’t do.” She turns her head, eyes on mine, forehead wrinkled. “Stand up.”

She stands, and I go for her zipper. The dress falls to the floor a moment later.

Underneath, Isabella is only wearing a bra.

“Shoes.”

She steps out of her shoes, never taking her eyes off mine.

“Jesus.” Isabella’s naked body is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Miles of creamy skin, all of it flawless. Breasts pert and firm. I step close, cupping one of them in my hand and rubbing around one of her nipples, already hard, with the pad of my thumb. She moans, softly, like how good it feels should stay a secret.

It’s too much.

“Chair.”

She turns away from me and bends, feet planted on the floor, legs spread. The folds between her legs are already glistening. “Please...” One final whisper.

I step to her side, pressing one hand firmly onto her lower back. “It’s not part of the arrangement—” I keep my voice low, with a hint of sharpness. “—that you call all the shots.”

She tenses. “I—”

“Quiet.” I put my other palm against her ass. “All this is supposed to be at my discretion. Under my control. And I think you need a reminder.”

“Are you going to—”

“Quiet.” I lean down one more time, speaking directly into her ear. “This is your chance.”

She gives me the tiniest nod. 

I wait.

Another nod.

“I’m going to remind you. Do you understand?” 

“Yes.” A whisper so soft I barely hear it.

She braces herself against the chair, and I rub idly at her bottom for another few moments. “Stay in position. Ten strokes.”

I pull my hand back and deliver the first one with a crack. Isabella cries out, cutting herself off in the middle. I’m not going to make her count. I bring my hand down in a relentless rhythm, Isabella trembling beneath each one, her ass going pink, then red.

When it’s over, the trembling doesn’t stop. At first, I think she might be crying—but she’s not. She’s gasping, trying to get enough breath to speak.

Her juices, gathered between her legs, trickle down the inside of her thigh.

I kneel behind her, burying my mouth in her sweet folds, and lick—one, two, three times. When I thrust my tongue into her opening, she comes so hard she screams.