Page 78 of Wilt

“Is she okay?” she asks suddenly, eyes wide. “I need to know if she’s…”

“She’s fine.”

She blinks and bites her lower lip. She wants to ask me more, but she’s afraid of testing the limits. I can’t tell her the truth—that her little friend tried filing a missing person’s report that I had Rush squash with our contacts in blue, or that I have her being watched, for her safety. Somethings are better left unsaid.

“Let’s get back to the pageants.” I take another sip of my drink. “I’m intrigued.”

“You’ll get over it.” A small smile cracks through again. “Especially if I tell you some of the goings on backstage.”

I smile over the rim of my glass. “Oh? Enlighten me.”

And she does. Little tales of stage moms and catty girls, of tantrums over a wrinkled dress—not her—and one girl’s mom who was so nervous, she burned her daughter’s scalp with a curling iron. Every word is entertaining and filled with a healthy dose self-awareness of what she does. The honesty simmering beneath it all that tells me she did it to be seen because she likes it.

“You would make a fine beauty queen,” she says to me.

I stare at her and shake my head, confused and kind of alarmed.

A small giggle escapes her lips. “Would you wear a one piece or a two-piece for the swimsuit section? How are you, really, in heels?”

She’s funny. Witty, disarming. Honest. This is Rose. Pure Rose, and I like her a lot. She tells me silly stories about her friend, Genius. How they met. How bad her very first date went and how she sneaked out for it, then punched him when he tried something.

She’s a breath of fresh air. The evening is sweet and civilized; with each passing moment, she’s more and more open and vulnerable andmine.

I let her talk and I don’t say a thing about myself. As the conversation meanders, the looks she gives get hotter, and our gazes keep snagging, lingering.

My fucking pants are getting tighter, a regular thing around Rose.

The air grows heavy, so much so that when the plates are cleared and Mia comes in with dessert, I’m ready for my next phase.

“Dessert.”

I ignore the slight tone in her voice as she sets down the panna cotta and warm salted caramel sauce.

After she goes, I turn to Rose. “Stand.”

She does immediately, without question, and stares at me, her breathing short and uneven, her cheeks growing flushed.

I smile as I close the gap between us and run my hands over her waist. A soft little gasp escapes her mouth as she catches her lip between her teeth. That heat, that want, makes me almost throw my plans away and fuck her here, right now.

She’s panting as I slip my fingers over her tits, then down, pushing the dress between her thighs to rub her cunt.

This time, she moans. Low. Loud. The sound goes right to my cock.

“You are so fucking hot, Rose.” I strip her of the dress and shoes in record time, only leaving her bracelet and collar. My girl is wet for me—I can see it,smellit. I coil the leash in my hand and lead her to the table, where I push her to lie down.

I look at her, moving along the length of her body, as I pick up the dessert and feed her some.

Rose moans around my fingers and I don’t know if it’s anticipation, the decadence of the dessert, or a bit of both. I leave the smaller dessert by her head so I can feed her, and I smear the white, creamy concoction over her. Lips. Breasts. Stomach. Pussy. She looks unbearably filthy. Insanely hot.

Then I pick up the small jug of sauce and pour it over her in all the right places. She whimpers as it hits her skin, hips moving, looking for me to touch her.

I take a photo of her like this, then more at different angles. How can I not? It’s the most glorious fucking sight I’ve ever seen.

She whimpers, looking for my touch, but I don’t. Not yet. I just look at her, moving about the table, half wishing I’d brought a blindfold. On second thought… I like her seeing what I’m doing. I like her trying to work out what the next move might be.

“You’re a work of art, Rose.”

One that isn’t finished.

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