Long fingers shoved lace away, freeing her flesh for more direct torment. He delivered it with breathtaking speed to her other breast. Biting her lip to hold back a groan, she raked her fingers through his hair. “Hurry. Hurry.”
“Gotta be persuasive,” he growled. “Are you ready to be persuaded, Izzy?”
She wrapped her legs around his waist and tried to rub herself against him. “So ready. Please persuade me.”
Those wide hands lifted her hips, those long fingers hooked into the waist of her leggings and swept them downward in a long, fluid motion. One of her shoes went flying. It bounced off the sofa and tumbled to the carpet. Then he was between her thighs again. Vaguely she realized her pants hung from one ankle, but she didn’t care. He looked down at her, a smooth-jawed stranger in a gray suit, until she gazed into his eyes. Clear blue eyes. Trace’s eyes. She fixated on them while, from somewhere far off a zipper rasped, clothing rustled, latex snapped. And then, oh yesssss, His mesmerizing eyes stared into her soul as his perfect cock sank into her body. In that moment he owned her, body and soul. Then he started to move—fast, fierce—and cognition spun away in a blinding storm of sensation.
Hands found hers. Pinned them to the desk on either side of her head. Hot, hard strength pounded into her, lifting her closer…closer…ever closer to heaven. A gruff voice close to her ear whispered, “Look at me, Izzy. Look at me.”
She opened her eyes, had to accept that her view of him was blurry from tears of joy, and whimpered his name.
“Hey, Isabelle?”
“Huh…uhh?”
“Honey, I’m about to persuade you.”
Oh, God—
That’s as far as she got. He gripped her butt in both hands, lifted, tilted her to a new angle, and thrust deep. She came. Surged up, wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face in his chest, and came with a long, muffled moan of relief. His groan followed, equally long, equally muffled.
Minutes later, as her body glowed from the aftereffects of his tactics of persuasion, he kissed her slack lips and then rested his forehead against hers. “I love you, Izzy.”
“I love you, too. Take me home, Trace.”
“Are we persuaded, then?”
She smiled. “I think so, yeah.”
He smiled back. “You’re such a wild woman, having make-up sex in your office.”
“You just wait ’til I get home, sir. I plan to go wild in Captivity—where I can be as loud as I want.” He pinched her backside. “Ow!”
Blue eyes flashed beneath stern brows. “Only with me, right?”
“Only with you. Always with you. Forever.”
“Forever. That, counselor, is a deal I refuse to walk away from.”
Epilogue
Three Weeks Later
From his vantage point by the pool table, Trace glanced around the Goose. Spring had officially sprung a couple weeks ago, but April first still found Captivity’s favorite watering hole mostly populated with locals. Conversation flowed around him in a pleasantly indecipherable hum. The scent of grilled burgers and spruce from a new small-batch beer Ford had begun brewing as an experiment filled in the air with a comfortable warmth.
Ford manned the bar, as usual, serving up beers while chatting with Rose, Lilah, and Jorg. The sight of Rose and Lilah sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing, put some tension in his shoulders, but he rolled them and let it fall away. Lilah would pull the pin on that grenade when she felt ready, and he and the rest of Captivity would do what they could to help patch things up. Rose wouldn’t hold onto hurt, disappointment, and betrayal forever. Once her grandchild arrived, she’d melt like a glacier in August. He believed that.
Bridget sat on the other side of Jorg, face animated in profile, hands climbing and diving as she relived some recent feat of aeronautics with Wing. Though she looked as carefree as ever, he had to admit she’d stepped up over these last few weeks in terms of managing more of the airfield operations. A woman of her word, his sister. Wing snuck a glance at her tits, displayed more prominently than any self-respecting brother would like in a snug, white, long-sleeved T-shirt, but he let the knee-jerk protective instinct go. Bridge could take care of herself. It was Wing he ought to protect.
Mad would be along soon enough, he figured, and could do the honors. The guy seemed reasonably content serving as one of Bridge’s casual playthings. This evening he’d volunteered to hold things down at the airfield for the scheduled arrival of some hotshot in his custom private plane. The guy wanted to hanger his expensive toy at their facility for an open-ended span of time, which amounted to a nice chunk of change for doing next to nothing. Mad’s show of initiative had less to do with ambition and more to do with wanting to get up-close-and-personal with the toy. Trace could admit to some interest in checking it out as well, but he didn’t have to be first in line. Tonight, he had other priorities.
Annie Watkins and her husband, Ben, shared a window table with Lenna and Tom. Across from them, Hoop and Carl occupied a two-top. How many years of holy matrimony between the couples in those six chairs? He took their relaxed, smiling faces as an endorsement.
His attention turned to an empty stool on the other side of Rose at the bar. A large water—no ice, a quarter-wedge of lemon—sat before it, perfectly centered on a small, square cocktail coaster. A leather handbag the size of a suitcase hung from the back of the seat. Technically, there was no sign that declared, “This seat is reserved for a high-maintenance city slicker,” but Trace read all the clues perfectly.
Ford caught his eye, pointed to the hallway near the front of the bar that led to the restrooms, and held his hand up to his ear in the universal “phone call” gesture. Trace nodded. Ford continued their nonverbal conversation with a silent question in the form of a raised brow. Low-grade nerves set in, but he gave the man a smaller, more discreet nod, then took the vacant stool beside the one Izzy had claimed.
Seconds later she emerged from the hallway, sliding her phone into the back pocket of curve-hugging jeans that probably bore a fancy label. Ditto for the snuggly V-neck sweater she wore in the exact milk chocolate shade of her eyes. Long, loose waves swayed away from her face as she raised her head and looked in his direction. She stopped, batted those long lashes, and then the world’s most kissable lips broke into a slow, sexy smile.
The buzz in the room faded away. The low-grade nerves subsided. Everything inside him shifted toward her, like metal shavings toward a magnet, while he watched her cross to him. Maybe he had a magnet inside him, too, because her attention never waived from him despite all the distractions around the room. When she drew near enough, he reached out, snagged her around the waist, and hauled her close. “Still wheeling and dealing?” He growled the question into her ear, just to inhale her perfume. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you resign from that job?”