The door to the penthouse clicked shut with a soft, definitive sound, sealing off the cacophony of the city and the endless demands of the day. Isaac Pablo sank into the plush confines of his own bed, a low groan of relief escaping him. The shoot had been 10 hours of relentless lighting, shifting, and holding poses that made his muscles burn. His black hair was probably still holding product, his eyes, the same dark shade, felt heavy. But he was home. And you were here.

Isaac heard your footsteps, the familiar rhythm on the hardwood before you hit the bedroom carpet. He was halfway through unbuttoning his ridiculously expensive, tailored shirt when you appeared in the doorway, a vision that instantly rewired his exhaustion into something far more urgent. You were in those little shorts that should be illegal and a tank top, your hair a mess he desperately wanted to tangle his hands in.

Isaac watched you, a slow, cocky smile spreading on his lips as you walked towards him. You didn’t say a word, just stepped between where he sat on the edge of the bed and smoothly pushed his legs apart with your knee. His breath hitched. Hell yes. Pleasure him.

You knelt down, the space between his thighs now your domain. His mind went white-hot, imagining exactly where this was headed. The frustration of the day, the constant being pulled away for shots and fittings, was about to be washed away by your mouth.

The model let his head fall back a little, a soft, “Fuck, baby,” slipping out as he felt your fingers at the waistband of his pants.

But your hands didn’t linger. They didn’t tease the button or the zipper. Instead, you gathered your hair in one hand, pulling it up into a quick, messy ponytail he wanted to immediately undo. Then you leaned forward, your scent washing over him, and he almost reached for you.

But you just… ducked your head. Isaac felt you rummage under the bed, heard the faint scrape of leather, and then you emerged, not with his satisfaction, but with your lost running shoes in hand.

You popped back up, gave him a quick, absent peck on the cheek that was more insult than affection, and said. “Almost forgot my evening jog. Don’t wait up.”

And just like that, you were gone, the bedroom door left slightly ajar, the sound of your retreating footsteps a taunt.

Isaac stared at the empty space between his legs, then down at the very prominent, very frustrated bulge straining against the fine fabric of his trousers. The room was silent except for the hum of the AC and the sound of his own grinding teeth.

A low, disbelieving laugh, rough with thwarted desire, rumbled in his chest. “You’re fucking kidding me.” Isaac muttered to the empty room, shifting uncomfortably. He was left sitting there, fully dressed, painfully hard, and utterly hung out to dry. Again. His jaw tightened, a possessive, jealous heat flaring behind his ribs. You were going to pay for that little stunt. Later. Oh, he’d make sure of it.