Page 18 of Her Cruel Empire (The Devil’s Plaything #1)

Robin

I lean forward over the back of the antique settee near the fire. The velvet is soft against my stomach, my breasts. I grip the cushion but then sink onto it firmly as I trust it will bear my weight, thinking about my body bared to her gaze.

“Open your legs,” she demands. “Wider. Spread your thighs.”

I do. The stretch makes me blush, makes my breath catch. I feel absurdly open. My pulse flutters in my throat, in my thighs, in places I want her to touch me.

My whole body is already begging.

She thinks this is about control. That she’s reclaiming her power with every command. But the way her voice cracked just a little—it told me the truth. She’s the one who’s breaking.

She steps behind me, and the silence stretches taut.

Then fingertips trail over the curve of my ass. A slow, deliberate glide, as if she’s savoring the sight of me.

Her palms cup me, both cheeks. And part me. I flinch—not from fear, but from how exposed I feel. How seen.

“Perfect,” she murmurs. “Don’t move.”

Her fingers slide lower to find my seam already slick, swollen, needy. She doesn’t tease. She inspects. Like she’s checking her favorite weapon before use.

She drags a single finger up the cleft of my ass, and I tremble. Her hands are steady, but I can feel the charge in the air—the tension coiled beneath the surface. She’s trying to stay composed. But everything in her touch feels like a scream she can’t let out.

And when she kneels down behind me and places her mouth on me, it’s not a kiss. It’s a claiming.

Her tongue licks a line from my dripping pussy up to the tight ring of my asshole above, and I gasp—loud, shocked, trembling.

Then she does it again.

Long, slow strokes with her tongue. Her hands grip my ass cheeks hard enough to leave marks as she pulls me even wider. She buries her face between my cheeks like she’s trying to drown.

Her tongue circles, presses. Flicks, then lingers. I moan—high and helpless—and arch toward her without meaning to.

“Stay still,” she murmurs. Her voice is muffled by my body, but the heat of it scorches me.

I go still. I don’t breathe.

She eats my ass like she’s erasing thought. Erasing memory. I can feel her need in every stroke—hungry, relentless, desperate to lose herself in the taste of me.

It should feel degrading. But it doesn’t. It feels like worship. She’s devouring a part of me no one else has ever dared touch. And I let her. I open wider. I take all of it.

Her fingers find my clit, circling and stroking, driving me inexorably higher. Wet heat and dark want, back and forth, until I can’t tell what part of me is throbbing hardest.

I come fast and hard, gasping her name into the velvet sofa as her tongue pushes inside me and her fingers grip my ass like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Only when my legs give out and I slump over the back of the sofa, boneless and dazed, does she finally pull away.

Her breathing is ragged. Her hands are already reaching for me again.

That’s when I understand. It isn’t power that’s driving her. It’s pain.

This is what she does when she can’t cry. When the world is too much. She buries her face in someone else’s body and tries to forget.

I turn my head, still panting, and whisper, “Eva…”

“On the rug,” she says. Her voice is low and husky, the edge of command dulled by whatever storm she’s choking back. “Lie down. Flat. Head by the fire.”

I obey—because I want to. Because I can see how close she is to breaking, and I want to be the thing that holds her together.

The rug is soft beneath my back, just as it was the first time I lay here for her. The firelight flickers at the edge of my vision. I hear her moving. Undressing.

She kneels down at my feet and crawls over me. Slowly. Purposefully.

And then—she turns. Swings one strong thigh over my face and settles herself just above me, her pussy an inch from my mouth, knees on either side of my head. “I want you to show me what a good girl you can be.”

Then her cunt is on my mouth, there’s no more thought. There’s only the taste of her arousal, her hard clit sliding against my tongue when I lick her. Her hands gather up my breasts and squeeze, fingers finding my nipples, pulling, teasing, twisting.

My moans vibrate into her as she rides my face.

I grip her hips and hold her there, licking and sucking, swirling my tongue around her clit.

And then I feel a hand parting my own pussy, sliding around the wetness there, and then pinching lightly at my clit.

My hips jerk involuntarily, and she laughs softly, a husky sound that makes me want to beg her to never stop fucking me.

“I could play with you all day,” she murmurs.

I suck her clit between my lips.

“Good girl. You’re so eager, aren’t you?”

Her words are broken, her breaths short. She’s almost there. And then she gives a sharp cry, her pussy pulsing on my mouth, her fingers twisting at my nipples, pressing down on my clit, sending lightning through me as she makes me come for a second time, in tandem with her.

Ten minutes later, my breath has finally slowed.

The rug beneath me is soft against my bare skin. My thighs are slick, my pulse still pounding from the way Eva touched me— slow at first, then rougher, until the entire world narrowed to nothing but her fingers, her mouth, her voice.

Now she sits in her armchair again, fully dressed, ankles crossed neatly, the picture of composure.

She made a brief visit to the bathroom adjoining the room, to freshen up , she said.

She came back with her face freshly washed and her hair smoothed down.

But even now her gaze lingers lazily over me, heat flickering there like a candle flame that could turn inferno at any moment.

And I lie there and let her look.

Every time she touches me, I tell myself it’s just her right. Just her way of claiming what she’s bought. And every time, my heart doesn’t listen.

