Page 8 of Rogue Doll

"I should clean up first," I say, pulling away from his grasp with deliberate grace. "Mind if I use your shower?"

"Go ahead," he says, settling back against the pillows, satiated and relaxed. "Take your time."

I swagger to the bathroom, his gaze burning into my ass with each step.That’s it, gorge yourself on the view, buddy,‘cuz that’s all you’re gonna get.

The bathroom's all rich-people excess—marble for days, glass shower big enough for an orgy, golden fixtures probably worth more than Isaac's car. I lock the door, flip on the fan, and get to work.

First things first. I reach up to my hairline, fingers finding the edge of the small flesh-colored patch Sienna had applied during my transformation. Designed to look like nothing more than a beauty mark near my temple, the synthetic skin conceals Killion's chemical masterpiece—a neuropharmaceutical cocktail developed by ex-Mossad scientists. I peel it carefully from my skin, revealing a crystalline film no thicker than a contact lens.

"For after he's spent," Sienna had instructed during prep, eyes clinical as she applied it. "Put it in his drink. Bypasses the blood-brain barrier in seconds. He'll be suggestible as a hypnotized teenager, especially with post-orgasm neurochemicals already flooding his system."

I twist on the shower, cranking it hot enough to fog the mirrors. Through the steam, I check my reflection—lips swollen, bite marks on my neck, mascara smudged. I look fucked. I look like someone else.

I carefully place half the film on my own tongue—the antidote component that'll protect me if there’s any cross contamination while Victor turns into a confession booth with a dick. It dissolves instantly, tasting like metal and burnt oranges. The rest I fold between my fingers, invisible but potent.

Clean and ready, I saunter back into the bedroom, still dripping. Victor's propped against his headboard like the king ofhis domain, scrolling through his phone with that rich-asshole intensity. He glances up, cock already twitching back to life.

"Come here," he orders, dropping his phone face-down on the nightstand. "I'm not done with you yet."

I flash a smile designed to make his balls ache. "Good."

His whiskey sits half-empty beside the bed. As I crawl toward him, I let my hand brush the glass, dropping the nearly invisible film into the amber liquid. It disappears on contact—odorless, tasteless, undetectable even to the most paranoid of marks.

"Thirsty work," I purr, nodding at his drink. "Finish that. You'll need the stamina for what I'm about to do to you."

Victor smirks, downs the rest in one swallow. I slide off the bed and onto my knees between his legs, the perfect picture of submission. But this is strategy, not servitude. The drug's clock is ticking. Three minutes until his frontal lobe goes offline. Five until he'll tell me whatever I want just to feel my mouth on him again.

"Let me thank you properly," I purr, taking his half-hard cock in my hand. His eyes are already starting to glaze as I wrap my lips around him, tongue swirling over the sensitive head. He groans, fingers threading through my hair—not pushing, not yet. The control freak is slipping.

I watch his face as I work him, tracking the drug's progress through his system. His pupils dilate to black pools. His breathing shallows. His grip on my hair loosens as his coordination fails. Halfway through a particularly deep stroke, his eyes suddenly unfocus, staring at something a thousand yards beyond the bedroom walls.

Bingo. I release him with a wet pop, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

"Victor," I whisper, rising to straddle his thighs without taking him inside me. "I need something from you."

"Anything," he slurs, hands pawing clumsily at my breasts.

"The access code to your private server," I say, rocking against him, keeping him just stimulated enough to stay hard but not enough to cum. "The one with the Nexus Holdings information."

His brow furrows momentarily—some last remnant of resistance—then smooths as the chemicals overtake his higher functions.

"Eight-four-seven-three-one-nine-zero-six," he recites, voice flat and mechanical.

I commit it to memory, repeating it silently. "And how do I access the server remotely?"

He tells me everything—IP addresses, secondary passwords, encryption keys. Information worth millions on the black market, spilling from his lips as easily as bad pickup lines. I grind against him harder as a reward, watching his eyes roll back.

"Good boy," I purr, increasing my pace. "You're so helpful, Victor. So open with me."

"Only you," he mumbles, hands gripping my hips. "Only Nova."

I should stop now. I have what I came for. Mission accomplished. But there's that twisted part of me—the part Killion recognized, the part that craves chaos—that can't resist one final flourish.

"Victor," I whisper against his ear, "I want to know your deepest desire. The thing you've never told anyone."

He shudders beneath me. "My mother," he confesses, voice cracking. "I always wanted her to see me succeed. To be proud."

I tsked lightly. “Poor little mama’s boy always seeking her love.”

---