Page 25 of Twisted Play

Carefully, I slid the coffee off the desk, praying I didn’t spill it, then lifted it up in offering. “Your coffee, Sir.”

He took it from my hands, his own making the cup look dainty, then took one sip and set it aside. “Not quite right. Try again.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Heat rushed to my face. “That was perfect.”

His expression didn’t change. “Was it?”

I shot to my feet, snatched the cup, and took a defiant sip. The acidic bite hit my tongue, and I barely stopped myself from grimacing. Dammit. It wasalmostperfect.

“Thank me for the opportunity to get it right,” he said, his tone no less commanding for its softness.

Asshole.

“Thank you, Sir,” I sneered, waiting for him to explode at my rudeness.

He ignored me as I stalked back to the machine. I took one deep breath, then another, flailing for the familiar firm grip I kept on my emotions. My chest shuddered. No. Fuck this asshole. He didn’t deserve my tears. I’d kept my shit together my whole fucking life—when mymother left us after my first heart surgery, when my father lost his job, when I had to use the campus food bank to even be able to eat my freshman year—none of that made me lose my cool, and I’d be fucked if this asshole would make me lose it today.

The second attempt was too bitter, the third too weak. Each time I knelt, each time he dismissed my efforts, something inside me wound tighter.

By the fourth attempt, the rhythm of it possessed me—measure, grind, tamp. Each motion was precise, controlled. A bead of sweat rolled down my neck, and I could feel Alek’s eyes following its path, burning against my skin.

The steam wand screamed, and suddenly, my hands weren’t quite so steady.

“Focus,” Alek growled.

I bit my lip, fighting the urge to look at him, to see if he was remembering too. The muscles in my thighs tensed as I pressed them together, trying to ignore the ache building there.

The fifth attempt was really fucking good. I tasted it, and this time, the moan that escaped me was entirely about the coffee. Mostly about the coffee.

I sank to my knees beside his chair. Alek took the cup, his fingers brushing mine, calluses catching on my skin.

“Better.” His voice was dark honey and sin. “Again.”

I made the coffee one final time, hyperaware of my body’s betrayal—nipples tight beneath my shirt, skin flushed, pulse throbbing between my legs. The perfect macchiato was an offering, an excuse to kneel beside him, to feel his thigh brush my shoulder as I held up the cup.

He took a slow sip, and I watched his throat work, remembered how his thighs felt beneath my fingers that first day, how his grip tightened on my hair when he?—

“Perfect.” His approval slid down my spine like a physical touch. “Good girl.”

The quiet praise broke open inside my chest, filling nooks and crannies I hadn’t realized were empty and aching. I should have hated those words, should have hated how they made me clench, made me want to press my thighs together and whimper. Instead, I found myself leaning toward him, drawn by the memory of his hands on me.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So desperate to please.”

“I’m not?—”

“No?” His fingers caught my chin. “Then why are you still on your knees?”

My heart shuddered to a stop.No.

“Stand up.” Alek’s command cut through the haze of arousal and shame. When I didn’t move fast enough, his fingers tightened on my chin. “Now.”

I rose on shaky legs, but he didn’t release me. Instead, he pulled me between his spread thighs, exactly where I’d been that first day. My body remembered this too, his heat, how the sheer size of him made me feel small, vulnerable.

“Tell me why you’re afraid of Carter.”

Ice shot through my veins, dousing the arousal. “I’m not.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His thumb brushed over my lower lip. “You’re good at many things, baby girl, but lying isn’t one of them.”