Page 2 of Rogue Doll

His fingers slip beneath the lace, finding me already wet—a physical reaction I can't control, my body's fucked-up response to danger and power plays. He makes a sound deep in his throat, primitive and raw. The scent of my arousal mingles with his cologne, creating something new—a chemical reaction, the perfume of predators circling.

"Jesus," he mutters, fingers exploring, testing. His pupils dilate further, black eclipsing green. "You're soaked."

"Told you I like dangerous men," I say, grinding against his hand, letting him feel the heat of me. The motion sends a jolt through my core, pleasure mixing with calculation in a cocktail that's becoming dangerously addictive. "The kind who pull knives in public places. Really gets a girl going."

He laughs—a short, harsh sound that holds no actual humor—and withdraws his hand, bringing his fingers to his nose, inhaling deeply. It's crude, animalistic, and exactly the kind of power move a man like Victor Reese finds irresistible. In his world, this is dominance. In mine, it's just another step closer to getting what I came for.

The taste of victory floods my mouth, sweet and sharp. I'm rewiring his brain in real-time, redirecting blood flow from rational thought to baser instincts. Killion's training merging with my natural talents to create something lethal.

"No wires," he concedes, slipping the knife back into some hidden pocket in his suit, the motion practiced, smooth. "But that doesn't mean I trust you."

"Good," I reply, reaching for his drink and taking a sip, leaving a crimson kiss mark on the crystal. The whiskey burns, smoky and expensive, coating my tongue. "Trust is boring. Isn’t it more fun when you ride the edge of possible devastation?”

The tension between us has shifted—still dangerous, but no longer lethal. Now it's charged with something else, something primal and hungry. He watches me through narrowed eyes, weighing options, calculating risks. His chest rises and falls faster now, the fine cotton of his shirt stretching across pecs too defined for a man who should spend all day in board meetings. Works out with a trainer, I remember from the file. Probably has an entire home gym in his penthouse.

I stand, smoothing down my dress with practiced grace. The silk whispers against my skin, cool and sensuous. "Now that we've established I'm not here to kill you or steal corporate secrets, I have a proposition." I lean down, giving him a perfect view of my cleavage, my voice a husky whisper. The pendant dangles between us, emerald catching the light—a precise mirror of the one in his mother's portrait. "Your room. One hour. No names, no past, no future. Just now. Just a momentary detour before your scheduled plans, but I promise you, worth every second."

His hand snakes out, gripping my wrist hard enough to hurt. The silver cufflink bites into my skin, a tiny blade of its own. "Why wait?"

Gotcha.

"Why indeed?" I purr, letting him pull me back down, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, to count the flecks of gold in his cold green eyes. A curl of his designer-coiffed hair falls across his forehead, humanizing him for just a moment. I resist the urge to brush it back—to touch him first, to take control. Let him think he's leading this dance.

"I have a suite upstairs," he says, thumb tracing circles on my pulse point. His skin is hot against mine, his touch electric. "Penthouse level. Private elevator. No cameras."

Of course he does. Men like Victor are always prepared to fuck someone who isn't their wife. It's practically a line item on their corporate expense accounts—right between "business lunches" and "offshore tax havens." I wonder if his ex-wife found the receipts. I wonder if that's why she left, or if it was the violence I sense simmering beneath his polished surface.

"Lead the way," I say, letting him think this is his idea, his conquest. The submission tastes strange on my tongue—bitter and unfamiliar. But it's calculated, a sacrifice to win the game.

He throws cash on the table—enough to buy the whole damn bottle—and stands, adjusting his suit jacket to hide the obvious bulge in his pants. The bills fan out across the dark wood, green and discreet, presidents' eyes staring up accusingly. His hand finds the small of my back, possessive and controlling, five points of heat through thin silk, guiding me through the crowded bar toward the private elevator bank.

The bar patrons' eyes slide over us—another rich man, another beautiful woman, another transaction in a world built on them. A woman in red silk glares as we pass, jealousy flaring behind Botox-frozen features.

A group of Wall Street types nudge each other, one of them muttering something that makes the others laugh—crude, entitled, toxic. The bartender nods at Victor, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. He's done this before. Many times. But tonight is different, though he doesn't know it yet.

Tonight, Victor Reese isn't just getting laid. He's getting played.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft pneumatic hiss, revealing a capsule of brushed steel and recessed lighting. He gestures me inside, ever the gentleman, even as his eyes strip me bare. I step in, spine straight, shoulders back, hips swaying just enough to keep his attention, every movement calculated to draw his gaze, to keep him hooked. The air feels cooler here, climate-controlled and sterile, a sharp contrast to the warm, whiskey-soaked atmosphere of the bar.

As he follows me in, punching a code into the keypad that will take us to his suite, I catch my reflection in the mirrored walls—emerald silk clinging to curves I'd long ago learned to use as a weapon, crimson lips full and slightly parted, eyes sharp as broken glass.

For a split second, I thrill at the change in myself. This isn't Landry James, bored housewife with a taste for club hookups. This isn't the woman who faked headaches to avoid Isaac's fumbling, predictable touch. This is someone else—someone deadlier, more focused, a weapon honed to a perfect edge.

I see Sienna's handiwork in the curve of my lips, Killion's training in the predatory glint of my eyes. They've remade me, molecule by molecule, into this sleek, dangerous creature.

A shiver runs through me, half dread, half exhilaration. In my ear, I can almost hear Killion's voice: "Control the situation. Control yourself. Get what you came for and get out." His voice is clearer than Isaac's now, more present, more real. What does that say about me?

The elevator purrs as it climbs, the floor numbers glowing gold as we pass them. Victor's hand slides to my ass as we begin our ascent, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp. I let him hear it—let him think it's desire, not calculation. The scent of his cologne intensifies in the enclosed space, mixing with the leather of his wallet, the starch of his shirt, the unmistakable musk of male arousal. His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point, marking territory.

"I'm going to ruin you," he murmurs against my skin, breath hot and whiskey-sweet, and I bite back a laugh.

Oh honey, if only you knew. I'm already ruined. Shattered and rebuilt into something that can ruin you right back.

But I say none of this. Just arch into his touch, letting my head fall back, offering my throat like a sacrifice. The mirror multiplies us—a kaleidoscope of sin, green silk and dark suits, grasping hands and hungry mouths. "Promise?" I whisper, letting vulnerability bleed into my voice—another mask, another hook.

The elevator climbs higher, each floor taking us further from the world below, closer to the moment of truth. The lights ofthe city spread out beyond the glass walls of the elevator's outer side, a tapestry of gold and silver against the night sky. His hands are everywhere now, greedy and demanding, mapping my body like territory he already owns. The knife is forgotten, replaced by a different kind of weapon—one attached to his ego, to his need to conquer, to possess.

Men like Victor are so predictable. Wave sex in front of them, and they forget to be suspicious. They forget to be careful. They forget everything except their own hunger, their own entitlement. I can almost feel the moment his brain switches tracks, abandoning caution for the more primal directive throbbing between his legs.

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