Chapter 93: The Grip **
The heavy, rhythmic thud of the arena’s bass bled through the floor, but inside the glass box, the only sound was the ragged hitch of Zara’s breath.
Her hand rested flat against the dark wool of his slacks, fingers trembling slightly against the straining, burning heat trapped beneath the zipper.
She had asked if it was hers. The question still hung in the pressurized air between them, fragile and loaded.
Ryan didn’t answer with words. He leaned back into the leather cushions, spreading his knees a fraction wider, opening his posture completely. He kept his hands at his sides. He surrendered the physical control, leaving the execution entirely to her.
Zara swallowed. Her pulse hammered a frantic, visible rhythm against the hollow of her collarbone.
Her manicured fingers curled, hooking the metal tab of his zipper.
The mechanical hiss of the teeth parting cut sharply through the quiet suite. She hesitated, her knuckles brushing the cotton of his boxers, before she pulled the waistband down.
He sprang free, thick and heavy, resting against the dark fabric of his trousers.
The tip was already slick, shining in the dim, ambient light leaking in from the stadium below.
Zara’s breath left her in a soft, fractured rush. Her hand hovered in the air, inching forward before stopping, completely mesmerized.
"I’ve never..." she whispered. The polished, untouchable aura of the supermodel shattered entirely, leaving behind a raw, wide-eyed vulnerability.
She bit her bottom lip, her gaze tracking the thick veins mapping the length of him. "I’ve never actually seen one. Not in person."
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
The admission hit him like a physical blow, a sudden, blinding rush of possessive heat.
Thirteen million people worshipped her image every single day, and yet, sitting here in this private, suspended glass cage, she was completely untouched. Pristine. And she was offering that blank slate to him.
"Touch it," Ryan murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register.
Her fingers descended, hesitant and feather-light.
The moment her soft, cool skin made contact with his burning flesh, a sharp jolt of electricity spiked straight down his spine.
She let out a small gasp, feeling him twitch and surge against her palm.
She wrapped her hand around the thickest part of his shaft. Her grip was awkward at first, too loose, her thumb resting unsurely against the base.
Ryan reached down. He covered her hand with his own, his large, calloused fingers wrapping over her delicate knuckles.
"Like this," he instructed quietly. He guided her hand, applying the exact pressure he needed, pulling her grip down to the base and then dragging it slowly, firmly, up over the swollen ridge of the head.
"Firm. Steady."
Zara watched their joined hands. She absorbed the motion, her body adapting to the mechanics of it. Ryan let go, leaving her in control.
She began to move. Slow, deliberate strokes. Up and down.
"You really..." Zara started, her voice breathless, matching the rhythm of her hand. "You really did it with your assistant in your kitchen?"
Ryan groaned, his head falling back against the leather. She was feeding the kink.
She wanted the filthy, brutal truth of it to anchor her own submission.
"I did," Ryan rasped. "I bent her over the granite counter. I ruined her in the middle of a workday."
Zara’s grip tightened. Her stroke sped up by a fraction.
Her eyes were completely dark now, swimming in a feral, awakened lust she didn’t know how to hide anymore. "And the investor? Diana. She just let you?"
"Yes," Ryan said. His hips bucked upward instinctively, chasing the friction of her palm. "She took every inch while she stared at her own reflection in the window."
Zara let out a shaky, wet exhale.
The blue silk of her dress slipped further up her thigh as she shifted closer, leaning over him.
She was learning. Her hand moved with more confidence now, settling into a slick, bruising rhythm. As she stroked upward, the pad of her thumb dragged directly across the sensitive slit at the tip.
Ryan’s breath hitched sharply. His abdominal muscles locked into iron.
Zara’s eyes snapped up to his face. She saw the flinch, the sudden, raw exposure in his expression.
A tiny, wicked spark ignited behind her dark irises.
She isolated the movement.
She slowed the long strokes, focusing her thumb entirely on the slick, burning ridge.
She swirled the pad of her finger over the tip, pressing down just enough to send shockwaves of agonizing pleasure straight into his brain.
"Fuck," Ryan cursed through his teeth. His hands gripped the edge of the leather cushion, the leather creaking under the force.
"She swallowed you?" Zara whispered, her thumb circling the tip relentlessly. "Your assistant. Did she swallow all of it?"
"Yes," Ryan grunted, his hips snapping off the couch, unable to stay still under the sheer, localized torture her fingers were inflicting. "Zara. Stop playing."
"I’m not playing," she breathed, her stroke resuming the full, tight glide, faster now, her thumb bearing down on the ridge every time she reached the top.
The stadium lights flared outside the window, but Ryan’s vision was narrowing, tunneling down to the slick heat of her hand and the scent of crushed cedar filling his lungs.
The pressure coiled at the base of his spine, tight and heavy, compounding with every vicious, perfect pull of her fingers.
"Zara," Ryan warned, his voice a low, jagged scrape. "I’m close."
She didn’t slow down. She leaned directly into his space, her mouth inches from his, her breath hot against his jaw.
"Then come for me," she demanded, her voice shaking with raw, newly discovered power.
The tether snapped.
Ryan’s hand shot out. He gripped the back of her neck, his fingers tangling violently in her hair, and dragged her down.
He crashed his mouth against hers, a bruising, desperate kiss.
Zara opened for him instantly, her tongue tangling with his. She tasted of expensive champagne and absolute surrender.
He thrust his hips up into her hand, a guttural, broken moan ripping out of his throat, but Zara swallowed the sound entirely.
She drank his groan, her mouth sealed tight against his, as his body locked into a rigid, shuddering arch.
He spilled into her palm in thick, heavy, burning pulses.
She held him tight through every wave, her fingers milking the last drops from him while he wrecked her mouth with his kiss, entirely consumed by the blinding, white-hot rush of the climax.
When the final tremor finally faded, Ryan slumped back against the couch, his chest heaving, fighting to pull oxygen back into his lungs.
He slowly broke the kiss.
Zara pulled back.
Her lips were swollen, shiny with his saliva. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess around her shoulders. She looked down at her hand, coated in his sticky, hot mess.
She didn’t look disgusted. She looked fascinated.
A slow, devastating smirk curved the corner of her mouth. She looked back up at his wrecked, exhausted face.
"Tell me, Ryan," she whispered, her voice dripping with absolute filth. "Do your other girls make you come this fast?"
Ryan stared at her. His heart hammered a violent rhythm against his ribs. The sheer, unadulterated audacity of the question sent a fresh, lethal spike of heat straight to his groin.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.
"My mistake," Ryan murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "I let you think you were in control."
He reached out, grabbing her by the hips.
"It’s your turn."