The vision intensifies, consuming me. I can almost feel Prescott’s silky, ash-blonde strands with a hint of green still streaked through it. I see the fire in her eyes as she challenges me even in this vulnerable position. My breath comes faster, my heart pounding in my chest.
“That’s it,” I growl. “Take it all.”
Ophelia hums in response, the vibrations sending shockwaves through my body. But in my mind, it’s Prescott’s muffled moan I hear, her defiance finally crumbling under the weight of her own desire. I’m close now, teetering on the edge.
“Submit,” I command, my voice rough, needing the control.
The word echoes in my mind, a desperate plea disguised as an order. In my fantasy, Prescott’s eyes flash with understanding, a mixture of rebellion and surrender swirling in their depths. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t yield completely, but there’s a shift in her demeanor that sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body.
My hips buck involuntarily, pushing deeper. In reality, Ophelia adjusts seamlessly, but in my mind, Prescott gags slightly, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.
Tension coils tighter within me, a spring wound to its breaking point. With a guttural groan, I tumble over the edge, my release crashing through me in waves of white-hot pleasure. For a moment, reality and fantasy blur, and I swear I can taste Prescott’s defiance on my tongue. Her rebellion sated beneath my cock.
As the aftershocks subside, the illusion slowly fades. I open my eyes to find Ophelia looking up at me, her expression a mixture of satisfaction and pride.
“See, I told you I could make you feel less stressed,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The words are like a bucket of ice water, dousing the lingering embers of my imagination. I quickly tuck myself away, zipping up my pants as reality crashes back in like the relentless waves. Guilt and disgust wash over me, not for using Ophelia—I’ve done that countless times before—but for allowing Prescott to invade my thoughts so completely.
“You’re welcome,” Ophelia hmphs, rising to her feet and brushing sand from her knees. She leans in, clearly expecting a kiss, but I turn away, denying her.
“This means nothing more than what it is,” I say, my voice flat, cutting through the air like a blade. “Stop fooling yourself into thinking it does.”
Her expression shifts, hurt quickly replaced by anger. “You’re such an asshole, Bishop,” she spits, unknowingly mirroring Prescott’s words.
The word hits me like a punch, and a flash of rage ignites inside me. No one—no one—gets to call me that. Least of all her. With Prescott, it’s different. I’m used to it from her, and for some screwed-up reason, it doesn’t piss me off the same way. But from Ophelia? Fuck no. “Did I give you permission to speak to me like that?” My voice drops to a dangerous tone. “Apologize. Now.”
“I was just—”
“I said apologize,” I interrupt firmly, leaving no room for discussion.
“I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” I question.
Her shoulders slump as she gives a frustrated sigh,but she does as I request. “I’m sorry for speaking to you disrespectfully,” Ophelia mutters, her eyes downcast.
I nod, satisfied with her submission. “Good. Now take off your top.”
She hesitates for a moment, clearly wanting to say more, but thinks better of it. And as usual, she obeys without question, her hands moving quickly as they fumble with the buttons on her shirt. Her obedience suddenly sickens me.
She’s just so ordinary. So compliant. And so,soboring.
Ophelia’s shirt falls to the sand, and she stands there, exposed and vulnerable. The breeze raises goosebumps on her skin, but she doesn’t move to cover herself. Her eyes are fixed on me, a mixture of desire and resentment swirling in their depths.
I turn away from her, gazing out at the shore. The familiar rocky edge that borders the perimeter of Altair’s watery depths glitters like a false promise, beautiful but hollow. Just like Ophelia.
I shift back toward her, my hand reaching out to trace the curve of her collarbone. She shivers at my touch, her breath catching. “You like that?”
“Mmhmm,” she murmurs, leaning into my touch. Her eyes flutter closed, savoring the moment.
I pull my hand away abruptly, leaving her bereft. “Too bad,” I say, my voice void of any warmth or sympathy. “Get dressed. You need to do something for me.”
Confusion flashes across her face, quickly replaced by anger. “What? But I thought—”
“I want you to go find Prescott and bring her back here.”
“What. Why—”