Chapter 2: The Devil's Handshake
The click of Sarah’s mouse echoed sharply in the quiet office as she shut down her computer. Six floors below, the stale air of the underground garage pressed in, thick with oil and exhaust. Julian’s back slammed into the cold steel flank of his Audi. Thud. His briefcase, a heavy leather anchor, hit the concrete beside polished black shoes.
Isabella’s mouth was on his before he could gasp. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault. Her lips crushed his, teeth scraping, her tongue forcing its way past his stunned defenses with bruising demand. The taste of her lipstick – expensive, cloying – flooded his senses. She smelled of the same dangerous floral perfume she’d worn in the consultation room hours earlier, now mixed with something feral, urgent.
"Fuck," Julian choked out against her mouth, a strangled sound lost in the suffocating press of her.
Her fingers, tipped with the same blood-red nails that had traced his wrist over the contract, were already at his waist. Cold metal clinked – his belt buckle flicked open with unnerving efficiency. Her other hand slid beneath his crisp white shirt, the expensive cotton bunching. Short, sharp nails raked down his stomach, scraping skin. He flinched, a jolt of pain and unwanted electricity shooting through him.
"Jesus, Isabella—" He tried to push her back, but she was surprisingly strong, a coiled spring of aggression. She pressed her entire body against him, pinning him harder against the car. He could feel the hard curves beneath her silk blouse, the point of her hip bone grinding against his thigh. Her heat was intense, radiating through their clothes.
"Shut up, Julian," she hissed, her breath hot against his lips. Her dark eyes, inches from his, gleamed in the dim fluorescent light like obsidian. "You've been thinking about this since you saw me. Since that fucking desk." Her hand abandoned his belt, sliding down to palm the hard ridge of his erection straining against his trousers. A low groan escaped him despite himself. "See? Your cock doesn't lie." She squeezed, hard enough to make him gasp. "You want this. You want to fuck me right here, like the trapped animal you are."
Upstairs, Sarah slipped her laptop into her sleek leather bag, humming a fragment of a jazz tune she’d heard earlier. She gathered her papers together into a neat stack and clipped them shut. Her keys jingled lightly as she plucked them from the desk drawer. She stood, stretching her back, completely unaware of the violent intimacy unfolding directly beneath her feet.
Down in the garage’s oppressive gloom, Isabella’s hand worked frantically at his trousers, popping the button, yanking the zipper down. Cold air hit Julian’s exposed skin, followed instantly by the searing heat of her grip as she freed his rigid cock. Her fingers squeezed, a possessive claim. "Look at this," she breathed, her voice thick and low, a predator admiring its catch. "Hard as fucking concrete for me. Like you were dying for it behind that big, important desk." She spat onto her palm, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet, and slicked him roughly, her red nails digging into his shaft. Julian’s head thudded back against the Audi’s window, a groan ripped from his throat – half anguish, half unbearable need. Her touch was fire, obliterating thought. He felt split, his body betraying him utterly.
"Get it wet for me, lawyer," Isabella commanded, her other hand fisting in his hair, yanking his head down towards her crotch. The sharp scent of her arousal mixed with perfume assaulted his senses. "Lick it. Now." He resisted, muscles locking, but she forced his face against the thin silk of her skirt. The damp heat radiating from beneath the fabric was undeniable. "Fucking do it, Julian. Taste what you made me." Shame warred with a dark, desperate hunger. He pressed his mouth against the silk, feeling the wetness seep through, his tongue tracing the outline of her through the material. She moaned, grinding against his face, the friction delicious, humiliating. "That's it," she panted. "Get it nice and slick. Good little whore."
Upstairs, Sarah’s heels clicked softly on the polished marble floor as she walked towards the elevator bank. She pressed the down button, the illuminated arrow glowing steadily. Absently, she smoothed her blouse, her thoughts drifting to dinner plans with Julian later.
