Page 44 of Hired Help

He sends me an eyebrow wave of acknowledgement, then peels back a piece of corrugated iron and the three disappear behind their fortified wall.

Brooke waits for me beside the front door and my residual fear makes me rough. “Get inside.” I grab a handful of her dress and toss her forwards, following closely behind her and slamming the door.

She leans against the hallway wall, chest heaving, face painted with bright spots of colour from her adventure.

I should send her home. Call a taxi and make sure she gets into it.

But my blood is pumping, my skin tingles. Endorphins chase each other, spurred on by the pain in my hands, my ribs, my ear, my face. My body just triumphed in battle and wants to claim its reward.

I turn, slowly clicking, twisting, sliding each of the door locks into place as Brooke stares at me, eyes alert to every motion, the tension increasing until it feels as much a part of the room as the walls, the chairs.

When I face her, she has her back to the wall, palms pressed flat on either side like she’s about to launch herself into the room.

With adrenaline still roaring from the fight, the bones in my hand aching, I stare at her, letting my eyes drift over her face, over the opulent curve of her tits, nipples poking at the thin fabric like they’re trying to cut their way free.

I watch her lick her lips, tilt her head back. The high collar is conservative, but the rain has turned her dress see-through where it’s not caked in mud.

She might as well be naked.

All the blood in my body relocates to my cock.

“You’re filthy,” I snarl, enjoying how her eyes widen at the double meaning, how her mouth sags open before her teeth find her lower lip, biting hard enough to make me wince.

I place my palm against the wall above her head, leaning in until my face is almost touching hers. My gaze scans her features, watching as the doubt and insecurities pile on top of one another while underneath, there’s a yearning expression in her eyes.

With my free hand, I touch a knuckle to where a rivulet curves from her wet hair along her cheeks, tracing a gleaming path like it’s a tear. Her nostrils pinch together, her forehead creases, her lips relax, parting.

“You’ve been paying me but we’re not going to do that any longer.” I brush some wet strands of hair away from her eyes, pulling them away from her cheeks. “After tonight, you owe me a debt and the only way to pay is by being my fucktoy. If you don’t want to be treated that way, don’t bother contacting me again, are we clear?”

Waves of relief and concern chase across her features, her eyes darting to a dozen different places on my face, reading everything to judge how serious I am.

“Open your mouth.”

Again, her eyes search mine, then she gently widens her mouth until I can see the pink tip of her tongue resting inside, the flash of white from her perfectly set teeth. Her chest heaves with each new breath of air, she shifts her weight from side to side on her bare feet.

I grip her jaw in a pincer movement, tugging her forward while her eyes widen in alarm, then I spit in her mouth, enjoying the struggle as she twists to get away from the foamy bubbles resting on her tongue.

“Swallow it for me. That’s what good toys do.”

The internal push and pull plays out across her face, nose wrinkling, eyes wincing as she makes herself swallow, the effort clear in her wriggling shoulders, the way her chin moves inside my grip.

I watch her fighting herself to please me and it’s like she’s sliced into my chest, sternum cracked wide, leaving every vital organ exposed.

I can feel every part of her struggle. It becomes mine.

“From now on, you’re going to swallow anything I give you, understand?”

She nods, face tilting forward so she looks at me through her dark, rain-clumped lashes.

“Say it.”

A flash of colour heats her cheeks. When she obeys, her voice is soft, steady though the rest of her trembles. “I’m going to swallow anything you give me.”

“Good.”

My eyes rest on her again, in no hurry to go anywhere. I should have taken control of her at the start, this girl with all her money, all her power. All the things that men fight and die for, none of it bringing her a lick of happiness.

I rub the pad of my thumb against her lower lip. So plump. Already swelling where her teeth bit their deep marks into the tender flesh. I lick my lips and watch her mirror the gesture. When I step closer, pressing against her wet dress, wet body, she tilts her head back to keep her eyes fixed to my face.

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