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  “More, please.” I moan. A strained growl escapes his lips in response, his thrusts slowing ever so slightly, morphing into deep, unforgiving assaults. Slamming into me so hard I yelp with each movement.

  Reaching my hand around, I pull his head into my neck, and he whispers to me, “be a good girl, give in to me.”

  His voice is so sensual he could have whispered anything and that would have been it. But I want to be good for him. He didn’t have to ask -- I’m already so close, and he is too. I can feel it. With just a few deep harsh thrusts we both come, Michael biting into my shoulder with the intensity of his release as I scream into his hand. Even with the muffling I’m pretty sure everyone within a mile radius can hear it.

  “Time for bed now.” I mumble, whimpering as he pulls out of me, straightening my clothing.

  “My thoughts exactly, baby,” Michael chuckles, meaning something completely different from what I had in mind.

  * * *

  By the time we reach his penthouse, darkness has fully overtaken the city. The elevator doors slide open, revealing the heavily windowed home, illuminated exclusively by the grace of the outside city lights, stark against the night sky. It has a comforting feel. Michael strolls into the room at ease; there is something about him that simply belongs in the dark. He has a cool confidence in his stride, like he’s never once thought about checking behind corners, or under beds. This is his domain, literally.

  “Would you like some water?” He asks, his voice calm with the accommodating, yet useless question. He’s already pouring two glasses.

  I chuckle, following his path to the kitchen, and taking a much-needed seat in the same stool I sat in yesterday morning with his housekeeper. My stilettos fall to the floor with a resounding thud, granting my tired feet a blessed reprieve from their assault.

  The atmosphere shifts as Michael walks around the island, handing me the full crystal glass of cool water, planting himself between my legs, towering over me. We both take deep sips of our glasses, thirsty from the exercise and the alcohol. The dull light still permeates the incredibly silent room, and cutting through the blackness to grant me a slight view of Michael’s deep blue eyes. They are enchanting, swirling the air with lust and adoration and enrobing me with his aura, holding me captive with nothing but a glance. I stare up at him through coated lashes, waiting, unwilling to break the rare and slow-motion moment.

  His eyes drop, landing attentively on my lips, slightly wet from my nervous biting habit. Bowing his head, Michael captures my lips in a cool, dry kiss. It is sweet. A silent request for permission. I grant it.

  Standing, I move into him, never disconnecting the reverent kiss. My hands land on his hard chest, needing contact. He allows his to rest over mine, calm and slow, not making a move to deepen the kiss, or compromise the sweet innocence of the moment.

  When we finally disconnect, prompted solely by the annoying need for oxygen, we stay entangled, so close our noses brush as our breath intermingles.

  “Would you like to take a bath?” He asks, his voice soft as he brushes a stray strand of hair from my face I nod at the invitation, allowing him to take my hand and lead me up the modern wood stairs in the center of the room. We journey through his bedroom, to the grand master bathroom just off the suite. It is magnificent.

  Pulling various bath products from a closet tucked behind the door, Michael plugs the drain and turns the spout more than halfway towards red as I scan the room for a lighter. I find it, tucked innocuously behind one of the many pillar candles that garnish the immaculate decorations. Michael sits, leisurely watching me.

  I roll my neck, excited to sink into the luxurious basin and allow my muscles to relax into the heat and product that Michael poured into the water. Lighting the candles around the sunken tub, I glance sideways. He is watching me intently, irreverently, like I’m the best damn episode of his favorite show and he can’t even spare a single blink in fear of missing what happens next. The sandalwood candles are grand and beautiful, something you’d see on display in Pottery Barn, or Restoration Hardware. The newfound flame mars the previously unburnt wax as the room fills with the musky scent, lending an extra layer of intoxication to the already heady atmosphere.

