Page 109 of Isaac

"Damn right." My strokes become more insistent again, a silent language of lust between us. "I've let you be in charge because you're fucking irresistible. Because every time I try to get rid of you, you pull me back in deeper."

"Deeper..." The word spills from Isaac's lips, a hint of vulnerability beneath the steel. "Just don't forget who runs this city."

"Never." I feel the thrum of his pulse against my fingertips when I wrap my free hand around his throat. "But let’s make something clear… I don’t bottom, Isaac. And in this room, I’ll run you. If that’s why you keep seeking me out."

A heartbeat passes where we simply exist in the shared intensity of our gaze, two opposing forces vying for control. It's Isaac who ultimately capitulates, albeit grudgingly—an echo of surrender woven into his exhale that's lined with undertones of defiance.

"If we do this," he says quietly, "I need to know you’ll stop when I tell you to stop." There’s a hidden message in his request and I sense a lick of fear. I think I know where it’s coming frombut I don’t want to spoil the moment. I don't want to ask him about his past.

"Yes," I simply promise. "We don’t push past each other’s boundaries." Neither of us crosses lines not meant to be crossed. I grant him his wish. All the while, my hand maintains an unhurried cadence on his cock, holding him at the precipice.

And I intend to make it good. Every stroke, every touch, is a vow of what's to come—a reminder that behind closed doors, we dance to a rhythm that's ours alone, as dangerous and potent as the secrets we keep.

Isaac's breath is a whisper-thin fracture in his composure. "I don't like to feel weak," he grinds out.

"See, that's where you're wrong," I murmur, my voice steady as the pulse that races beneath my skin. "I'm not looking to weaken you. I want to unravel you—layer by layer—until all that's left is sensation." My fingers pause, hovering over his flesh like an unspoken invitation. "I want you to feel real pleasure, Isaac... if you let me."

A silent moment stretches between us, taut as the expectation that crackles in the air. The cityscape below is a tapestry of darkness and light, oblivious to what's brewing within these walls.

Isaac gives a nearly imperceptible nod, and it's all the consent I need.

"Undress me," he orders, voice barely above a growl, but there's a tremble in his words. It's not a command. It's a plea wrapped in the trappings of authority.

His jacket falls away, followed by his shirt—a deliberate striptease that leaves him exposed, yet ablaze with power. A shudder courses through him as my palms trace the ridges and planes of his body, mapping every contour with a reverence reserved for holy things.

Fingers deft, I peel away his slacks, our roles shifting and tangling like shadows at dusk. Nakedness becomes him, and as I press him against the cool glass again, he finally surrenders his crown.

"Look at you," I breathe against his ear, voice rough with desire. "The man who fears nothing, now open and aching for touch."

"Fuck you," Isaac hisses, but it's with want, not anger. His reflection in the glass is a study of contrasts—the hardness in his eyes, the softness of his parted lips.

I spin him around, his chest to the window, his ass teasing my cock now. Fucking hell. This is harder than I thought—holding back.

"Let go," I coax, my mouth ghosting along the nape of his neck. "Let go, and I'll make it good."

He leans back into me with a sigh, his body finally learning how to trust—a fragile thing given not easily but wholly. In this tango of dominance and surrender, we find a tempo that is dark and relentless, a tempo that speaks of wanting and being wanted, of taking and being taken.

I reach around and grab his cock again, milking it while my own dick teases his crack.

"Fuck," he groans, a sound torn from deep within as I slowly guide us both toward an inescapable place, where pleasure and pain blur into something exquisite and terrifying.

His back is a canvas of ink and pale skin stretched taut over lean muscle. And a lion, detailed, almost alive is staring back at me from that canvas. I take a moment to drink it in. It's so fucking Isaac. As my free hand drifts lower, I can feel him shiver, a visceral reaction to words that are for him alone.

"Talk to me," he demands, his voice rough like gravel, an undercurrent of something darker threading through the command. A plea to distract.

"Every filthy thought I have begins and ends with you." My finger traces the divide of his ass cheeks, drawing a line of fire on his skin. "I picture you, spread out and begging, while the city watches, blind to your debauchery."

The tremor that runs through him betrays his need.

"More," he growls, unapologetic. And I comply.

"Imagine," I whisper, my finger slipping between his ass cheeks and teasing the tight ring of muscle, "my mouth there, worshiping you—tasting what's mine."

A groan escapes him. He's open to me in a way he's never been to anyone else, his barriers crumbling under the onslaught of sensation.

"Fuck," he chokes out. "Please," and it's all the permission I need.

Dropping to my knees, I trail kisses down his spine, stopping just above his ass, before gently parting his cheeks and teasing his hole with my tongue, then carefully delving into the heat of him, exploring the forbidden with an insatiable hunger.

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