Page 140 of Twisted Play
The steam wand hissed as I frothed milk, and I jumped.
“Steady,” he murmured. “You know how I like it.”
I did. The knowledge settled into my bones as I focused on the milk’s temperature, the angle of the pitcher, the sound of micro-foam forming.
Pour the shot. Add precisely one ounce of foam. Place it on the saucer with the spoon aligned just so.
“Sir.” I sank back to my knees and lifted the cup and saucer to present them to him.
His fingers brushed mine as he took it, sending electricity racing across my skin. “Perfect,” he said after tasting it.
The praise melted something inside me. My racing thoughts slowed. The constant pressure in my chest eased.
Alek hummed and settled one large hand on my head, his fingers tangling in my curls. I fought the urge to lean into his touch like a cat seeking affection. Each touch unraveled another knot of tension in my chest. “That’s right, baby girl. Let it all go.”
I closed my eyes, focusing on his touch, on the rough carpet under my knees, on the lingering scent of espresso inthe air. The constant whirl of thoughts in my head—Carter’s threats, Cole’s demands, Tristan’s sweetness, my friends’ concern—faded to white noise.
“Good girl,” he murmured. “So good for me.”
Time stretched like honey, measured only by the steady rhythm of his fingers in my hair. I floated, anchored by his touch, finally free of the crushing weight of my own control.
When he tugged my head back to look at him, his eyes were softer than I’d ever seen. “Feel better?”
My eyes burned from his uncharacteristic gentleness. How did he know?
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good girl.” For long moments, he kept me there, kneeling beside him, my mind blissfully quiet. His thumb stroked over my temple, each touch a reminder of my place at his feet.
Finally, he said, “Stand up.”
I rose on shaky legs, my body heavy with submission, my core aching with need. His eyes traveled over me one last time, lingering on the marks Cole and Tristan had left, on my hardened nipples, on the way my thighs pressed together.
“Get dressed.” The command was soft but unmistakable. He watched me dress as intently as he’d watched me strip. When I finished, he stood and cupped my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Same time tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes, Sir.”
51
COLE
Slade,my father’s brutal enforcer, opened the door to my family home before I could knock. He grinned at me and opened his arms for a hug, his cruel eyes softening momentarily as he waited. When I didn’t move forward, he laughed and rubbed my hair. “Welcome home, kiddo.”
Giving up, I laughed and gave him the hug he was looking for. Slade was the reason I’d survived into adulthood, even if his name was the stupidest fucking thing I’d ever heard. He hadn’t been able to save me from my father’s fists, or the cigarette burns, or being locked in the wine cellar, but he’d done a damn fine job of distracting my father with business when he could. With an empire as corrupt as Carter Media, there was always bloody, murderous fucking business.
“Your father’s—” He stopped and looked at me, rubbing his jaw. “He’s planning something,” he said softly. “I can’t?—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said just as softly. Slade’s loyalty was to my father. He loved me like a brother, but if push came to shove, he’d leave me hanging out to dry.
“He’s in the study.”
The familiar dread settled in my stomach like lead as I walked through the house. The walls of sports memorabilia mocked me—championship rings from teams my father bought, trophies from leagues he corrupted, medals from athletes who sold their souls for his sponsorship deals. Not a single photograph of me in my Yorkfield jersey. Not one picture from the day I’d been drafted.
I passed the spot where my first participation trophy sat for exactly three hours when I was nine, before my father threw it away.“We don’t display mediocrity in this house.”The house felt like a museum dedicated to everyone else’s achievements, a constant reminder I’d never been worth displaying. When I’d asked him at thirteen why none of my hockey trophies made it onto these walls, he’d looked at me with that familiar cold disappointment.“When you accomplish something worth displaying, we’ll discuss it.”
The scent of expensive whiskey and leather hit me as I approached the study, triggering a phantom burn in my throat. My hands started to shake, just slightly. I clenched them into fists, remembering the taste of alcohol washing down pills, the way numbness felt like salvation when you lived in this house.
