Page 5 of Rogue Doll

For a heartbeat, I think he'll just keep going, face-fucking me against the glass until I'm a quivering wreck, unable to complete my mission because I can't even stand up straight. My fingers tighten in his hair, ready to force him off.

"Please," I gasp, playing the part of the desperately needy lover. "I’ll die if I don’t feel you inside me."

The magic words. The formula that works on every man who thinks with his dick. His ego inflates like someone jammed anair pump into it. He rises from his knees, all smug superiority again, my juices still marking his face like war paint.

"Bed," he commands, voice like gravel. "Now."

I comply, stepping over the puddle of green silk, making my way toward the bedroom on unsteady legs. The sheets are black, of course—silk or high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, the kind that whispers against bare skin. I turn to face him, standing at the foot of the king-sized bed, naked except for the pendant and the wig.

Victor pounces on me, all composure gone. His fingers fumble with buttons, ripping two off his shirt as he yanks it open. His jacket hits the floor in a crumpled heap—three grand of tailoring tossed aside like garbage. The expensive silk tie catches on his collar; he tears it loose with a strangled curse. Sweat beads on his forehead as he struggles with his belt, hands actually shaking.

I've struck a nerve. The mighty Victor Reese, coming undone like a teenager about to get laid for the first time.

His chest heaves with each breath, the carefully maintained muscles flexing beneath tanned skin. A few scars interrupt the perfect canvas—reminders that even apex predators bleed. But right now, he doesn't look like a predator. He looks desperate. Unhinged. Human.

For a man who spends his days in boardrooms, he's impressively built—not gym-rat bulky, but lean and hard, the body of someone who uses expensive trainers to maintain the illusion of natural fitness.

When he drops his pants, I'm not surprised to find he goes commando—another affectation of the powerful man, the rejection of restriction. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, curving slightly upward. Impressive, but not intimidating. I've seen better in the back rooms at Malvagio.

Victor lunges for the nightstand, yanking the drawer so hard it nearly comes off its track. Condom packets scatter, half of them falling to the floor. He grabs one, tears it open with his teeth, spitting the foil somewhere across the room. His hands are actually trembling as he tries to roll it on, cursing under his breath when he fumbles it the first time.

"Fuck," he mutters, face flushed red with a mix of frustration and desire.

His cock jumps in his hand as he finally manages to sheath himself properly. No smooth operator now—just raw, animal need making him clumsy. The careful facade of control has cracked wide open, revealing the desperate man beneath.

"On the bed," he says, voice rough with need. "Hands and knees."

Ah. Of course. The position of maximum control, minimum connection. I crawl onto the bed, arranging myself as instructed, back arched, ass presented like an offering. It's degrading, objectifying—and exactly what I expected from a man who needs to dominate to feel powerful.

The mattress dips as he kneels behind me. His hands grip my hips, positioning me to his liking. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, testing, teasing, but not yet breaching.

"Beg for it," he commands, one hand sliding up my spine to fist in my hair, pulling my head back. "Tell me how much you want me to fuck you."

This is the moment—my opening. I can feel him trembling with the effort of restraint, can practically taste his need to bury himself inside me. But he needs this first—needs to hear me plead, needs to know he's won.

So I give him what he wants.

"Please," I gasp, voice pitched to sound desperate, broken. "Please, Victor. I need you inside me. Need you to fill me. Need you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

“Call me daddy!”

I fight the eyeroll, but I play the part. “Daddy! God yes, fuck me, Daddy!”

A groan tears from his throat, primal and raw. His hips surge forward, filling me in one brutal thrust that knocks the breath from my lungs. It hurts—a searing stretch that's too much, too fast—but the pain centers me, clears my head. Reminds me what this is, what I'm here for.

He sets a punishing pace, each thrust driving me forward on the mattress, the wet slap of skin against skin obscenely loud in the quiet room. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to bruise, his other hand still fisted in my hair, controlling my every move.

"So. Fucking. Tight," he grunts, punctuating each word with a savage thrust. "Tell me how good it feels."

"So good," I moan, the sound only half-feigned. "So big. So deep. God, Daddy, you're splitting me in two."

More flattery, more stroking of his fragile ego. It works—his pace quickens, his breathing ragged. I can feel him swelling inside me, getting closer to the edge. Time to escalate.

I push back against him, meeting his thrusts with equal force. "Harder," I demand. "Fuck me harder. Make me feel it tomorrow."

He growls, animal-like, hips snapping with renewed vigor. The angle changes, and suddenly he's hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyelids. A real moan escapes me, uncontrolled and raw.

"There it is," he says, voice triumphant. "There's that sweet spot. Cum for me again. Cum on my cock, you little slut.”

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