Page 91 of Twisted Play
My phone pressed against my thigh, heavy with promise. One photo would give me everything I’d dreamed of for sixteen years—Conrad Jackson’s complete destruction. Instead, I found myself imagining different photos. Eva on her knees. Eva bound and begging. Eva wearing my marks instead of theirs.
She turned her head forward, reaching behind her to unhook her bra. My breath stuttered as she slid the straps down her arms, revealing perfect dusky nipples, already hard with desire, even as I was sure she told herself she hated every moment of this.
I raked my gaze over every inch of her creamy, freckled skin glowing with vitality. My fingers dug into my thighs with the effort to watch her instead of reaching out and touching what was mine, playing with those perfect fucking tits until she begged me for more.
“Stunning,” I murmured before I realized I’d said something.
Eva’s eyes widened, and then a tiny bit of tension leached from her shoulders.
Without saying anything, I pushed away from her, turning back to my desk. “I said strip.”
“Oh,” she whispered, relaxing from the stiff position she knelt in to unbutton her jeans. She hooked her fingers in the waistband and slid them down to her knees.
Her lips twisted, and then she looked up at me. “Sir, may I—” She took another one of those deep breaths. “May I stand to take them off?”
I nodded, and she gracefully pushed to her feet beforekicking off her sneakers, shoving her jeans and underwear to the ground. She stepped out of them then bent over to pick them up.
I snatched her panties out of her hands—damp. Inhaling them now would give away more than I wanted to, but I clutched them in my fist.
“Sir?”
“Fold your clothes,” I snarled. Gracefully, Eva collected her garments and folded them, placing them on the floor beside her before standing up again.
She wouldn’t look at me. Her hands twitched, reaching up to cover her heavy breasts and her deliciously smooth cunt before dropping again, fisting at her sides, then flattening against her thighs.
“Turn.”
Eva’s breath caught. Was she—of course she was self-conscious about her body. She was a female college student with access to the internet, and the world was designed to make her hate herself, no matter how gorgeous she was. And I’d taken several shots at her, pretending the generous curves were ugly instead of a perfect, sinful temptation that begged me to run my hands along her skin.
I stared at her profile, the soft roundness of her stomach, the plush curve of her ass, the teardrop shape of her breasts—large enough to overflow my hands.
“Turn,” I said, “and face me.”
Her face carefully blank, Eva pivoted. A riot of red curls spilled over her shoulders, only emphasizing the pale beauty of her skin.
And those tits.
Christ.
No longer able to resist, I cupped one, then lifted it as if weighing it, admiring how it spilled out of my palm.
Her breath caught, and her eyes drifted down to where I touched her.
Perfection.
Too bad today was about dehumanization.
“Go make my coffee,” I instructed her, reluctantly taking my hand away and immediately missing the warmth of her skin against mine.
Eva blinked twice then turned on her heel, not quite hiding her confusion and irritation. A moment later, the machine whirred to life as she heated the water and ground the beans.
I watched her back, stiff and straight, the gentle folds of her fat around her waist, the seam where her ass hit her thighs, and the gorgeous dips in her hips—for a moment, I considered discarding my revenge so I could truly make her my sub.
When I turned in my chair to watch her better, my knee ached at the movement, reminding me of everything I’d lost—the reason she was here in the first place.
She turned around, cup in hand, walking gracefully to stand before me before sinking to her knees. She lifted it up to me, her eyes downcast, perfectly trained, at least in this respect.
“Sir, your coffee,” she murmured.
