Page 9 of Thorne Princess

I would probably miss the international pussy—certainly the private jets—but nothing was worth putting up with someone else’s bullshit twenty-four seven. Especially the young women.

They were always the worst.

Plus, I was the one in charge of vetting our cybersecurity staff, and that was two jobs and a half.

Plus, what the fuck was Tom thinking, sending me to Los Angeles? Last time I was there, some nasty shit went down. Stuff even I couldn’t stomach.

But then you never told Tom the whole story. How could he possibly know what drove you to quit and go private?

By the puppy dog eyes Tom was giving me, my guess was he wanted me to be the one to personally ensure Titty McFlash wasn’t going to show the world any more of her privates.

“You’re high,” I said decisively.

“You mean practical.” Tom stood up, ready for an argument.

I sniffed the air. “Smell that?”

“Smell what?”

“That fart scent all your gaslighting is causing.”

He chuckled. “Look, I know it’s not what we discussed—”

“What about the cybersecurity unit?” I darted up to my feet, ready to wring his neck. “Who’s going to open it? We made verbal commitments to clients. You can’t even make a PowerPoint presentation.”

I’d seen this guy wrestling with his phone to find the poop emoji.

“It can wait until we’re done with this job. We need clients on the Hill when we launch,” Tom argued.

“Putting the cart before the horse, are we?” I unbuttoned my cufflinks, rolling my sleeves up my elbows. “We didn’t get the job yet, not to mention the connections.”

“Thorne wants us.You, specifically. Ransom Lockwood. The Robot. No heart, no sentiments, no strings. He knows you’ve dealt with some top secret shit. Knows you saved Prince Pierre several times from life-or-death situations. You have a flawless track record, and you won’t be tempted to screw his daughter’s brains out.”

“You can say that again.”

Ordinary sex bored and frustrated me, and most women were…well,ordinary. I liked it rough, unconventional, and with people who were willing to sign a long dos and don’ts contract. My taste ran on the dark side of the spectrum. Specifically, CNC. Consensual Non-Consent. Rape fantasies, if you would.

My sexual partners liked to be taken by force—and I enjoyed forcing. This type of kind—primal play—was about strength. To be clear, I did not want torapeanybody. I liked the thrill of the chase, the anticipation that came with the danger of pushing our limits and boundaries. All of my partners were consenting, intelligent, and powerful women who shared the same kink.

I enjoyed the sophisticated. The sharp-edged women who, like me, enjoyed playing with their demons.

No part of me craved putting my dick into a vanilla, attention-seeking teenager.

“Thorne will open doors for us.” Tom pressed his lips into a thin line.

“No,” I said flatly.

“You have no choice!” Tom banged his open palm over the table.

“News to me.” I arched an eyebrow. “Watch me leave this conversation, right now.”

I grabbed my phone from my desk and sauntered to the door. Tom snatched my sleeve. “Ran,please.”

Turning around to face him, I drawled, “I said no more teenyboppers. The last one tried to tie me to the bed in the middle of the night and rape me.”

I’d had to break the headboard to loosen the leather belts she’d used. The only reason I hadn’t pressed charges was because her father was the third richest man on planet Earth and I was paid handsomely for my silence.

Tom laughed nervously. “Being handsome is one occupational hazard I wouldn’t mind dealing with.”

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