Page 91 of Dirty Game
In real time, Rosalynn’s breath stutters.
I cross the room. Take the tablet from her hands, click the screen dark. Set it on the dresser.
She’s looking up at me now, expression unreadable. “You liked her better,” she says, not a question.
I shake my head. “I liked lies then. I love the truth now.”
She laughs, brittle. “You love a good story, is all.”
My hands grip her wrists, not gentle. “That’s what you think?”
She doesn’t answer.
I pull her to her feet, drag her to the wall by the window, where the city is a smear of fire and steel. The same position as in the tape—her back to the glass, my body pinning hers, the world watching.
I don’t undress her. I want her to feel every heated second.
I take her jaw, make her look at the mirror that spans the wall. “Watch,” I say. “Watch what it’s like when it matters.”
She tries to look away, but I won’t let her as I pull her panties off and take my cock out, forcing it between her legs before angling it upward.
But I don’t push in… not yet.
My hand covers her throat, thumb pressing the pulse there, not to choke but to claim.
I bend her at the hips, just like Sienna in the video. But I don’t fuck her like a trophy—I fuck her like I’m starving and she’s the only food left on earth.
I keep my eyes on hers in the mirror, refusing to let her slip back behind that wall of numbers and silence.
Her cunt is dripping, hot and slick, the drag of her lips soaking my cock as I force her open.
She gasps, knuckles tight on the window ledge, every muscle in her body tensed like she’s waiting for the drop.
I push in slow, a single punishing inch at a time, making her feel every ridge, every vein.
Not because I want to hurt her, but because I want the sensation carved into her spine, something she’ll remember every time she sits down, every fucking time she sees her own reflection.
She’s tighter than I expect… the flutter of her walls around me, almost a tremble… so I take my time, working my way deeper until my hips are flush to her ass and her forehead is slick against the cold glass.
Her breath leaves fog halos, and I watch them bloom and vanish in the city blur.
She tries to brace herself, but I grab her wrists and pull them behind her back, pinning them in one hand.
She’s helpless like this, bent and folded and exposed. But she’s not fighting.
If anything, her hips are rocking back, taking me greedily, the sounds coming from her throat sharp and wild.
I fuck her slow and mean, each thrust a reminder that she’s here, with me, not with ghosts or numbers or any story she’s been told.
My free hand winds in her hair, twisting until her mouth opens on a silent cry.
I force her to look at the mirror, to see us together in the glass: me, jaw clenched, eyes black with fury and want; her, flushed and desperate.
She claws at my wrist, nails biting, but she doesn’t fight for real. She wants to see.
Her eyes are glassy at first. Then water. Then fire.
I push harder, not to hurt but to drive the point home: she’s here because I want her, not because she’s a replacement or something disposable.
