I roll my hips again, and his fingers dig into my thighs hard enough to bruise. His head drops to my shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and the knowledge that I can affect him like this is intoxicating.
“Isadora.” His voice is muffled against my skin. “We need to slow down.”
“Why?”
“Because if we don’t, I’m going to take you right here against this mirror, and you deserve better than that.”
The mental image his words conjure makes my breath catch.
“What if—” I swallow hard. “What if that’s what I want?”
He goes completely still. When he lifts his head, his eyes are practically glowing—something that should frighten me but only makes me want him more.
“Don’t,” he says roughly. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”
“I mean them.”
“Isadora—”
“I want you.” The words come out steadier than I feel. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Every time we practice, every time you touch me, I think about—” I stop, cheeks flushing. “I think about this.”
“This?”
“You. Me. No music. No rules.” I meet his eyes. “Just us.”
Whatever wall he’d been trying to maintain crumbles, and then his mouth is on mine again, fierce and desperate. His hands are everywhere. My shirt gets pushed up, his palms sliding over the bare skin of my stomach, my ribs, and then higher. When his thumb brushes over my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra, I cry out against his lips.
“Sensitive,” he murmurs, doing it again. “I’ll remember that.”
“Mal—”
“I want to learn everything about you.” Another brush, another gasp. “Every sound you make. Every way you like to be touched.” His teeth close gently on my earlobe. “I want to make you come so hard you forget your own name.”
Oh God.
“Then do it,” I breathe.
He makes a sound that’s almost a growl, and then we’re moving. He carries me across the studio like I weigh nothing and I’m vaguely aware of passing the front desk, the coat hooks, the small hallway that leads to the office.
“Where—”
“Somewhere with a door that locks.”
The office. Of course. He kicks it open, somehow managing not to drop me, and then we’re inside and he’s laying me down on the couch I’ve used for countless breaks between lessons. The leather is cool against my heated skin, and I arch up into him as he settles over me. The new position puts our bodies in perfect alignment. When he rolls his hips, the exquisite friction makes me moan.
“There,” he says against my throat. “That sound. I want to hear that every day for the rest of my life.”
The rest of my life.
The words should send me running. Instead, they make me pull him closer.
His hands work at the buttons of my blouse but they’re too slow and I bat them away impatiently, yanking the fabric over my head instead. His breath catches as he takes in the simple black bra underneath.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
“Less talking. More?—”
He silences me with a kiss, and then his mouth is trailing lower—across my collarbone, down the center of my chest, over the swell of my breast. When his lips close around my nipple through the fabric, I nearly come off the couch.
