Page 6 of Rogue Doll

His thumb digs into my clit hard enough to hurt, grinding against the swollen nub while he pounds into me. Everything shorts out—my brain, my mission, my fucking identity—as my cunt clamps down on his cock like a vise. The orgasm rips through me, violent and unwanted. I'm not even sure what noises I'm making—something between a scream and a sob.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK," he barks, his rhythm going to shit as he jackhammers into me three more times before freezing. His cock pulses, twitching as he cums with this pathetic animal grunt. His sweaty chest collapses onto my back, nearly crushing me.

Our sweaty bodies are seamed together, both panting like we ran a marathon. His heart hammers against my spine. He stays inside me too long, going soft, until the condom starts to slip. He finally pulls out with a wet, obscene sound.

I face-plant into the mattress, every muscle turned to jelly. My cunt throbs, used and angry. I can still feel the ghost of him inside me, stretching me open. The delicious touch of shame for being such a dirty whore that I loved every second curls through me, tickling dark places.

God, I was fucking made for this job.

I hear him moving around the room—disposing of the condom, retrieving something. When he returns, he has two fresh glasses of whiskey. He nudges me until I roll over, then hands me one, clinking his against it in a twisted parody of celebration.

"To unexpected pleasures," he says, voice rough but satisfied.

I sip the whiskey, letting it burn away the taste of submission. "You weren't what I expected either," I say, adding just enough admiration to feed his ego without sounding fake.

He stretches beside me, all lean muscle and casual arrogance, a man comfortable in his skin, in his power. "Mostwomen can't handle me," he says, tracing idle patterns on my bare thigh. "Too intense. Too demanding."

"Most women are boring," I reply, setting my glass aside and rolling toward him. My fingers trail across his chest, mapping the terrain, feeling his heart still pounding beneath my palm. "I'm not most women."

His smile is slow, predatory. "No, you're not." His hand captures mine, brings it to his lips. "Which makes me wonder why you're really here."

My pulse skips, but I keep my expression neutral, half-lidded and satiated. "I told you. Pleasure. Pure and simple."

He studies me, those green eyes suddenly sharp again, calculating. "Nothing is pure or simple." His grip on my wrist tightens, just short of painful. "Especially not women who approach men like me in hotel bars."

Fuck. We're back to suspicion. Back to danger. I need to redirect, and fast.

I laugh, the sound deliberately light. "Are you always this paranoid after sex? I’m a whore, Victor. I thought that much was obvious.” I pull my wrist free, stretching languorously, giving him a full view of my body—a distraction tactic that's older than civilization. "I fuck powerful, rich men for money, and I love my job."

His eyes track the movement, desire momentarily overshadowing suspicion. But only momentarily.

"You haven’t named your price. Usually, that’s done first. What if I decide not to pay you?”

I act unbothered, amused even. “I’ll get what I want.” I cock my head to the side. “Your paranoia is cute. Flattering even. Do I look dangerous?”

I end the question on a sultry purr as his gaze roams the curve of my hips, stopping at the vee between my legs, practically salivating for another round.

But Victor shakes off the sexual haze with a frown. “It's not paranoia when people really are out to get you," he says, sitting up and pulling the used condom from his spent dick and dropping it into the wastebasket. "And in my position, someone's always out to get you."

He extracts his phone, thumbs in a passcode too quickly for me to catch, and checks something. His shoulders relax fractionally. Whatever he saw—or didn't see—has reassured him, at least temporarily.

Time to pivot again. I roll to my side, propping my head on one hand. "Let me guess," I say playfully, "you're checking your stock prices even now? The markets never sleep, and neither does ambition."

He glances at me, surprised, then amused. "Something like that."

"Must be exhausting," I continue, voice soft, almost sympathetic. "Always on guard. Always waiting for the knife in the back." My fingers trace his spine, feeling the tension there. "Is that why you need control so badly? In bed, I mean."

He stiffens under my touch, then deliberately relaxes. "You think you've got me all figured out, don't you?"

I shrug, the movement sinuous, cat-like. "I'm just making conversation. Post-coital bonding and all that." I reach for my whiskey again, take another sip. "Though I'd rather be doing something else with my mouth."

His eyes darken, desire warring with caution. But desire wins—it always does with men. Such simple animals. He sets the phone aside and turns back to me, hand cupping my face with unexpected gentleness.

"You're dangerous," he says, and there's something almost like admiration in his voice.

I smile, slow and wicked. "So I've been told."

This time when he kisses me, it's different—less domineering, more exploratory. His hands roam my body with appreciation rather than ownership. The shift is subtle but significant—he's stopped seeing me as just a conquest and started seeing me as something more intriguing, more worth his genuine attention.

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