Page 31 of The Toy Collector

He finally pulls free of my lips with a wet pop, leaving me panting and disheveled in front of him. I can only imagine the glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he looks down at me. I don’t know his name. I can’t see his face. But I know the way he made me feel—powerless, filthy… and fucking worshiped.

“Damn,” Matteo whistles. “That was fucking hot the way she loved sucking your cock.”

Instead of feeling humiliated, ashamed, maybe even disgusted with myself, I feel wanted. And fuck me, I loved every second of it.

The man who used my mouth as though it belonged to him chuckles, dragging his fingers along my cheek. “Piper,” he murmurs, voice soft but sharp as glass. “If I told you the only way to guarantee your internship was to let me touch your cunt, would you beg me to do it?”

The question hangs between us, a line in the sand. I know what he’s asking, what he’s offering. My heart pounds in my chest, my body betraying me with every beat. I’m ashamed by my arousal, by my desperation.

But I nod, my voice barely above a whisper, “Yes.”

Taking my hand, he helps me to my feet and guides me a few steps. I feel him sit, the chair creaking softly under his weight, and then he tugs me into his lap so my back is against his chest.

“Spread your legs,” he rasps.

I squirm in his lap, moving my legs to rest on top of his, and when he shifts his wider, mine spread open. The mortification I feel fizzles, quickly replaced by something darker—need, raw and crawling beneath my skin.

A moan is ripped from me as he runs his hand up my bare thighs, all the way to the line of my thong. Anticipation and need build, making me squirm harder.

“Sit still,” he commands.

I try, I really fucking try. But when he runs a single finger along my slit, I jump. My breathing intensifies, turning ragged. I’m acutely aware of every touch, every breath. It’s wrong, so wrong. But it feels good, too good when he circles my clit.

I let my head fall back against his shoulder, gyrating my hips to get more. I’m so caught up in what he’s doing that I forget we’re not alone.

“What’s your dream job when my cousin’s done molding you, Piper?” Rafe asks.

I can’t focus when fingers push between my lower lips and against my opening. “I… uhh… I want… I want…” My brain goes blank as a finger is pushed into my dripping heat.

“You’re already wet,” the man, whose lap I’m practically riding, observes. He slides one finger deep, then another, curling them just enough to make me shudder. “So deliciously drenched. Mhmm.”

“I’m waiting,” Rafe snaps.

Shit, I completely forgot about his question. Is he watching me getting fingered? Instead of feeling shame, the thought sets my body ablaze, and a moan escapes before I can stop it.

“I-I want to be an architect of influence,” I answer. It takes everything in me to conjure the words rather than focusing on the sensation between my legs.

The man with his fingers buried in my pussy rumbles what sounds like approval. Then wraps an arm around my waist, pinning me in place as his fingers fuck me harder—pistoning in and out while the heel of his hand grinds against my clit.

My muscles coil, every nerve a live wire. I bite the inside of my cheek, desperate to keep from crying out as my orgasm threatens to consume me.

His length presses against my ass—thick, hard, and insistent. The thought of feeling him inside me, paired with those guttural groans of approval, is enough to push me over the edge.

“I’m going to… I’m… Yes,” I cry out, my hips undulating, chasing friction, chasing the release I desperately want.

“So fucking wet for me. Mhmm, that’s it. Make a mess on my fingers like a good toy.”

My climax ripples through me, a tidal wave of pleasure that leaves me breathless, trembling. It’s a release, a surrender, a binding agreement. I’ve accepted his terms, his conditions.

His warm palm slides up my thigh, deliberate, lazy. I’m still trembling, my body betraying me in ways I don’t want to examine. As I try to shift, his grip tightens—possessive, unyielding—keeping me exactly where he wants me.

“Such an exquisite toy,” he murmurs. The praise slides into me like a hook behind my ribs, sharp and unshakable.

With a low growl, he dismisses Rafe and Matteo like they’re nothing. I try not to die of humiliation, knowing they saw—and heard—how he made me come all over his hand.

His hands trail up my stomach and over my bra, palms cupping my breasts, thumbs grazing my nipples through the lace. It shouldn’t feel good—but it does. Too good.

As soon as the two men are gone, his tone sharpens, but he doesn’t stop touching me. “Listen closely, Toy. I don’t like repeating myself.” His tone is low and serious.

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