He turned, his eyes raking over her, desire flaring, but doubt lingered like a shadow. "I'm barely holding on," he said, his tone rough, stepping closer, his chest brushing hers, his breath hot against her cheek. "That file, Eva—your credentials, discrepancies. It's killing me. What are you hiding?"
Her stomach twisted, guilt and love colliding, her skin burning under his gaze. She couldn't confess—not about the forgery or the leak—but she needed his trust, his touch. She reached for him, her fingers trailing down his chest, slipping beneath his shirt, grazing his warm skin, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. "I'm guarding you," she purred, her voice a sultry whisper, her lips hovering over his, her eyes blazing with need. "That file's nothing, a clerical error. Let me prove my love, Victor."
Victor pulled back, his eyes searching. "I want you," he said, his voice rough, "but I need truth, Eva."
She nodded, guilt gnawing, her hand brushing his cheek. "You'll have it," she whispered, a half-lie, stepping back, her body still humming. "Soon."
Victor's phone buzzed—a board member demanding answers about Liam's whereabouts. "Barbados," Victor muttered, his voice bitter. "Hiding from his mess. I can't drag him back." Eva's heart sank, the reminder of her role in Liam's downfall a weight, but she left, vowing to protect Victor, unaware of Isabelle's brewing storm.
###
Isabelle's office was a sanctuary of glass and steel, the city's lights casting shadows across the marble floor, the air thick with her perfume and the faint tang of whiskey. She stood by her desk, her emerald blouse fully unbuttoned, revealing a black lace bra that hugged her full breasts, her trousers low on her hips, her blonde hair loose, framing her face like a halo of ice. Marcus's offshore accounts were a bombshell, suggesting ties to a rival conglomerate, and Isabelle's frustration with his deflections had morphed into a dangerous fascination. Tonight, she'd summoned him to discuss the scandal's financial fallout, but the real game was seduction, a battle to extract his secrets through desire—or dominate him in the attempt.
Marcus Kane arrived, his navy suit jacket off, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal toned forearms dusted with dark hair, a faint scar tracing his left wrist. He leaned against the doorframe, his posture relaxed but coiled, his smile a slow, dangerous curve. "Late night, Isabelle," he said, his voice smooth, tinged with a British lilt. "Scandal talk, or something… hotter?"
Isabelle's pulse quickened, her body responding to his proximity, but her mind was sharp, her ambition a blade. She crossed to him, her heels clicking, her blouse gaping to reveal the swell of her breasts, her hips swaying with deliberate intent, her voice low, sultry. "Bold as ever, Marcus," she purred, stopping inches from him, her perfume wrapping around him like a trap. "I found your accounts. Offshore, hidden. Who're you playing for?"
Marcus's eyes roamed her, lingering on the lace, the flush of her skin, desire sparking, but his plan—to keep Isabelle at bay, protect his rival alliance—held firm. "You're digging," he said, stepping closer, his chest brushing hers, his breath warm. "Careful, love. You might not like what you find."
Her laugh was throaty, her hand sliding to his chest, feeling his heartbeat through his shirt, her nails grazing his skin, a slow tease. "Oh, I'll like it," she whispered, her lips hovering over his, her eyes locked on his. "I'll have your secrets, Marcus. And I'll have you begging first."
The office was a furnace, the city's lights a distant blur as their bodies collided. Marcus's groan was low, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him, her curves molding to his frame, his arousal pressing through his trousers. "You're filthy," he growled, his lips capturing hers in a bruising kiss, his tongue plunging deep, tasting whiskey and her, a hungry edge to his movements. Isabelle moaned, her hands roaming his shoulders, nails digging in, her hips grinding against him, feeling him harden further.
The kiss deepened, a battle of tongues and teeth, her nails scraping his scalp, his fingers digging into her hips, a low growl escaping him as she bit his lip, drawing a hint of blood. Isabelle broke away, her breath ragged, her lips swollen, her eyes blazing. "Fuck, you kiss like you want me," she said, her voice raw, her hands ripping his shirt open, buttons scattering, exposing his chest—lean muscle, a faint trail of dark hair, a scar above his heart. Her fingers traced it, her nails scraping, her lips trailing to his collarbone, kissing, sucking, her tongue flicking, tasting salt and heat.
Marcus's hands slid under her blouse, unhooking her bra, letting it fall, his thumbs brushing her nipples, teasing them to peaks, eliciting a sharp gasp. "Look at you," he growled, his lips trailing to her ear, his breath hot, his fingers bold. "These tits are fucking perfect. Bet you're dripping already, Isabelle."
