Page 19 of Wilt

I unzip the bag and pull out the shimmery scrap of material, trying to hide a smile. “Language. I don’t tolerate impropriety from my property. You’re supposed to be a lady, little girl; act like one.”

“Let me go,” she whispers, clearly having the fight knocked out of her sails. “Please.”

I laugh a bit, something cold and heartless. “Not on your life. Cheer up, I bought you some pretty things. You’re going to clean up and dress, and then you’ll meet my guests.”

“No.” Her voice turns cold, but there’s a shake to it, behind her attempts to steel herself.

Now, I turn to face her, not in the mood for this bullshit fight. “No?”

“No.” She raises her chin in defiance. “If you want me to go anywhere, I’ll go dressed like this so yourguestscan see what a monster you are.”

“Very well.” Without warning, I scoop her up and her arm comes around my neck, almost like she can’t help herself. Choosing to ignore the twinge of arousal in my groin, I carry her to the bathroom and drop her roughly onto the counter. I part her thighs and move between them, bending down to press my lips to her ear. “They know I’m a monster, Rose.”

Then, I take her silky negligee in both hands and rip it straight down the middle.

“That’s better,” I say, taking in her nakedness. I turn on the shower, adjust the heat, and go back to her. She’s still sitting there, slightly scared, turned on, not sure what to do.

Exactly how I want her.

I run the water in the sink, using a cloth to gently clean the muck from her face, and it’s like a switch is flipped. The moment I push her thighs apart—thighs she now has pressed together—and put the cloth to her face, she screams.

She’s flailing, fighting me, but like a kitten with brand new claws, she’s no match for me. I may dress like I belong on Wall Street, but I’ve fought dark and dirty with my fists, taken down men bigger than me. I pin her hands easily to her sides.

“Scratch me, draw my blood, and I will make you bleed, Rosalind. Be my guest, scream until you lose your voice; no one will save you.”

Her mouth snaps shut and lets me continue with my ministrations.

When her face is clean, I step back. Her skin is honeyed, pure, soft, with lips so plump, they almost look bruised. She looks like the untouched virgin she is—I wonder what she’ll look like when I finally get my hands on her.

I don’t, of course; instead, I pick her up and get her in the shower. When her legs buckle, I hold her up and wash her, every inch. The soaped sponge slides over her body and her back arches into me, seemingly without meaning to. My clothes are soaked under the spray, but I don’t give a fuck, not with the water sluicing over her breasts, running down between the lips of her cunt.

The temptation to taste and explore is so fucking strong, but I don’t let myself give in. I wash the lushness of her body and those curves, circling her nipples, moving up to her throat and down around her ribs and stomach, then between those soft thighs, those folds hiding my prize. She’s stunning, and I stare at her as I take my time, soaping her head to foot, kneeling and coming face to pussy with her. It physically pains me, my erection straining in my pants, but I’m not going to give in to the temptation. Not yet.

Instead, I tease her, sliding the sponge just over her mound, and her hands grip my shoulders as I wash between her legs. She trembles and gasps, a dirty little moan slipping free. Rosalind feels it, the heat and the power and the need that’s in me—it’s in her, too. She might hate it, but she also loves it, desperately wants more. Her hips start to move under my hands, pushing slightly against me, seeking something, wantingmore.

Once she’s clean and smells like fresh cut roses, I stop. It’s a dangerous combination, really—the dichotomy between dirty sex and sophistication, innocence, one I’m not letting myself indulge in yet. I turn off the water, pulling her out onto the heated floor and drying her off with a towel.

“You have a dress, shoes, makeup, and hair products on your armchair. Make yourself presentable and be ready for me in twenty minutes.” I give her a stern glare, almost daring her to defy me.

The slight drugged expression from the shower fades and her eyes narrow. “And if I don’t?”

I smile.

She doesn’t take that for what it is—a dare.

Try me, my little Rose.

Instead, she opens her mouth again, a grimace curling on her lips. “I hate roses.”

“Too fucking bad.” I’m still soaked, and I need a shower. I look down at my waterlogged slacks.Maybe a special one, while I’m at it.I’m not in the mood for her bullshit, so I head to the door of the bathroom. “Twenty minutes.”

“If I refuse?”

A cruel smile teases my lips. “Then I hope the last twenty minutes of your life are everything you hoped they would be.”

She swallows, seemingly gathering the courage to respond. “If I do this, dress up, smile, look pretty, will you let me go?”

I look at her for a long moment, and lie as I walk out the door. “I’ll think about it.”

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