Page 94 of Thorns of Malice

"I promise I'll use a lot of lube, and it won't hurt."

He clenches his jaw.

She orders,"Now, be a good boy and relax."

His body remains stiff. He releases a stress-filled breath.

She demands,"Widen your legs a bit more,"while dragging her fingers down his inner thighs.

He does it and then his body stiffens again."Avery, I don't know if this is really what we should be doing."

"Are you not going to give me what I need?"she pouts.

Another moment of silence.

She adds,"Okay, that's fine. I knew you'd disappoint me eventually, just like everyone else. You promised me you'd be different from them, but?—"

"No, it's fine, Avery. Go ahead,"he says, grimacing.

Avery kisses him on the cheek and pats his ass."Good boy. You make me so happy."She steps back, looks toward the door, and disappears from the camera.

Professor Dyer appears, his dick hard, ready to go.

"Turn it off," I tell Bramwell. I've seen it too many times and don't want to see it again. Every time I do, I feel ill.

Matt may not have been my friend, but he didn't deserve what they did to him.

Bramwell pauses the video.

I reach across his desk and turn the screen away so I don't have to see it anymore.

Bramwell insists, "That's Matt Montague. I know it's him."

"What are you going to do, tell the whole world and ruin his career? Embarrass him with his family?" I question, genuinely not wanting anything else to happen to Matt.

I wouldn't have put it on there if I knew Bramwell would know it was Matt. I assumed I was doing Matt a favor. It would be his decision to come forward and seek revenge in some legal form, whatever that entails, if he chose to do so. It's shocking to me Bramwell would know who he was from all those years ago.

Bramwell paces the office again, tugging at his hair. "This has to come down." He turns to me, ordering, "Get it taken down, Dax. Whatever you must do, I need you to get it down."

I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know how to take it down. I'm not a tech person."

"You have resources. I know you know someone who can take it down," he accuses.

I put my hands in the air. "I don't."

"You do," he seethes.

His phone beeps, but he doesn't answer it, and we stare at it.

"You going to get that?" I question.

There's a knock on the door.

"Not now," he calls out, putting his hands on his desk. He leans over, stating, "I'm telling you?—"

"Dean Bramwell," his assistant says from the doorway.

He glances up.

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