  There’s just something about baths that feels so sensual – not just baths with lovers, even baths alone, on nights where you light candles and sink into silky waters praying for clarity in a dimly lit room. Relaxed and secluded. To share that intimacy with someone is just, well, intimate. Baths are my favorite thing, and I’m about to let Michael intrude into my guilty pleasure, and take it over, loving me until the water runs tepid and wrinkles our skin. The thought should intimidate me with this man, who I barely know, but it doesn’t. Once the room is illumined with a satisfactory amount of golden firelight, I stand straight and tall, facing him. He is perched on the edge of the sunken tub -- his black and white classic suit somehow perfectly complimenting the clean Carrara marble. His pose is cat-like and bowlegged, poised to strike and yet aloof all at the same time. Confidence cascading off of him in tidal waves of adoration, and surety.

  Mimicking his ease, I square my shoulders, a ghost of a smile gracing my lips as I silently grip the reins of the room, earning a small proud smirk from Michael, complimenting the ever-present mischievous glint in his eyes. Tugging the barely noticeable zipper at my hip I loosen my black pencil skirt, allowing it to fall in a puddle surrounding my feet. I step gingerly out of it, my painted toes cold against the marble floor, and kick the expensive material to the side without a second thought. Michael’s lips part slightly as he watches me with adoration. Deftly, my fingers drift to the small pearl colored buttons holding my tight button up to my torso. One by one they come free, each release revealing an extra couple inches of skin, and the pale pink bra underneath. It’s nothing overly special, a comfortable piece I purchased to hide under white work shirts, with the pink perfectly matching my always flushed skin. With the last button undone, the shirt falls all the way open, and I shrug it off my shoulders, enjoying the soft feeling of the fabric brushing down my arms, allowing the warm air of the room to caress my skin. I now stand before him in nothing but a mismatched bra and underwear set, my chin high, and my chest rising and falling in a set rhythm.

  Michael licks his lips, his eyes slightly narrowed as he forces them to meet mine, rather than to roam over every inch of skin I’ve just revealed to him in an episode of unabridged boldness. I refuse to stomp out the flame there. I approach him with purposeful steps, his seated position bringing him to a much more manageable height as I come to a halt between his legs. Not quite touching him yet, but close enough to feel his body heat. Michael doesn’t move an inch, peering at me with a fixed and perpetual fascination, awaiting my next move. It’s a relief to know that control can still be mine if I want it – at least for a little while. Softly, I grip the soft edge of his suit jacket, lifting it from his broad shoulders so I can slide the thick material down his arms. He moves just enough to accommodate me, straightening in front of me and pulling his arms free, but then he settles. I pleat the coat, folding it safely over his chrome towel rack, whose previous occupants now sit plush on the edge of the tub. Turning back to Michael, I take him in. His silk white dress shirt hugs his shoulders, creasing from the junction where his arm meets his torso, exacerbated by his relaxed position. The cuffed sleeves come unbuttoned under the attention of his deft fingers, freeing his wrists to settle back in their original spot on his thighs. He stares up at me expectantly, his features cast in some emotion I don't recognize. No -- I recognize it; I just don’t recognize it on him. Vulnerability.

  “What are you thinking?” I mutter, barely above a whisper, but I know he heard me.

  Flickering back and forth between my eyes, his gaze softens, unfocused and glazing with introspection as he deliberates on his answer. Raising his arm, he brushes a single finger down my cheek, slowly, trailing a delicate caress down my cheekbone to my jaw, running along the boney edge, only to lift, settli
ng the feather-touch on my bottom lip.

  “You’ve enchanted me, Sophia Williams.” His soft and loaded admission assaults me, saying so much more than what was spoken aloud. I allow his projected feelings to invade me, cracking open a million layers of protections and defenses -- cultivated over years of chosen solitude – in one single muttered sentence. I shatter. My chest swells, in the metaphorical sense, threatening to burst at the influx of unreadable emotion, curiosity? Excitement? Infatuation? What else?

  “You’ve enchanted me too,” I reply, blushing with the quiet reciprocated admission. My hands drift upwards, acting with their own accord, tangling in his thick dark hair and reveling in the softness they find there. I tug slightly, not enough to elicit any pain, but enough to command his attention.

  Michael’s eyes meet mine.

  “This is real, isn’t it?” I ask the unnecessary question, already aware of the answer but needing a verbal confirmation from him that this isn’t a one-sided phenomenon. I’ve never had feelings for anyone like this, let alone my boss. Let alone in such a short time. Michael’s brow furrows as though he’s reading my thoughts and mirroring them.

