I did, never backing down, even when my cheeks flamed as I panted to empty air, “Make me come, Ben.”
It was Nash I pictured hovering above me. The vicious eyes. The messed-up hair. And now I knew what he looked like beneath his shirt. Vast muscles stretched the width of his body. A deep V led to what I remembered, all these years later, as a long, thick cock.
My lips craved the scars peppering his body.
I wanted to kiss them.
Bite them.
Trace them with my tongue.
I didn’t believe in the word perfect. Never used it to describe anything in my life. But it was the only word I could conjure when it came to Nash’s body. His personality might have left a lot to be desired, but his body and face left me aching.
Durga: Please, make me cum. My fingers are tracing my clit. Tell me what to do with them.
Benkinersophobia: I didn’t say you could touch your pussy. Wrap your mouth around your fingers, imagine they’re my cock, and apologize for disobeying.
Drawing my knees together, I kneeled and brought my fingers to my mouth, my heart threatening to escape my chest in the darkness. I could taste myself on my tongue as I slid three fingers past my lips and imagined Nash standing above me, feeding me his hard cock.
I whispered around my fingers, “I’m sorry for disobeying you.”
Jesus.
I was so turned on. Relinquishing control drove me crazy. I wanted to feel dominated, overpowered, fucked so thoroughly I couldn’t walk. Even with a knife to my throat and the threat of death dangling above me, I would never admit it was because rough, hard sex reminded me of how Nash fucked.
My first orgasm from sex.
My only orgasm from sex.
And I was so wet thinking about him, I could feel it sliding past my lips. I picked up my phone and squeezed my thighs together, trying to bring relief.
Durga: I can taste myself on my fingers.
Benkinersophobia: Describe the taste to me.
Durga: Light… Almost like nothing, but with a hint of citrus and vanilla from my body wash.
Durga: I like the taste.
Benkinersophobia: Pull out the vibrator I sent you, connect it to the app, lay on your back, and let me fuck you raw. Text me when it’s inside you.
I reached for one of my boxes stacked in the corner, blindly fished out the vibrator Ben had sent me ages ago, and connected it to the company’s app. Ben had full access to the app, which meant he could control it from wherever he was.
Laying on my back, I rubbed the tip on my nub before sliding the entire length inside me.
Durga: It’s in me.
My fingers clenched the sheets as the vibrator came to life inside me. It pulsed to a steady rhythm, and just when I was close, Ben slowed the vibrations until I wanted to scream.
Benkinersophobia: Not so fast.
Durga: Ass.
Benkinersophobia: Beg me to make you cum.
Durga: Please.
Benkinersophobia: Please, what?
Durga: Please, make me cum.
He turned up the speed, the ribbed edges creating friction that had my eyes rolling back. I brought my hands to my breasts and squeezed, flicking each of my nipples, remembering how it felt to have Nash staring at me.
Staring at them.
My breaths fogged the tiny room. They came out in uneven pants. I came so hard, screaming Nash’s name, too exerted to even feel guilty. My arms moved like jello, but I forced myself to slide the vibrator out of my body and turn it off.
When I came down from the orgasm, I shot Ben a text.
Durga: Thank you.
Benkinersophobia: Fuck, I needed that.
Durga: I’m sorry I came to your words with Nash’s face on my mind. Nash’s tortured faced with the fucked-up childhood, and the scarred body, and the dead Dad. Nash, who sacrificed himself for his family and was hurt because of mine. I’m sorry I love you but get wet for Nash.
I didn’t send the last message.
It was too honest.
Too real.
Too raw.
Nash had it wrong.
I wasn’t the broken.
I was the breaker.
Emery’s sudden reentrance into my life reminded me I needed to get more hands-on with my approach to revenge. Fika had disappeared, and I was no closer to finding Gideon than when I’d hired him four years ago.
Worse—Fika knew where Gideon was, and I had wasted four years trusting the wrong guy. Again. Who knew what else he had kept from me?
“Did you hire a private investigator?” I asked Delilah, pulling up my correspondence with a Singaporean diplomat on my laptop.
I’d never actually wanted Prescott Hotels. It was a responsibility I’d taken on because I needed the money to fund all my other projects. My penance. The charities. The revenge. I created Prescott Hotels with illegal money, building new hotels and buying and remodeling old ones across the world.
But this project—Singapore.
I wanted it.
Badly.
Two years ago, on a scouting trip in Asia, the plane made an emergency landing in Singapore. Delilah and I ate dinner on the top of the highest building. Feeling like a god staring at the specks of cars and buildings below, I decided I wanted it.
I wanted to buy the building and remodel it as a hotel. Even as a bidding war began against Black Enterprises and I knew it would get expensive, I didn’t back down. We greased palms, exchanged emails with all the top contractors in Asia, and set up meetings with dozens of local vendors.
I felt the project within my grasp, and if I could feel happiness, I would have.
“Did you hire an investigator?” I repeated when it became clear Delilah had ignored me.
She paused in front of my desk, a small container of Greek yogurt in her hand and a biodegradable spoon in the other. “Yes, Master. He’ll update you when he finds something, Master. Anything else I can do for you, Master? Massage your hands, Master? Spoon-feed you lunch, Master? Schedule your annual prostate exam, Master?”
“Point taken and ignored.” I minimized the Singapore files and pulled up my folder on Gideon. My eyes skimmed the trade data for Winthrop Textiles, trying to pinpoint what didn’t feel right.
Delilah returned to her desk, an oversized Parnian we’d had shipped here a few days after the design staff meeting. “Chantilly asked for a sit-down, and before you ask me to relay any messages, no. I am not your assistant.”
Ignoring her last sentence, I ground out, “Tell her no.”
I exited out of the document, knowing I’d find nothing if the S.E.C. couldn’t. Before I could stop them, my fingers pulled up Emery’s Insta account. She had three followers, @TheInaccessible as her handle, a feed full of words I was sure didn’t exist, and a bio that read, Scratch here to read my status.
Other than that, no pictures of herself. The only twenty-two-year-old to roam this Earth without ever having taken a selfie.