Page 144 of Twisted Play
The moment we were skin to skin, Cole pressed every inch of himself against me, like he was trying to disappear into my body.
His hands roamed my body frantically, like he couldn’t touch enough of me at once. When one hand slipped between us, fingers sliding through my wetness, we both groaned at the contact. He was already hard against my hip, his cock hot and heavy as I wrapped my hand around him.
“Fuck, Eva.” My name broke on his lips as he positioned himself at my entrance. “You’re so wet for me.”
His usual control was gone. Instead, he moved with frantic need, one hand behind my head, holding me against him, while the other gripped my thigh hard enough to bruise. When he pushed inside me, stretching me, I whined at the pain.
“Fuck,” I whispered as his forehead dropped to mine, his breathing ragged as he fought for control.
“So tight,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “Fucking perfect.”
Our fingers found each other, twining together as he moved. His thumb traced over my knuckles, such an unexpectedly gentle gesture it made my chest ache even as he filled me completely with each deep thrust.
He released one hand to map my face like he was memorizing it—fingertips tracing my cheekbones, my jaw, the curve of my lips before sliding down to pinch my nipple, making me arch beneath him with a gasp.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and felt him shudder against me. The new angle had him hitting even deeper, and I could feel my climax building, tension coiling tight in my belly.
“Cole,” I gasped. “Please.”
His pace grew more desperate, more erratic. When I arched beneath him, my breasts pressing against his chest as pleasure crashed through me, he caught my mouth in a desperate kiss with deeper emotions I didn’t dare name.
Afterward, I curled against his chest, tracing the tattoos on his chest, the scars I hadn’t seen before or maybe I hadn’t noticed.
“My father used to lock me in the wine cellar when I disappointed him,” Cole said into my hair, his voice barely audible. “Started when I was six. No light, no windows, just—” he stopped for a minute, his voice cracking before he continued, “just a lot of fucking dust.”
My fingers traced a thin white line over his knuckles I’d never noticed before.
“Sometimes, I’d count bottles to stay sane. Château this, Château that. I learned to read French wine labels by seven because there was nothing else to do.” His laugh held no humor. “It was a useful skill for dinner parties when I was a kid. He loved showing off how cultured his son was.”
“How long would he leave you?”
“Depended on the transgression. Spilled juice at breakfast? Two hours. Cried when he yelled? All night.” Cole’s chest rose and fell beneath my cheek. “Worst was when I was eight. He caught me giving my dinner to a stray. The poor thing was all ribs, obviously starving.”
I stayed quiet, stroking gentle whirls over his skin, letting him talk, my heart breaking for the boy he had been.
“He left me down there for two days without food or water to teach me that weakness has consequences.” Cole’s fingers tangled my hair, not quite gentle. “When he finally let me out, the dog was gone. Slade said they’d had to put it down.”
The casual cruelty of punishing an eight-year-old boy for showing compassion turned my stomach.
“I stopped caring about anything after that—it was easier than risking the cellar.” His voice was matter-of-fact, like he was recounting someone else’s story. “Made me perfect for his world. Can’t be disappointed if you don’t expect anything good.”
I pressed my lips to his chest, tasting salt. His hand tightened in my hair.
“When I was fifteen, he took me to a business meeting, said it was time I learned the family trade.” Cole’s breathing grew shallow. “Turned out to be a foreclosure. Some guy who’d borrowed money to keep his restaurant open couldn’t make payments.”
His casual tone didn’t hide the pain underneath.
“My father handed me the paperwork and told me to serve it. Said if I didn’t, he’d make sure the man’s daughter lost her scholarship to art school. Already had it arranged—one phone call, and she’d be out.” Cole’s fingers traced absent patterns on my spine. “So I handed over the papersand watched this guy’s face crumble as he realized he was losing everything.”
I stayed quiet, letting him talk.
“But here’s the fucked-up part—my father could have forgiven the debt. The restaurant was actually profitable. He just wanted to see if I’d choose a stranger’s pain over some girl’s future.” His laugh was bitter. “Wanted to teach me every choice has a cost, and the strong make others pay it.”
The parallels with my own story made my heart hurt.
“He bought the building for pennies on the dollar afterward and turned it into a parking lot.”
My burner phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand. Jedediah Carter, demanding information I didn’t have and threatening devastating consequences.