  “Yes, this is real.” The resounding declaration leaves absolutely no room for protest, as his calm and complying demeanor vanishes, his gaze boring into me, imploring me, compelling me, a desperate and vulnerable edge to his cool demeanor, is that okay?

  “Okay.” I confirm, my grip in his hair never loosening. A small exhale escapes his lips, the product of a breath I didn’t realize he was holding, and his muscles unwind around my body. I take the gesture as an invitation, allowing my hands to glide down. Cradling his stubble-adorned face in my small hands, I pull him into a kiss. It mirrors the embrace we shared earlier, in the kitchen. It is soft and slow at first, just barely a brushing of lips. Our eyes don’t drift shut quite yet. I wonder if he’s just as shocked and delirious from the confessions as I am. After a moment of restraint, I deepen the kiss. Allowing my eyes to drift shut; I taste him, the sweet poison of his words still lingering on his tongue, inebriating me.

  Chapter 15

  Michael

  Sophia is kissing me. Fuck -- and I mean that in the best damn way any expletive could ever be taken. She tastes so good. Despite the water, hours, and copious amount of kisses since dinner, the sweet aroma of expensive red wine and mascarpone still lingers on her tongue, flooding my senses with mouthwatering desire. I feel like a man starved to the brink of death, whose finally been invited to a feast. Her lips are soft against mine, taking their time in their newfound authority.

  My thoughts are hazed and singular, reeling from the pure unbridled emotion that still saturates the room. I can only see her, feel her, taste her. How did I let this chaotic and headstrong woman invade my perfectly controlled world? A week ago, if someone had told me I’d be sitting here timidly pouring my feelings out, and all but begging Sophia to return them, I’d have punched them square in the jaw.

  My palms twitch with their desire to tangle in her soft caramel locks and pull; to force her to grant me deeper access to her mouth. I resist, though, enthralled by her alcohol-emboldened confidence, and commanding demeanor. Instead I plant my hands softly on her hips, resting them there in a gesture of submission. She’s in control here. Traveling her skilled hands downward, she strokes the collar of my shirt. Her cool fingers brushing the tips of my collarbone with each pointed and teasing touch. I yearn to feel her warm skin against mine with nothing to separate us. Dropping my light grip, I shift my arms to accommodate her as her deft fingers release the buttons of my shirt, moving to slide it from my shoulders. Her touch is electric, eliciting labored and lustful breaths to escape my lungs as her palms caress my shoulders, down the backs of my arms, and over my wrists in their journey to undress me.

  Taking an expectant step back, she stares at me, patiently requesting accommodation. I understand her intention immediately, standing. I tower over her small frame. I bow my head to peer at her, watching her skillfully undo my belt with one twist of her creamy fingers, allowing the leather accessory to hang loose from the rings on my slacks as she moves to undo them. I take a deep breath, reining in my arousal, the sound of bathwater hitting marble filling the medium-sized room and drowning me. I’ve never actually taken a bath in the bathtub before. It’s perfectly stocked and decorated – for just that reason, decoration. It’s never occurred to me that a bath could be anything more than just sitting in hot water. Now, with Sophia almost naked before me, her eyes filled with untapped emotion and utter vulnerability, I can’t think of anything else in the world I’d rather be doing. My patience running low, I assist her in pushing my pants from my body, gripping the hem of my briefs as I go. Kicking the material out of the way, I straighten in front of her, entirely nude. My cock twitches, longing to touch her. To bury inside of her. I don’t allow myself to move.

  Much to my relief, she bends a slender arm around her back and undoes her bra in one swift, expert movement. It falls to the floor at our feet, the lacey material brushing my skin as it settles into its new home on the marble. Her nipples are pebbled, from the cold air or the intimacy of the moment, I’m not sure. They are tight and alluring, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth with the overwhelming desire to lean down and lick them. Next, she shimmies out of the gray silky panties that adorn her frame. Her fingers push them down to her thighs, where gravity grips them, completing the job. We are both naked, fully in the light, open for the other to see.

