Page 1 of Pretty Broken Wings

CHAPTER ONE

There’s nothing better than making a grown man cry.

I love the little sounds they make—the little whimpers and quick puffs of breath, wet sniffles, and tiny hiccups. The way their body shudders when they want to do something that I won’t let them do. It’s like playing with a chained lion—dangerous, stupid, and a little thrilling.

The man currently under me is definitely crying. I feel his body jerking, my stiletto pinned to his shoulder, and his silk tie wrapped around my fist. I wish they’d turn the club music down so I could hear those pitiful sounds better.

I lean down, careful not to touch the stall walls. We’re in the men’s bathroom, and I know there’s urine all over them. The man is bent forward, kneeling at my feet, one hand rubbing his cock from outside his dress pants.

“You’re pathetic,” I say loudly to make sure he hears me over the music. “You think you’re good enough to get a taste of me?”

The man looks up at me slowly, his eyes trailing up my fishnet stockings and locking on my tits. I know he can see my pussy, but he won’t look at it. His cheek is still red from where I slapped him for that earlier. Then I told him he was an embarrassment and a shame to his family and mankind.

I don’t know him, but I made a guess. I met the man at the bar tonight, and he just screamed,‘I need a mommy.’ He was too eager. He tried to play it cool, but when I slid in next to him and told him his suit made him look fat, his pupils dilated.

Was it stupid? Yes.

Was I drunk, and did it feel good? Also yes.

The alcohol gives me courage.

“Lick it,” I demand, staring down at the man under me. He barely fits between the toilet and me. There’s a brief flicker of fear in his gaze when he looks up at me, which only makes me stab my shoe into him harder.

The man is big. Easily six feet and packed with muscles. He’s in his forties, but he’s kept up with himself. He could get up at any point. But he chooses not to. Because secretly, he likes this. Which both arouses me and pisses me off.

“You think I’d let your small dick get anywhere near me? Lick my shoe.” The demand fills me with a rush of adrenaline. Licking the pissy bottoms of my shoes may be where he draws the line.Might be where he gets up, slams me against the door, and calls me a crazy bitch. Might be where I get my ass handed to me.

Fucking hurt me. If a man isn’t hurting me, it makes me jumpy. I don’t like men who wait for me to let my guard down before they strike.

As the man drops his head to lick my shoe, I get a whiff of something. I pull in a breath, sorting around the smell of urine and disinfectant.

Cologne. And not just any cologne. The kindheused to wear. The kind I always thought smelled like cassette tapes right after you opened them. This man is wearing it.

Immediately, my body locks up, and I feel hot.

“Get off me,” I say, my blood heating. My whole body is on fire, and before I realize it, I’ve backed into the stall door with a bang. My other foot comes down to steady myself. The man is moaning, rubbing himself through his pants, and all I can smell is that damn cologne.

Fuck. I gotta get out of here.

Scrambling for the lock, I realize that the door opens inward, and it won’t open with both of us here. I’d have to step into the man.

Gotta get out. Gotta get away.

“Get up!” I demand, trying to kick the man out of the way.

He just continues to moan, jerking himself.

“Move!” I shove him back, the world blurring. Somehow, I burst out of the stall, stumbling into the bathroom. The air surrounds me like a blanket of cologne and ammonia.

It’s not him. It’s not fucking him.

I have to get out. I stumble to the counter where I left my purse.

Only I’m not alone. There’s another man in here blocking my way. He’s tall, over six feet, and heavily muscled, with thick-rimmed black glasses and a ball cap on his head. But something seems… off.

“Wow.” The man slowly starts clapping his hands.

Fear skitters down my back like ice shavings. He’s not only blocking the door, but he’s blocking my access to my purse, which is sitting on the counter. My purse, which has my wallet and the only cash I have left to cover me for the next few days.