Chapter 22
Sophia's POV
He can't see me. He can't see what I'm doing.
The thought became my lifeline, the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart. I clung to it desperately, using it to push down the overwhelming shame that threatened to consume me whole. If he truly was blind, if the accident had really taken his sight, then at least this humiliation wasn't complete. At least some small part of my dignity could remain intact.
Just get through this. Just survive.
"Start with your breasts," he commanded, his voice clinical and detached. "Cup them. Let me see how they fit in your hands."
My hands trembled as I obeyed, my palms covering myself in a gesture that felt more protective than sensual. The weight of my breasts felt foreign in my own hands, as if I were touching someone else's body.
"Good. Now circle your nipples with your thumbs. Slowly."
I bit back a whimper as I followed his instruction, the simple touch sending unwanted sparks through my nervous system. My nipples hardened under my touch.
"Lower," he commanded. "Trail your right hand down your stomach. Slowly. I want to see you discover yourself."
My hand shook as it moved downward, my fingers tracing a path along my ribs, over my stomach, stopping just above where he clearly intended me to go.
"I can't," I breathed.
"You can. You will." His voice hardened.
With trembling fingers, I continued downward.
"Part your legs wider," he instructed. "Let me see everything."
I obeyed, spreading myself obscenely before him, my face burning with mortification.
"Now touch yourself. Just one finger. Feel how wet you are."
The command sent molten shame flooding through me, but I complied, my finger sliding through moisture I hadn't even realized was there. The evidence of my arousal was undeniable, humiliating.
"Circle your clit. "
My finger found the sensitive bundle of nerves, and I gasped at the electric sensation that shot through me. I'd touched myself before, of course, but never like this, never under someone's watchful gaze, never with such deliberate intent.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice rougher now. "See how your body responds? See how it knows exactly what it needs?"
I bit my lip to stifle the sounds threatening to escape as I followed his guidance, my finger moving in small circles that sent waves of unwanted pleasure through my core.
"Faster now," he commanded. "Don't be gentle with yourself."
My movements quickened, and I felt my breathing become ragged, my chest rising and falling rapidly as sensation built inside me like a storm gathering strength.
"Look at me," he ordered when I squeezed my eyes shut. "I want to see your face when you come apart."
My eyes snapped open. Even believing he couldn't see me, the intensity of his attention made me feel completely exposed.
"Add another finger," he instructed. "I want to hear how wet you are."
The sound when I complied was obscene, the evidence of my arousal echoing in the quiet office. My face burned with shame, but I couldn't stop now, couldn't disobey.
"You're close," he observed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I can see it in the way your thighs are trembling. In how your breathing has changed."
He was right. Something was building inside me, something powerful and terrifying that I'd never experienced before.
"Let go," he commanded, "Stop fighting what your body wants and let go."
Tears streamed down my face—whether from shame, relief, or the sheer overwhelming sensation, I couldn't tell. Maybe all three. My body convulsed with the force of my release, and I felt warmth flooding between my thighs, more than I'd ever experienced before.
The sound that escaped my throat was part sob, part cry of shocked pleasure. I'd never felt anything like this before, never known my body was capable of such intense response. It was as if every carefully constructed wall I'd built around my sexuality had crumbled in an instant.
When the waves finally subsided, I became acutely aware of the mess I'd made. The polished mahogany desk beneath me was slick with moisture, and droplets had somehow reached his expensive suit, dark spots blooming across the charcoal fabric.
Horror flooded through me as I realized what had happened, what I'd done.
"Oh God," I whispered, scrambling off the desk on unsteady legs. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I'm not normally—this has never happened before—"
The words tumbled out in a rush of mortified panic. I grabbed my discarded blouse, using it to frantically wipe at the desk surface, trying to erase the evidence of my body's betrayal.
"I'm sorry," I repeated desperately. "I'm so sorry, I'll clean it up, I'll pay for your suit to be cleaned, I—"
"Isabella."
His voice cut through my babbling, calm and authoritative. I froze, the ruined silk still clutched in my hands.
"Come here."
I hesitated, acutely aware of my nakedness, of the evidence of what had just transpired still glistening on my thighs. But the command in his voice brooked no argument.
On shaking legs, I approached his wheelchair, stopping just within arm's reach. He sat perfectly still, those sunglasses reflecting my flushed, tear-stained face back at me.
"Kneel," he said quietly.
The word sent fresh shame flooding through me, but I obeyed, sinking to my knees beside his chair. From this angle, I could see the dark spots on his suit more clearly, could smell the expensive fabric mixed with something that was purely masculine.
"Clean it," he instructed, his voice barely above a whisper.
My hands shook as I reached for his jacket, using my blouse to dab at the moisture that had somehow reached his clothing.
As I worked, I became hyperaware of his breathing, of the way his chest rose and fell beneath the expensive material.
"Lower," he said when I'd finished with his jacket.
My gaze dropped to his lap, where more evidence of my release had apparently landed. Heat flooded my cheeks, but I leaned forward, pressing the silk against his thigh, trying to blot away the damage.
That's when I felt it.
My hand, reaching to steady myself against his leg, encountered something I absolutely hadn't expected. Something that completely contradicted everything I thought I knew about his condition.
He was hard.
Rock hard, straining against the expensive fabric of his pants with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.