Page 4

I comply, stepping over the puddle of green silk, making my way toward the bedroom on unsteady legs.

The sheets are black, of course—silk or high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, the kind that whispers against bare skin.

I turn to face him, standing at the foot of the king-sized bed, naked except for the pendant and the wig.

Victor pounces on me, all composure gone.

His fingers fumble with buttons, ripping two off his shirt as he yanks it open.

His jacket hits the floor in a crumpled heap—three grand of tailoring tossed aside like garbage.

The expensive silk tie catches on his collar; he tears it loose with a strangled curse.

Sweat beads on his forehead as he struggles with his belt, hands actually shaking.

I've struck a nerve. The mighty Victor Reese, coming undone like a teenager about to get laid for the first time.

His chest heaves with each breath, the carefully maintained muscles flexing beneath tanned skin. A few scars interrupt the perfect canvas—reminders that even apex predators bleed. But right now, he doesn't look like a predator. He looks desperate. Unhinged. Human.

For a man who spends his days in boardrooms, he's impressively built—not gym-rat bulky, but lean and hard, the body of someone who uses expensive trainers to maintain the illusion of natural fitness.

When he drops his pants, I'm not surprised to find he goes commando—another affectation of the powerful man, the rejection of restriction. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward. Impressive, but not intimidating. I've seen better in the back rooms at Malvagio.

Victor lunges for the nightstand, yanking the drawer so hard it nearly comes off its track.

Condom packets scatter, half of them falling to the floor.

He grabs one, tears it open with his teeth, spitting the foil somewhere across the room.

His hands are actually trembling as he tries to roll it on, cursing under his breath when he fumbles it the first time.

"Fuck," he mutters, face flushed red with a mix of frustration and desire.

His cock jumps in his hand as he finally manages to sheath himself properly. No smooth operator now—just raw, animal need making him clumsy. The careful facade of control has cracked wide open, revealing the desperate man beneath.

"On the bed," he says, voice rough with need. "Hands and knees."

Ah. Of course. The position of maximum control, minimum connection. I crawl onto the bed, arranging myself as instructed, back arched, ass presented like an offering. It's degrading, objectifying—and exactly what I expected from a man who needs to dominate to feel powerful.

The mattress dips as he kneels behind me. His hands grip my hips, positioning me to his liking. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, testing, teasing, but not yet breaching.

"Beg for it," he commands, one hand sliding up my spine to fist in my hair, pulling my head back. "Tell me how much you want me to fuck you."

This is the moment—my opening. I can feel him trembling with the effort of restraint, can practically taste his need to bury himself inside me. But he needs this first—needs to hear me plead, needs to know he's won.

So I give him what he wants.

"Please," I gasp, voice pitched to sound desperate, broken. "Please, Victor. I need you inside me. Need you to fill me. Need you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

“Call me daddy!”

I fight the eyeroll, but I play the part. “Daddy! God yes, fuck me, Daddy!”

A groan tears from his throat, primal and raw. His hips surge forward, filling me in one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs. It hurts—a searing stretch that's too much, too fast—but the pain centers me, clears my head. Reminds me what this is, what I'm here for.

He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me forward on the mattress, the wet slap of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, his other hand still fisted in my hair, controlling my every move.

"So. Fucking. Tight," he grunts, punctuating each word with a savage thrust. "Tell me how good it feels."

"So good," I moan, the sound only half-feigned. "So big. So deep. God, Daddy, you're splitting me in two."

More flattery, more stroking of his fragile ego. It works—his pace quickens, his breathing ragged. I can feel him swelling inside me, getting closer to the edge. Time to escalate.

I push back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal force. "Harder," I demand. "Fuck me harder. Make me feel it tomorrow."

He growls, animal-like, hips snapping with renewed vigor. The angle changes, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. A real moan escapes me, uncontrolled and raw.

"There it is," he says, voice triumphant. "There's that sweet spot. Cum for me again. Cum on my cock, you little slut.”

His thumb digs into my clit hard enough to hurt, grinding against the swollen nub while he pounds into me.

Everything shorts out—my brain, my mission, my fucking identity—as my cunt clamps down on his cock like a vise.

