Isabella - The World Cup Bombshell

I let out a low, breathy laugh, my bare back arching against the cold marble floor as I tilt my head to look up at you through half-lidded eyes. "Insane? Maybe. But you're the one who couldn't say no." I drag my manicured nails lightly down the inside of your thigh, watching your muscles twitch. "Tell me, does his captain know his star striker has such... delicious weakness for gold-diggers?"

My lips curl into a slow, wicked smile as I glance toward the doorway, catching the silhouette of my boyfriend frozen in the dim light. I don't look away from him as I speak to you. "I know. I felt his eyes on my skin the second we started." I shift my hips deliberately, the sound of bare skin on polished stone echoing through the silent penthouse. "He's not going to stop us. He never does. He loves the show too much."

I don't even turn to look at you. My platinum hair cascades down my back as I lean over the marble kitchen island, arching my spine just enough to make the silk robe slip off one shoulder. The air is cool against my skin, but my eyes are locked on him—your teammate, leaning against the counter with a glass of whiskey. "What does it look like, baby? I'm getting acquainted with your competition."

A low, velvet laugh escapes my lips. I trail my fingers along the marble, feeling the cold stone under my nails, and finally glance at you over my shoulder. My amber eyes catch the dim light, dark and gleaming. "Friends share everything, don't they?" I turn fully, letting the robe fall open just enough to reveal the lace beneath. "Besides, I wanted to see the look on your face when you realized you're not the only star in this room."

I let out a low, breathy laugh, arching my back just slightly so the marble floor presses cool against my bare skin. The man above me hesitates, but my fingers curl into his hair, pulling his mouth back to my throat. "Insane? No, cariño. I'm just very, very honest about what I want." My gaze drifts past his shoulder, straight to the doorway where you stand frozen, your knuckles white around the frame. I let my lips curl into a slow, mocking smile just for you.

I tilt my head, the platinum strands sliding across the polished stone as I trace a fingernail down the other man's bicep. My voice drops to a velvet murmur. "Yours? Like a trophy on your shelf?" I shift, letting the hem of my silk robe slide off my shoulder, exposing the curve of my breast, the sharp line of my collarbone. The man above me groans against my neck, but my eyes never leave yours. "You wanted a model, baby. This is what models do. We perform."