Page 18 of Broken Doll

My heart hammers against my ribs, a drumbeat of confusion and unwanted arousal. This is a mind fuck—a power play designed to throw me off balance—but knowing doesn't stop the rush of heat between my thighs.

"Watch what I'm doing," Sienna instructs, voice steady even as her fingers work their magic. "I'm not rushing. Not grabbing. Every touch builds on the last, creates anticipation." Her hand slides beneath my tank, palm flat against my stomach, and I suck in a breath. "Feel that? The way your body responds? That's what you're learning to harness."

I should be disgusted. Should be fighting. But fuck, she's good—every touch precisely calibrated, every brush of skin against skin deliberate. My brain's a tornado of conflicting signals—this is wrong, this is training, this is hot, this is fucked up—but my body's made its choice.

"Most men go straight for the obvious," she says, fingers skimming the underside of my breast, just light enough to makemy nipples harden against the thin cotton. "They rush. Fumble. Focus on the destination instead of the journey." She leans closer, breath ghosting my ear. "Women understand that power lies in patience."

Her thigh slips between mine, applying just enough pressure to make my hips buck involuntarily. A soft sound escapes me—half gasp, half moan—and heat floods my cheeks. This is humiliating. This is intoxicating.

"Stop fighting it," she commands, voice hardening. "You think a target's going to let someone who's obviously conflicted get close? Learn to sync your mind and body. Make them believe you want them more than oxygen."

Her hand slips beneath the waistband of my leggings, and I grab her wrist, a last-ditch effort at control. "I get it," I rasp, voice unsteady. "Demonstration over."

Sienna's laugh is low and dangerous. "No, you don't get it. Not yet." She breaks my grip effortlessly, her strength surprising. "This isn't about your pleasure. It's about control. About making them need you so badly they'll give up anything—secrets, codes, their soul—just to have you."

Her fingers slide lower, finding me embarrassingly wet, and a smile curves her lips—knowing, victorious. "See? Your body's already on board. Now your mind needs to catch up."

She works me with expert precision, every stroke calculated, every circle of her thumb a masterclass in control. My legs tremble, breath coming in ragged gasps, and she watches my face with scientific detachment, cataloging every reaction.

"Pay attention," she instructs, voice steady even as her fingers drive me higher. "Watch what I'm doing. The pace. The pressure. The way I'm reading your responses." She curls her fingers just so, and a moan tears from my throat. "That's it. That's what you're looking for—the moment they break. When they're so lost in sensation they'd tell you anything."

I'm close—so close—my body coiled tight as a spring, every nerve ending screaming for release. And then she stops, fingers withdrawing, leaving me on the edge, desperate and panting.

"What the fuck?" I gasp, legs barely supporting me.

Sienna steps back, wiping her fingers on her pants with clinical detachment. "That's lesson one," she says, voice cool. "Control isn't just about giving pleasure—it's about withholding it. About keeping them desperate, needy, willing to do anything for relief."

I stare at her, face flushed, body still thrumming with unspent energy. "You sadistic bitch."

A smile flickers across her face—the first real one I've seen. "Now you're getting it." She moves back to the table, gathering the files. "Men are easy. Their arousal is obvious, their release predictable. Women require skill, patience, attention to detail." She glances back at me, those ice-chip eyes calculating. "Which makes them more valuable targets. More dangerous ones, too."

I straighten, adjusting my clothes, trying to recover some dignity even as my body screams for completion. "So what, every lesson ends with me half-naked and desperate?"

"Only until you learn to separate desire from duty," she replies, tossing me the file. "Study these. Tomorrow we test your skills—on a real subject."

My stomach drops. "You're not serious."

"Dead serious," she says, heading for the door. "Oh, and Landry?" She pauses, hand on the knob. "Don't finish yourself off. The frustration will help you focus tomorrow."

The door closes behind her with a soft click, leaving me alone with a throbbing ache between my thighs and a new understanding of what "specialized training" really means.

I slump into a chair, legs still trembling, brain a mess of conflicting emotions. This is a whole new level of fucked up—being trained not just to fight, not just to deceive, but toweaponize pleasure itself. To become the ultimate fantasy, regardless of my own desires.

Part of me is screaming to run. To find a way out of this steel box, away from Killion's cold control and Sienna's dangerous lessons. But the other part—the dark, twisted part that's always chased the next thrill, the next rush—that part's already hungry for more.

For all my bravado about fucking my way through LA, I've always been the one in control. The one who decided who, when, how far. Now the tables have turned, and I'm the one being played—and fucked if I don't respect the skill behind it.

I flip open the file, trying to focus on the charts and graphs, but all I can see is Sienna's face—those calculating eyes, that knowing smile. All I can feel is the ghost of her touch, the promise of pleasure withheld.

Tomorrow, she'll test me. Push me further. Break me down to build me into whatever the hell they need me to be.

And God help me, I'm going to excel. I'm going to master every trick, every technique, every mind game they throw at me. Not because I believe in their cause—fuck no—but because I refuse to be anything less than the best at whatever game I'm playing.

Even if the game is turning myself into the perfect weapon.

Even if the price is pieces of my soul.

I close the file, decision made. Tomorrow, I'll show Sienna—and Killion—exactly what I'm capable of. I'll become the student that surpasses the master, the weapon that can't be controlled.

---