Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
But adaptation is a hallmark of genius.
And I am nothing, if not a genius.
I adapted.
He's here, he'll be dealt with, the scales will balance, and Scarletta Mae Desmond will have a Valentine's Day experience she'll never forget.
I watch her squint against the harsh Caribbean sun, one hand still pressed against her windblown hair as a man in an impeccable linen suit materializes at the bottom of the aircraft stairs. He doesn't introduce himself. Doesn't offer pleasantries or small talk.
Just gestures toward the tree line where a narrow stone path disappears into the hibiscus hedges.
She follows.
Good girl.
I zoom in on camera three, tracking her progression along the winding trail. The path is deliberately disorienting—curves back on itself twice, creates the illusion of distance when the staging suite is only two hundred yards from the landing pad. Psychological preparation. By the time she arrives, she'll feel isolated, cut off, dependent on whoever's waiting inside.
The suited man motions towards the pavilion's entrance—there's no door, just a gap between two massive support columns—and steps aside.
Scarletta hesitates.
Then enters.
And there they are.
The same three male attendants who bathed her, oiled her, touched her seven weeks ago at the auction preparation.
I watch Scarletta's face on monitor six—the high-angle feed that captures her initial reaction. Her eyes widen slightly. Recognition, followed immediately by something that looks suspiciously like relief.
She knows them.
Which means she knows what's coming.
The dark-haired one steps forward first, taking both her hands in his, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Welcome back, beautiful."
The blonde one moves to her other side, brushing his lips against her temple. "We've missed you."
The tall one slides his palm down her spine, fingers splaying across her lower back. "So good to see you again."
She's blushing. Hard. That telltale pink flush crawling up her throat, spreading across her cheeks.
But she doesn't pull away.
Doesn't demand answers or explanations the way she did last time, wide-eyed, and terrified, and stammering questions they refused to answer.
This time she just... lets them.
Stands there, breathing a little faster, while three sets of hands begin their work.
The dark-haired one reaches for the hem of my Harvard shirt and lifts it slowly over her head. Underneath, she's wearing a bra.
I lean forward, studying the monitor. Black lace. Delicate. Pretty.
The little slut.
I love it.
The blonde one kneels, hooking his fingers into the waistband of my sweatpants, dragging them down her thighs. She steps out of them obediently, and he runs his hands up her calves, over her knees, pausing at her thighs. He looks up at her with adoration.
Scarletta bites her lip.
Her black lace underwear matches the bra. What a good little slut.
The tall one slides the bra straps off her shoulders, trailing his fingertips along her collarbones. "May I?"
Scarletta nods automatically, then sucks in a breath.
He unclasps it, letting the black lace fall away.
Her nipples are already rock fucking hard.
I pull my cock out, wrapping my fist around the base.
This is going to be good.
They're not wasting time with the pretense of professional detachment—this time… they're seducing her.
The dark-haired one cups her breast, thumb circling her nipple, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half gasp, half whimper—that goes straight to my dick.
The blonde one is still kneeling, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her inner thighs, inching higher.
The tall one moves behind her, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her steady while his other hand slides down her stomach toward her black panties.
She's trembling.
Trying so fucking hard to control herself.
I can see it in the way she's clenching her jaw. The way her hands are fisted at her sides instead of reaching for them. The way she's staring at some fixed point on the far wall, refusing to look down at what they're doing to her body.
Fail, baby.
Give in.
Let them make you come.
I want to see it.
Want to see what you look like when you surrender to strangers touching you, pleasuring you, working you over like a team of professionals whose only job is getting you wet and desperate.
And then later—hours from now, when you're deep in the jungle thinking you've escaped me—I'll drag you back by your hair and punish you for it.
Spank that perfect ass until you're sobbing apologies for letting other men make you feel good.
Use your own weakness against you.
Make you beg for forgiveness while I fuck you so hard you forget your own name.
I'm not jealous.
Jealousy would imply I've lost control, that something's happening outside my orchestration, that she's choosing them over me.
None of that is true.
I told them exactly what to do to her. Where to touch. How to position her body so every camera angle captures her face, her hands, the moment she breaks.
I own this.
I own her.
I own every second of pleasure they're about to give her, because I'm the one who scripted it.
The dark-haired one pinches her nipple and she gasps, arching into his hand.