Page 70

GREYSON

Idon’t like the sullen silence that hangs in the air as I march Angélica down the hall toward my private playroom at the club. “Whatever you’re sulking over, just spit it out,” I sigh.

I make quick work of the lock and tug Angélica into the room before slamming the door shut behind us. Finally some fucking privacy.

“Care to explain what happened between you and Kara?”

“I was under the impression I already did,” I retort before sliding off my mask and tossing it on the bed. “She’s like a sister to me.”

“Right,” Angélica seethes, pinning me with an accusing glare. She rips off her own mask and throws it beside mine. The charged gesture is brimming with violence, like yanking a sharpened knife from the safety of its sheath.

“Okay, maybe more of a cousin that you’d get to second base with if you got drunk enough. It’s complicated.”

She glowers at me. “Female brain composition is built for complicated male bullshit, so start talking before I decide to take hits at every vulnerable spot on your body.”

“I shoved my tongue down her throat when she and Lord Ashford were taking a break. Neither of us enjoyed it. It happened once, and it’ll never happen again.”

“I know there was more to it than that, Greyson. I saw you two at the restaurant. You ordered cinnamon oil. And I learned enough from my experience with the ginger to guess where you put it. You like seeing women burn for you, don’t you?”

Angélica reaches back and yanks off her wings, shucking them to the floor like she wants to be nothing less than angelic right now.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath. I’d wanted to make her jealous that night with Kara, but I hadn’t expected she’d be paying such close attention. I’m even more surprised she knew I’d use the cinnamon oil for pain.

“I didn’t touch her.” I slide my jacket off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “Kara did it all herself. I had no involvement.”

“Really?” Angélica asks with an arched brow. “And you didn’t sit there getting off on her pain?” Angélica reaches down and unties the ankle laces of her heels before kicking them off.

“Maybe I did,” I taunt, my voice slipping low. My hands find the buttons on my shirt, and I undo them one by one until my chest and abs are left bare. “Why? Are you jealous?” Angélica’s teeth sink into her bottom lip as her brown eyes trace my tattoos with a ravenous sort of reverence.

“Yes,” she breathes. Her chest heaves with arousal, her pretty new nipple piercings sparkling in the dim light of the room. I desperately want to see what they feel like against my tongue.

“Did you wish it was you?” I drop my shirt and stalk toward her. She stumbles back a few steps, something other than fear in her eyes.

“Yes,” she answers without the slightest tremor in her voice,even though she’s wearing nothing but a thin scrap of silk to protect herself from me.

“Well, I’d be more than happy to recreate the memory for you,” I purr. I slip my fingers underneath the transparent gold material on her shoulders, and with one sharp tear, leave her stunning dress in ruins on the floor. She shivers in spite of the warm flames from the large fireplace beside us caressing her skin.

“How?” she sighs.

Her eyelids flutter shut as I claw my fingers down her gold-flecked skin. I use my nails to etch pink lines into her tits, circling her tender nipples until they pebble with need. She moans at the ache of her new holes clenching around the piercings I gave her. It takes everything in me not to give her hurt nipples a little bite with my teeth just to watch her scream.

I wrap my fingers around Angélica’s throat and push her back until she falls against the bed with a screech of surprise. I tug the little gold thong down her legs and let it puddle at her feet. Then I slot my knee between her thighs, spreading her wide and watching her wet cunt drip on my pants. She’s so needy for me already, and I’ve not even begun to torture her.

“I have a bottle of cinnamon oil in that drawer over there,” I tell her, rubbing the thick bulge of my cock against her bare pussy. “I could show you exactly how she felt when I told her to stroke her poor clit with the oil until she cried. But you won’t cry for me, will you, angel?”

I dip my fingers into her soaking folds and find the swollen bundle of nerves that’s been aching for my touch. I pinch her clit between my fingers, digging my nails into the hardened nub until she’s writhing with pain. “You’ll be my brave girl and take it, won’t you?”

“Yes, Master Greyson,” she mumbles, and I feel my cock grow impossibly harder.

“Good girl.” I smack my palm against her pussy before pulling away. “Don’t move,” I command.

Striding toward my cabinet filled with all sorts of torments, I pluck out the vial of cinnamon oil. I don’t use it often because chemical play can be excruciating in ways that straightforward implements like a whip or a paddle can’t touch. The pain of the oil doesn’t stop when you’re no longer rubbing it into your skin. It lingers, a steady, searing heat that can take hours to fade on its own.

I could offer her a pair of gloves for the application, but I’m not that kind. We won’t be diluting or masking the harsh burn of the oil—I want her to experience the full effects of the delicious sting.

Angélica’s perfect, naked body is sprawled out on the bed exactly where I left her, the paint on her skin leaving streaks of gold across the black sheets.

“You sure you want to do this?” I demand, holding up the unassuming brown bottle for her to see. “It would hurt less if I whipped your back, ass, and thighs with my belt before shoving my cock inside you, but the choice is yours. I’ll make sure you come screaming my name either way.”