Page 22 of Broken Doll

The man stiffens. The woman chokes slightly, then swallows him deep. He groans and jerks, hips flexing as he cums in her mouth. She stays still, obedient, eyes closed, throat working. Then she pulls back, licking her lips clean. Poised. Composed.

It’s not sex. It’sstrategy.

The room falls quiet again, thick with the scent of arousal and something darker.

I can barely breathe, but my mind is crystalline. Focused. Razor sharp.

“I’m ready,” I say.

Sienna raises a brow. “You’re turned on.”

I nod. “Exactly. And he will be too.”

Because I’m not going to fuck Victor Reese.

I’m going toruinhim.

It’s go time.

Except Killion changed the plan—last minute, of course.

I was supposed to meet Victor at the glitzy fundraiser, but Killion said there were too many eyes.

Now? I’m ambushing him at the hotel bar.

Victor’s a creature of habit. He always stops for a hit of liquid courage before slipping on his philanthropist mask.

The nerves are locked down beneath the armor of high-end lingerie, smoky eyes, and the kind of perfume that makes men think about sinning twice.

My mission? Get close to Victor Reese. Make him talk. Make him give. Then disappear before the illusion shatters.

I've got the protocol burned into my brain like a cattle brand. I know what to say, what to wear, how to breathe. But there's still that ragged edge inside me, that wild chaos that no amount of Killion's training can tame. Good. I need it. It's the only thing keeping me from becoming a complete fucking robot.

The bar's a velvet abyss—low lighting dripping from crystal chandeliers, casting flickering shadows across mahogany walls polished to a deep, sinful gleam. Bottles of high-end liquor line the black marble bar, their amber and gold glinting like loot under soft spotlights. A slow, seductive jazz hum curls through the air—saxophone moaning low, weaving through the clink of glasses and the murmur of hushed deals.

Isaac wouldn't last five minutes in a place like this. He'd be fumbling with his wallet, sweating through his JCPenney suit, ordering a fucking Budweiser. Poor bastard believes I'm at an extended girls’ trip. If only he knew his wife was being deployed like a nuclear warhead in Louboutins.

It's a millionaire's sandbox, where corruption slips between crisp linen napkins and the creases of tailored suits like it's currency. The air's thick with it—money, sharp and heady, mingling with expensive cologne, old-world whiskey, and that baked-in tang of greed and lust, as if the walls have drunk every dirty whisper traded here. I can practically taste the testosterone and privilege, metallic on my tongue like blood-tinted champagne.

I step inside like I fucking own it. Because tonight, I do.

My heels—black stilettos, sharp as switchblades—strike the marble floor, each click a deliberate pulse, confident, the beat of a woman who's never questioned her pull. The dress clings like a second skin, emerald green and sleek, hugging every curve, dipping low to bare the tops of my tits, slit high to flash thigh with every step—a weapon stitched to kill.

The brunette wig's pinned into a tight chignon, a few strands loose, brushing my neck like a tease. Blue contacts sharpen my gaze, icy and untouchable, cutting through the haze. Every inch of me's been crafted for Victor Reese—a seduction algorithm executed to perfection—and my skin buzzes, adrenaline lickingmy veins. I'm dangerous tonight, a loaded gun with the safety off.

I scan the room, cataloging exits, security cameras, potential problems. Killion would be proud. Or he'd find seventeen ways I've already fucked up. Either way, his voice is in my head now, a constant drill sergeant barking orders:Watch your surroundings. Control your breathing. Remember your cover.

God, I hate how good his training feels. Like slipping into a second skin that fits better than my own.

He's watching me.

Corner booth, half-swallowed by shadow, a neat glass of whiskey in hand—Macallan 25, I'd bet my ass on it—the ice melting slow, a sheen of condensation slicking the crystal. Mid-forties, but he wears his wealth like a crown, arrogance rolling off him in waves—the casual sprawl of his legs, the tilt of his wrist flashing a gold Rolex.

His suit's navy, cut to a razor's edge, hugging broad shoulders and a lean frame. Dark hair slicked back, jaw sharp and clean-shaven, green eyes glinting predatory in the dim light, tracking me like a wolf sizing up a meal.

In another life, I'd have ignored him completely. Too smug. Too calculated. Too much like he practices his smile in the mirror while jerking off. But tonight, he's the mission.

And if there's one thing I'm learning in this fucked-up new career of mine, it's that the mission trumps everything—including my gag reflex.

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