Sarah’s finger tapped idly against the cool metal of her purse clasp. The elevator call button glowed a steady, patient yellow. She shifted her weight, the faint scent of her own Chanel perfume rising from her wrist. Pad Kee Mao. Extra spicy. Julian liked it fiery.
Six floors down, crushed against cold steel, Julian gasped as Isabella’s teeth sank into his lower lip. Not a love bite. A claiming. He tasted copper. Her hand, slick from spitting on him moments before, tightened brutally around his cock. "Still pretending this isn’t happening, lawyer?" she hissed, grinding her hips against his trapped thigh. The thin silk of her skirt was soaked through where his mouth had been, the scent of her arousal sharp and animalistic in the oil-tinged air. "Your fucking dick is leaking all over my hand."
He tried to shove her back, a desperate surge of panic cutting through the haze of unwanted sensation. His palm slammed against her shoulder. She barely budged. Instead, she laughed, a low, throaty sound that echoed off the concrete pillars. "Fight me. It’s hotter." Her free hand tangled viciously in his hair again, yanking his head sideways, exposing his throat. Her mouth latched onto the tendon just below his jaw, sucking hard, teeth scraping. He groaned, a sound ripped from deep in his chest, equal parts pain and the terrifying thrill of being devoured. His erection pulsed traitorously in her punishing grip. She felt it. "See?" she breathed against his damp skin. "Your cock knows its fucking place."
Upstairs, Sarah sighed softly, checking the thin silver watch on her wrist. The elevator indicator light stubbornly showed a car still ascending from the lobby. Seventeen floors to climb. She leaned her shoulder against the cool marble wall beside the elevator bank, the smooth stone a contrast to the afternoon's tension. The distant whir of the mechanism was barely audible.
Isabella released his throat, leaving a throbbing mark. She dropped to her knees on the cold concrete with shocking suddenness. Julian’s back scraped painfully against the Audi’s door handle as his balance shifted. "Look down," she commanded, her dark eyes blazing up at him. He couldn't look away. Her crimson lips parted. She didn’t ask. She took. Her mouth engulfed him, hot and wet and demanding, sucking him deep into her throat with no preamble, no gentle lead-in. Her head bobbed fast and hard, her throat muscles working around him. "Fuuuuck!" The curse tore from Julian, raw and helpless. His hands flew to her head, fingers sinking into her dark hair, not sure whether to push her off or hold her there, forcing him deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a brutal assault on his senses. Her tongue lashed the sensitive underside of his shaft with each rough pull back. She gagged slightly, deliberately, the vibration shooting straight to his balls.
He arched off the car, hips jerking involuntarily. "Isabella... God... stop..." The words were a plea, utterly unconvincing. His knuckles were white in her hair. She pulled off with a wet, obscene pop, his cock glistening in the harsh garage light. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to his tip. "Stop?" she mocked, her voice hoarse. She spat on his cock again, the cool fluid mixing with her spit and his own pre-come. Her red nails raked possessively down his inner thigh. "You don't want me to stop. You want to shove this fucking cock down my throat until you explode." She took him back in, deeper this time, her nose pressed into the dark hair at his base. She sucked like she was trying to pull his soul out through his dick, hollowing her cheeks, the pressure intense and relentless.
Julian’s vision blurred. His thighs trembled. The cold metal at his back, the sharp scent of exhaust, the rhythmic, wet sounds of her mouth on him – it all fused into a brutal, undeniable reality. His resistance was ash. He looked down at the top of her head, at the mesmerizing slide of her lips, the obscene bulge in her cheek. His fingers tightened convulsively in her hair, his hips stuttering forward, meeting the brutal rhythm of her mouth. A low, guttural groan escaped him, surrender echoing in the concrete tomb.
Sarah glanced again at her watch, a faint line of impatience appearing between her eyebrows. The elevator indicator finally crept past the 10th floor. She adjusted the strap of her leather bag on her shoulder, the soft creak of the leather the only sound in the quiet hallway. She hummed another few absent-minded bars of the jazz tune, waiting.