A sharp knock at the door makes me jump.

I jerk upright, clutching for the sweater I discarded earlier. Panic spikes in my chest.

The room stinks of sex. I stink of sex. What if someone comes in and sees me like this—naked, flushed, laid out like an obedient pet?

My fingers fumble with the hem of my sweater. My cheeks burn.

Eva doesn’t move. Her voice is cool, faintly amused.

“There’s no need to be ashamed of your body,” she says. “You’re very beautiful.”

The words only make my blush deepen. I’m not beautiful like her. I’m soft where she’s toned. Round where she’s lean.

And I don’t want anyone else to see me like this. Vulnerable. Undone.

I pull the sweater over my head and tug my leggings back into place. Eva watches silently, her expression impatient as if I’m being unreasonable. When I finally manage to sit upright on the couch, she exhales softly, as though my modesty is an unnecessary impediment.

“Yes?” she calls.

The door opens just enough for the housekeeper to slip inside. Her eyes remain carefully lowered, her posture rigid with respect—or fear. She speaks in the flowing syllables of their own language, and none of the words I don’t understand.

Eva’s face changes instantly.

Her lips curve into a smile. A real one.

“Uncle Stefan is here?” she says, her voice warm with delight. “Bring him up at once. And have refreshments sent.”

I blink at her, startled. She’s happy . Really, truly happy to see him.

I’ve never seen her like this.

The door opens wider a few minutes later, and Stefan sweeps into the Great Hall like a warm breeze.

He’s older than Eva, elegant in a dark wool coat, his salt-and-pepper hair combed neatly back.

His eyes twinkle with affection as they land on her.

I can see his resemblance to the man in the bed, and of course—this must be her father’s brother, Eva’s uncle that she mentioned when we were talking about the few people she really trusts.

No wonder she’s happy to see him.

He greets her in what sounds like the same language Eva and Mrs. Kovacs used, his accent rolling the words into something musical.

Eva rises gracefully, but her hand slides possessively through my hair as she passes me, a slight tug that I’m not sure how to read.

Warning? Possessiveness? I watch her carefully as she heads to the door.

She embraces Stefan lightly, kissing both his cheeks.

He says something soft in their own tongue—a pet name, I’d guess, intimate and familial. Eva laughs quietly and links her arm in his, bringing him closer to the lounge suite.

“And who is this?” he asks, his smile polite, curious as he nods at me.

Somehow, he knew to use English. But I stumble over my words as I reply, “I’m R-Robin. Robin Rivers.”

His gaze sharpens, just slightly, studying me with newfound interest. I can feel my face flushing as I meet his eyes. My hair is mussed. My skin flushed. And I’m hyperaware of the faint, sweet scent of arousal still lingering around me.

“Robin is a friend of mine,” Eva says casually.

Uncle Stefans’s eyes flick between us, and clearly, he understands exactly what that means.

“I see,” he says. “How lovely to meet you, Robin. You’re an American?”

“Yes, I?—”

“Come and sit by the fire,” Eva interrupts smoothly.

It’s a dismissal. A verbal indication that I don’t matter in the slightest. I sit there, frozen, as Eva guides Stefan to the armchair opposite hers, switching seamlessly into rapid, flowing syllables of their shared language. The sounds are musical, intimate, and completely exclude me.

I understand nothing. I am nothing.

The foreign words wash over me, sharp consonants and rolling vowels that might as well be another world. Occasionally, Stefan glances at me, but Eva doesn’t. She’s forgotten I exist.

But my body still responds to her voice. That familiar flutter in my stomach, the way my pulse quickens when she speaks in that low, authoritative tone. My clit doesn’t care that she’s talking over my head like I’m part of the furniture.

“I—excuse me,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Eva doesn’t even look at me. She waves a hand in my direction, still speaking to Stefan, her voice dropping to that commanding register that makes my knees weak.

“I’ll have lunch sent up to you,” she says in English, barely glancing over her shoulder. “Stefan and I have much to discuss.” The casual dismissal in her tone makes something twist painfully in my chest, even as my traitorous body responds to the authority in her voice.

I slip out quietly, keeping my steps light on the marble. The door closes behind me with a soft click. And in the silence of the hallway, my mind spins.

Twenty minutes ago, her hands were gentle on my skin, her voice soft and encouraging. She touched me like I was precious to her.

And a moment later, I’m nothing. Forgotten. A non-consideration.

But it was always going to be like this, wasn’t it? I remind myself, as I mount the stairs. Thirty days. Catch and release. Nothing more.

I let myself forget. For a moment, I thought I mattered. But I’m not a lover, I’m an arrangement.

This is her world. I’m just a toy she bought at auction.

Back in my room, I strip off the sweater and press it to my face, inhaling deeply. Eva’s scent lingers there. It’s intoxicating, dangerous, and I’m pathetic and needy.

I drag a fresh set of clothes from the wardrobe and shower, trying to scrub her from my skin, from my thoughts. Then I dress in new clothes and sit down to enjoy lunch on my lonesome, since it appeared while I was in the bathroom.

I’ll enjoy this for as long as it lasts.

But I won’t mistake it for more.

I can’t afford to.