Page 62 of Twisted Play (Cruel Games #1)

ALEKSANDR

The moment my apartment door slammed behind me after the game, I yanked at my tie, desperate to breathe. The memory of Eva’s scent lingered on my fingers from when I’d handed her that fucking orange earlier in the week.

Sweet.

Innocent.

Mine.

My cock hardened at the memory of her lips wrapping around each segment, how she’d trusted me to feed her. A week later, and I could still feel the ghost of her breath, still see the way she’d melted when I praised her. Mine.

No, not mine. Never truly mine. A real Dom earned submission through trust, not blackmail, and I’d thrown away a decade of BDSM principles the moment I forced her to her knees in my office.

But Christ, the way she’d looked up at me, all wide green eyes and trembling, like she wanted to submit, even if she didn’t have the vocabulary to describe why.

I shrugged out of my jacket and dropped onto my couch, then shoved to my feet again to snatch a bottle of vodka out of my refrigerator.

My hands shook as I poured myself a glass.

Anything to wash away the image of her squirming in her seat during the game, her thighs pressed together, causing so much tension on the ice, the entire arena had felt it.

Every shift of her hips had my cock straining against my slacks, imagining my fingers inside her, my tongue, my?—

What kind of monster got off on coerced submission? Yet here I was, aching just remembering how she’d looked up at me through her lashes from her knees, eager to please, desperate for praise.

“Fuck!” Dmitri had handed her to me on a silver platter.

Instead of corrupting her and taking my revenge, she was corrupting me, distracting me from my team, making me betray everything I believed about power exchange, a wicked temptation every time she called me “Sir,” whether we were in a scene or at practice.

I dropped back onto the couch and scrubbed my face before calling up the recording of the game.

I rewound it again and again, torturing myself with glimpses of her in the stands.

The way she’d flushed when Cole skated by.

How she’d melted when Tristan tapped the glass.

My cock jerked every time she shifted in her seat, imagining she was wet and aching.

Eva offering me a perfect coffee, on her knees, her arms above her head, pleading with her eyes for a word of praise, even if she’d never admit out loud how much she craved it—even if she never understood why it turned her on to submit to me.

Eva, naked on her knees in my office, her fist around my cock as she sucked my soul out through bee-stung lips, looking up at me with hatred and need swirling together in her eyes, her gorgeous tits covered with a constellation of freckles begging me to map them with my tongue.

Eva whispering, “Please, Sir.” The words that should have filled me with pride twisted like a knife, even as they sent fire racing through my veins.

I’d forced her submission, violated every principle I’d ever held about power exchanges.

No safeword. No negotiation. Just cruel manipulation of a desperate girl.

I clenched my hand so hard, the glass shattered.

And still, my body betrayed me, desperate to hear those words again.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be a toy, a means to an end, not this fucking obsession that kept me awake at night, rutting against my sheets like a teenager. The way she fought it then gave in so beautifully—it was like she was made to kneel for me.

But she wasn’t. She knelt because I’d left her no choice. The thought should have wilted my arousal. Instead, my cock twitched in my pants, leaking precum at the memory of her surrendering.

Blood dripped down my arm, and I looked at my hand with detachment, setting the broken glass down on the table.

The pain barely registered through the haze of need.

The memory of holding her consumed me, her trust in me despite what I’d done to her, how soft she’d felt in my arms, how perfectly she’d fit.

I’d given her the aftercare she deserved, pretending I hadn’t forced her to her knees minutes before.

My phone mocked me from the coffee table.

If I texted her, would she come? She had to—that was our deal.

I could have her on her knees in my office again tomorrow, begging for my approval, showing me what a good girl she could be.

My cock jerked again at the thought, leaving a wet spot on my slacks.

The thought made me sick—made me harder.

I wanted her willing. Wanted her eager. Wanted her looking at me the way she looked at Cole and Tristan, with desire and something deeper that made my chest ache.

I wanted to earn her submission properly, like I’d taught others to do.

Wanted to taste every inch of her soft skin, feel her surrender freely given.

“Mine,” I snarled, yanking my cock out. My blood smeared over my shaft as I stroked myself roughly, imagining her tied up, edged to incoherence, babbling and crying as she pleaded with me to let her come.

I imagined leaving marks all over her body, bites and bruises that would show who owned her even when she wasn’t on her knees.

Rose spreading over her skin from the impact of a flogger, the jiggle of her ass as I spanked her. The sweet sounds she’d make as I fucked her to oblivion. Her surprise as she came harder than she ever had before.

I groaned, imagining her gorgeous cunt, tight, soaked, taking me as I pounded into her, driving us both to completion as she cried my name.

Cum spurted out of me, covering my hand, mixing with the blood. I stared at the results of my need with disgust and horror as the replay of the game continued in the background.

The fury that had sustained me for sixteen years was ash in my mouth compared to imagining her sweetly soft, “Thank you, Sir,” after I made her come.

I’d meant to break her. Instead, she was dismantling me, piece by piece, with every sweet submission, every flash of defiance in those gorgeous eyes .

And I was letting her.

Worse, I wanted her to.

I wanted her trust.

I wanted to deserve her trust.

Fuck.