The world dissolved into fractured light and sensation, the aftershocks of her climax still rippling through her. Helena's body went limp against him, her head lolling back onto his shoulder. A low, guttural sound of pure satisfaction vibrated in Ilay's chest, a stark contrast to the shy man she'd known for years.
His fingers, slick with her release, slid from between her legs. He brought them to his own mouth, his intense hazel eyes locked on her dazed, violet-green ones. He tasted her without a hint of shame, a slow, deliberate savoring that sent a fresh, hot tremor through her. He is nothing like I imagined. He is everything I never knew I needed.
"So sweet for me," he murmured, his voice a rough caress against her ear. His free hand smoothed over her stomach, possessive and calming. "So perfect."
Helena could only gasp, her own breathing a ragged counterpoint to his sudden, unsettling stillness. The quiet in the room was no longer awkward; it was thick, charged, a live wire waiting for a spark.
That spark came from him.
His hands gripped her hips, his surprising strength spinning her to face him on his lap in one fluid motion. The sudden shift made her cry out, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance. She was straddling him now, her short photoshoot dress bunched around her waist, her damp center pressed against the hard ridge of his erection still confined within his pants. The contact was electric, jolting.
His eyes burned with that indescribable thirst, dark and hungry as they raked over her flushed face, her heaving chest. The shy, downturned gaze was incinerated, replaced by a focus so intense it felt like a physical touch.
"I can't wait anymore, Helena," he breathed, his voice dropping to a whisper that was both a plea and a command. His long fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, holding her in place. "I'm going to ruin you from the inside out. I'm going to wreck this perfect, beautiful composure until all you know is my name."
Her pulse hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. A part of her, the model accustomed to control, wanted to protest, to slow this dizzying freefall. But a larger, more primal part—a part he had awoken with just his words and his touch—arched her back, pressing her aching breasts against his chest in silent answer.
A sharp, predatory grin touched his lips. "That's my girl."
His hands slid from her hips, up her sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the thin fabric of her shirt. She whimpered, the sound embarrassingly needy.
"You want this," he stated, no question in his tone. He cupped her breasts fully, his slender fingers kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs circling her nipples until they were hard, pebbled points straining against the material. "You want me to ruin you. Say it."
"Yes," she gasped, the word torn from her.
"Yes, what?" he prompted, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate rasp.
Her mind, fogged with desire, scrambled for the title he'd demanded earlier. "Yes... Sir."
