Page 63 of The Owner's Temptation

It takes everything in me to stay upright until the last of the waves subside.

My fingers tremble as I turn off the toy and toss it to the bed beside me. I collapse back into the pillows, breath ragged, heart still stuttering in my chest.

God.

I stare at the ceiling.

What the hell is happening to me?

I grab a tissue to clean off the vibrator, and carry it to the bathroom to rinse. My legs are still shaky but that was fucking amazing.

It’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had, and it was only to thoughts of what these two men could do to me.

Fuck.

I need a cold shower.

And probably an exorcism.

Definitely some holy water. But maybe I’ll just pour myself a large glass of wine.

Maybe two.

Maybe… one for me and one for the Devil.

The clock on the corner of my screen reads 8:02 AM.

I check my watch to confirm it’s right, a hot coil of irritation already forming beneath my ribs. She’s late. It’s just two minutes—but two minutes late for a client who pays millions could end a contract in a heartbeat. It’s unacceptable.

And she knows better.

Sienna’s been under my sponsorship for a month, and we still haven’t moved past the first goddamn lesson:You can’t control a room if you can’t control yourself first.

She wants reasons, explanations for everything I ask her to do. It’s exhausting. I understand the reason behind it—she’s mistrustful by nature, wary of the unknown. Useful qualities, but dangerous if not honed correctly.

That mistrust needs to become intuition. She needs to be able to anticipate and deliver without question. Without hesitation.

But we aren’t there yet.

She isn’t there yet.

I drum my fingers once on the desktop, teeth clenching together. I’m not accustomed to waiting on anyone. The fact that it’s her makes it even worse.

Sienna’s outward signs of frustration have become bolder, harder to ignore. It tests my patience, makes my palm itch with the urge to bend her over this desk and correct the brattiness out of her—the way I would at The Devil’s Playground.

The way she needs.

But I can’t.

So instead, I ball my hand into a tight fist, breathing through the steady, building heat beneath my skin.

The door finally opens. 8:03 AM.

Sienna rushes in, the clack of her heels sharp against the marble floors, auburn hair wild around her shoulders.

She’s agitated.

Flushed.

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