The orgasm rips through me, violent and unwanted.

I'm not even sure what noises I'm making—something between a scream and a sob.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK," he barks, his rhythm going to shit as he jackhammers into me three more times before freezing. His cock pulses, twitching as he cums with this pathetic animal grunt. His sweaty chest collapses onto my back, nearly crushing me.

Our sweaty bodies are seamed together, both panting like we ran a marathon. His heart hammers against my spine. He stays inside me too long, going soft, until the condom starts to slip. He finally pulls out with a wet, obscene sound.

I face-plant into the mattress, every muscle turned to jelly. My cunt throbs, used and angry. I can still feel the ghost of him inside me, stretching me open. The delicious touch of shame for being such a dirty whore that I loved every second curls through me, tickling dark places.

God, I was fucking made for this job.

I hear him moving around the room—disposing of the condom, retrieving something. When he returns, he has two fresh glasses of whiskey. He nudges me until I roll over, then hands me one, clinking his against it in a twisted parody of celebration.

"To unexpected pleasures," he says, voice rough but satisfied.

I sip the whiskey, letting it burn away the taste of submission. "You weren't what I expected either," I say, adding just enough admiration to feed his ego without sounding fake.

He stretches beside me, all lean muscle and casual arrogance, a man comfortable in his skin, in his power. "Most women can't handle me," he says, tracing idle patterns on my bare thigh. "Too intense. Too demanding."

"Most women are boring," I reply, setting my glass aside and rolling toward him. My fingers trail across his chest, mapping the terrain, feeling his heart still pounding beneath my palm. "I'm not most women."

His smile is slow, predatory. "No, you're not." His hand captures mine, brings it to his lips. "Which makes me wonder why you're really here."

My pulse skips, but I keep my expression neutral, half-lidded and satiated. "I told you. Pleasure. Pure and simple."

He studies me, those green eyes suddenly sharp again, calculating. "Nothing is pure or simple." His grip on my wrist tightens, just short of painful. "Especially not women who approach men like me in hotel bars."

Fuck. We're back to suspicion. Back to danger. I need to redirect, and fast.

I laugh, the sound deliberately light. "Are you always this paranoid after sex? I’m a whore, Victor.

I thought that much was obvious.” I pull my wrist free, stretching languorously, giving him a full view of my body—a distraction tactic that's older than civilization.

"I fuck powerful, rich men for money, and I love my job. "

His eyes track the movement, desire momentarily overshadowing suspicion. But only momentarily.

"You haven’t named your price. Usually, that’s done first. What if I decide not to pay you?”

I act unbothered, amused even. “I’ll get what I want.” I cock my head to the side. “Your paranoia is cute. Flattering even. Do I look dangerous?”

I end the question on a sultry purr as his gaze roams the curve of my hips, stopping at the vee between my legs, practically salivating for another round.

But Victor shakes off the sexual haze with a frown. “It's not paranoia when people really are out to get you," he says, sitting up and pulling the used condom from his spent dick and dropping it into the wastebasket. "And in my position, someone's always out to get you."

He extracts his phone, thumbs in a passcode too quickly for me to catch, and checks something. His shoulders relax fractionally. Whatever he saw—or didn't see—has reassured him, at least temporarily.

Time to pivot again. I roll to my side, propping my head on one hand. "Let me guess," I say playfully, "you're checking your stock prices even now? The markets never sleep, and neither does ambition."

He glances at me, surprised, then amused. "Something like that."

"Must be exhausting," I continue, voice soft, almost sympathetic. "Always on guard. Always waiting for the knife in the back." My fingers trace his spine, feeling the tension there. "Is that why you need control so badly? In bed, I mean."

He stiffens under my touch, then deliberately relaxes. "You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?"

I shrug, the movement sinuous, cat-like. "I'm just making conversation. Post-coital bonding and all that." I reach for my whiskey again, take another sip. "Though I'd rather be doing something else with my mouth."

His eyes darken, desire warring with caution. But desire wins—it always does with men. Such simple animals. He sets the phone aside and turns back to me, hand cupping my face with unexpected gentleness.