Page 10 of Toy Shop

She won’t play a role in a scene, won’t expect it. Her reactions will be genuine. Her hurt will be real, her consequent satiation too. She’ll do me the honor of being the deliverer of both.

Life or faith or any sort of cruelty won’t have a hand in this.

I will.

Only when she’s okay.

My eyes rake over her face, pausing at her request. Pain isn’t registered there, it’s not that. She needs something. I stop altogether to oblige to whatever she’d ask, regardless of how out of character it is for me.

And it doesn’t take away a thing from my pleasure. “Is that a red now?”

Nola shakes her head, licking her lips.

I leave the butt plug where it is, brushing her taut, young skin with my knuckles. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

“Your name.”

The reflexive grin tugging at my lips is unexpected at her statement. At this juncture, her knowing my identity will mean shit. Even if she’ll connect the dots, there’ll be no effect on the scene.

She’s in too deep. For her, at least at the present moment, I’ll still be the man who’s opening her pucker and an entire universe of sexual opportunities with it.

So, I indulge her. “Alistair Cromwell.”

Not a muscle twitches in my body as I take her in, delving into her soul, searching for recognition that isn’t there. Her pure smile shines in my direction; her firm, round ass relaxes in my palm.

We’re good.

It’s all the invitation I need to swirl the plug past the nerve endings one last time and shove it in.

“Oh!” She clenches, her entire being in visible discomfort.

Which is where I come in. “Give me your eyes, sweetheart.”

Her vision refocuses, the look in it clarifies.

“That’s it, good girl.”

She eases into me. “I like your name.”

The crippling sensation of wanting to coddle her blares through me. I brush it off, dirt off my shoulder. I’m not this man, and we’re not here for this. Reverting to our original agreement, I free my hand from under her ass.

With one hand pressing the butt plug in, I drive three punishing fingers into her pussy. The corners of her eyes crinkle, her bottom lip sucked in. I rein in the urge to suck on it, myself.

“How ‘bout now, Nola? Is this what you’d call nice?”

“No.” She lets out a groan, riding into my touch.

Her acceptance of whatever sins I lash out at her, and her goddamned innocence, crack a fissure in my glacial façade. I drag my chair closer, lips in her ear, licking and nibbling down her neck.

A tiny drop of sweat trickles down where my tongue and mouth meet her neck. The barely-there hint of salt is equally delicious as the rest of her. I devour it and the sounds she emanates. The moans and pants no one could hear over the music save me.

And though I accepted her request to stop, I won’t allow her to come, not yet. She’s nearing it, I gather looking at her painless face, her squeezing my hand harder, riding me faster.

The need to prolong it overpowers me. I remove the butt plug, and this time when I push it in, I’m not swiveling, not twisting. Not. Fucking. Gentle.

“Fuck!” Nola’s head bows down fast, her cheek chafing my stubble on her way down.

“So, here’s your lesson for today. When I fuck you this hard,”—The word red is nowhere to be found, my okay to keep at it. I pry it out of her, shoving it in, repeating it twice, then fuck her slowly with the glass toy—“you take and take, you graze the edge where you can’t anymore and then you take some more.”

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