  She’s fucking perfect. Her stomach holds a ghost of a defining line down the middle, leading to her wide hips and muscular thighs with the highest of compliments. I glance at her, silently asking for permission. She nods, and it might be the most beautiful and gratifying sight I’ve ever seen. I run a lucky hand from her upper thigh over the swell of her hip, to the small divot just below her breasts, where her rib cage separates. My fingers halt in their place, not wanting to seize control from her. I think she senses this, though, because before I have a chance to think, she is on her painted tip-toes, capturing my lips in an urgent kiss. It’s nothing like our earlier kisses. There isn’t a single “slow” thing about this kiss. Her talented lips assault mine, demanding entry and seizing control. I grant it. I grant all of it. Meeting her tongue in a soft caress, I taste her once more, almost cursing at the sheer deliciousness of the moment.

  “Sophia,” I mutter, a strained plea. She giggles into my lips, mischievous and alluring as she pulls away from me, stepping into the water. Goosebumps pop up along her skin with the stark contrast of temperature, but she ignores them, folding to sit in the now-full tub, her eyes drifting shut as she leans into the marble. I don’t wait for an invitation, climbing the singular stair onto the platform, I join her. The water is just hot enough to bite, and yet still be tolerable. She flashes me a knowing and devious smile, and I take my rightful seat behind her, encircling her entirely, reveling in her scent, and the glorious possessive feeling of holding what’s admittedly mine.

  Chapter 16

  Sophia

  A feather-light touch on my lips stirs me from my peaceful and rejuvenating slumber. Allowing my eyes to flutter open, I am met with the delicious sight of coffee and breakfast, perfectly arranged on the wooden serving tray in Michael’s bare arms. I glance at the clock, groaning at the familiar and dreadful 6:00 a.m. reading, but sitting straight, nonetheless.

  “G’morning,” I mutter, reaching for the coffee. Michael chuckles at me, but bends to accommodate my short wingspan.

  “Good morning, beautiful. Fruit?” He pierces a dark red strawberry with his fork, holding it up to my mouth. I take a grateful bite, delighted at the almost-too-ripe sweetness of the seeded berry.

  “How’d you sleep?” He asks, tentatively. I suppress a sleepy smile. I can barely remember falling asleep. We’d collapsed on the bed together, naked and panting after our time in the bath. Then on the bed. Then in the kitchen, interrupting our quest for water. I’ve never slept so well in my life. Michael smirks into hi
s patience, waiting for an answer and reading my thoughts, like always.

  “I slept rather well, you?” There is a hint of suggestion in my sarcastic tone, widening the smirk on his lips as he leans in to kiss me once more between sips of coffee.

  “Are you ready for today?” His tone turns serious as he pivots to work.

  “Yes.” I assure him, resolute. “We both are.”

  Boldly resting the full tray on the duvet cover, Michael stands, strolling into his closet presumably to dress for the day. I am reaching for another strawberry when his voice calls from the side room, beckoning me.

  “What is it?” I pass the threshold into the immaculately organized walk-in closet. It’s huge. Bigger than some of the rooms in my house. When my eyes land on Michael, he is holding a black garment out to me. I take it, suspiciously.

  “It should fit, but if you don’t like it, I believe Harris picked up other options.” He kisses me on the cheek gingerly before turning away to pick an outfit. I tug on the zipper, unsure of my feelings on Harris picking out clothes for me. Or Michael buying clothes for me. The dress is beautiful, I must admit. I almost don’t want to look at the price tag contained inside the Saks Fifth Avenue garment bag.

  “Michael, you don’t need to buy me clothes. I can just go home before work.” I insist, awkwardly holding the bag. Turning back to me, he is half dressed now in his usual style of black slacks and a white silk dress shirt. His brow is furrowed.

  “I know I don’t need to Soph. I want to. I don’t want you having to leave first thing in the morning every time you stay the night,” he pauses, both of us deeply aware of the implied longevity of his concerns – I’ll be sleeping over a lot then? “I don’t want you to leave at all, frankly.”