Her moan was primal, her body trembling, her hands working his belt, freeing him, her fingers wrapping around him, stroking, feeling him throb, thick and ready. "You talk dirty," she purred, her voice sultry, her lips brushing his, her hand moving with deliberate slowness. "But I'm gonna fuck you so hard you'll spill every secret."
He laughed, his hands sliding under her trousers, pushing them down, revealing black lace panties, his fingers teasing her through the fabric, finding her wet and ready. "Fuck, you're soaked," he growled, his lips trailing to her neck, sucking, marking her with a bruise that would linger. "Want my cock, don't you? Say it, Isabelle."
Her cry was sharp, her body arching, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard. "I want you," she gasped, her voice raw, her lips finding his in a fierce kiss, her tongue teasing, her teeth grazing. "Fuck me, Marcus. Make it rough."
The desk became there arena, Marcus lifting her onto it, papers scattering, her legs spreading, her panties ripped away, exposing her glistening core. He knelt, his lips trailing down her stomach, kissing the soft skin above her hip, his tongue flicking, teasing, her hands gripping his hair, urging him lower. "Eat me," she growled, her voice a command, her hips rocking, her thighs trembling. "Make me come, Marcus."
His growl was feral, his lips closing around her clit, sucking gently, his tongue swirling, relentless, his fingers sliding inside, curling, hitting her spot, moving in rhythm with his mouth. Isabelle's cries were unrestrained, her hips bucking, her nails raking his scalp, her body trembling as pleasure coiled tight, her voice a litany of gasps and curses. "Fuck, you're good," she moaned, her thighs clamping around his head, her body arching. "Don't stop. Make me scream."
He didn't, his tongue relentless, his fingers pumping, his groans vibrating through her, sending jolts of pleasure. Her climax hit like a tidal wave, her scream echoing, her body shaking, her hands gripping his hair, holding him there as waves of pleasure crashed over her, her breath ragged, her skin flushed.
Marcus rose, his lips glistening, his eyes dark with hunger, his hands freeing himself fully, his erection straining, thick and ready. "You're fucking gorgeous when you come," he growled, pulling her to the edge of the desk, her legs wrapping around him, guiding him to her entrance. "But I'm gonna fuck you now, Isabelle. Ready for me?"
She moaned, her body still humming, her hips pushing forward, inviting him. "Fuck me," she gasped, her voice raw, her eyes meeting his in the window's reflection, her lips parted. "I want you deep, Marcus. Make me yours."
He thrust Into her, filling her completely, her cry sharp and primal, the desk creaking under their weight. His rhythm was relentless, each thrust deep and punishing, her moans filling the office, her body rocking to meet him, the slap of skin a primal symphony. His hands roamed her body, one sliding to her breast, pinching her nipple, the other between her thighs, teasing her clit, making her tremble. "You're so fucking tight," he growled, his lips trailing to her shoulder, biting, marking her. "Love how you take my cock, Isabelle. Gonna make you come again."
Her cries were frantic, her body trembling, her nails digging into the desk, leaving marks. "Harder," she gasped, her voice raw, her hips slamming back, meeting his thrusts. "Fuck, Marcus, make me scream."
He laughed, his pace brutal, his fingers circling her clit, driving her higher. "You're mine," he growled, his lips at her ear, his breath ragged. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel you."
Her second climax hit like a storm, her scream echoing, her body shaking, her walls tightening around him, milking him, her breath ragged, her skin slick with sweat. Marcus followed, his groan raw, spilling inside her, his body shuddering, their bodies collapsing onto the desk, breathless, tangled, marked by nails and teeth.
They lay there, the office silent, their bodies slick, Isabelle's blouse open, her trousers discarded, Marcus's shirt shredded. Her hand trailed to his chest, her fingers tracing his scar, her voice low, sated but sharp. "You're trouble," she said, her smile wicked, her eyes searching his.
"And you're a fucking wildfire," Marcus said, his voice rough, his hand brushing her hair, his smile smug. "But I'm not broken yet."
She laughed, pushing him off, standing, adjusting her blouse, her body still humming, her composure fractured but returning. "This isn't over," she said, her voice a promise, stepping into her trousers, her eyes glinting. "You'll spill, Marcus. I always win."
He stood, zipping up, his shirt hanging open, his smile unwavering. "Keep dreaming," he said, stepping closer, his hand grazing her cheek, his lips brushing hers, a fleeting tease. "You're a hell of a fight, Isabelle, but I'm still standing."