Page 55 of The Toy Collector

“Yes,” I hiss, arching my back as much as possible.

He doesn’t move once he’s fully seated, just stays there, filling me completely, letting me feel every inch of him throbbing inside me. It’s exquisite torture, being so full yet denied the friction I crave. I try to move my hips, to create some relief from the overwhelming pressure, but his hands grip my waist, holding me still.

“Enzo,” I whisper, testing the name on my tongue. It feels dangerous, forbidden—a spell that might conjure something I can’t control.

I feel him shudder at the sound of his name in my mouth, his cock twitching inside me. For a moment, I think I’ve gained some small power over him.

Then he pulls out—a slow, deliberate withdrawal that leaves me empty and aching. I make a sound of protest, reaching for him, but he’s already moved away. I hear the distinctive sound of a zipper being pulled up, fabric being adjusted.

“Time for all good toys to get some sleep,” he says, his tone mocking, as if he hadn’t just been buried inside me. As if he hadn’t just made me come apart repeatedly under his hands and mouth. “Let’s get you home.”

The abrupt shift leaves me reeling. One moment I was on the brink of what promised to be an earth-shattering fuck, and the next he’s… what? Ending our encounter? Sending me away? Anger flares, hot and bright, cutting through the lingering haze of arousal.

“You can’t be serious,” I snap, pivoting blindly, almost stumbling. “You’re just going to—”

“Yes,” he interrupts, and I hear the smile in his voice. “I am.”

“Why?” I demand, hating how petulant I sound.

His fingers trace the edge of the blindfold, not removing it but reminding me of its presence. “I don’t need an excuse,” he scoffs. “If you’d told me what I wanted to hear, I would be fucking your greedy cunt so good.”

I press my lips together, desperate to stop myself from begging, from giving him what he wants.

“But you misbehaved.” Pausing, he pinches my nipple so hard I cry out. “And I don’t reward bad toys, Piper.”

Chapter 20

Piper

Almost an entire week, six days, to be exact, has passed since Enzo made me beg for his cock, only to turn around and deny me. Fucking bastard. At least he dressed me and escorted me outside, so I guess he’s not completely heartless. Just eighty percent so.

Shaking my head, I banish those thoughts from my mind and push open the door to Lena’s apartment.

“Jesus, woman!” I exclaim as soon as I step through the door, almost dropping the cups I’m carrying.

The place smells like burnt eggs and charred bacon, a culinary crime scene that assaults my senses. The smoke detector hangs disabled from the ceiling—a precaution she’s learned from experience. Despite my stomach’s protest, I force a smile.

“Sorry about the smoke,” she grins, waving a dishtowel frantically at a particularly thick cloud hovering near her kitchen window. “I swear to God I followed the recipe this time.”

She’s wearing fuzzy slippers, and her hair is piled on top of her head in what could generously be called a bun. A Georgetown sweatshirt hangs off one shoulder, revealing a bra strap the color of traffic cones.

This is Lena in her natural habitat: chaotic, comfortable, completely herself.

“It smells…” I search for a diplomatic lie, “…homemade.”

She snorts, pointing her spatula at me. “That’s Piper-speak for ‘it smells like shit.’ Just say it.”

Returning her wicked smile, I kick my shoes off and grab the equally fuzzy slippers reserved for me. “Okay, you got me,” I shrug. “But if it helps, I promise to take exactly three bites before ordering from somewhere.”

“Aww, you really do love me,” she sing-songs, waggling her eyebrows while opening the oven, revealing several containers. When she pulls them out, I immediately spot the telltale logo from one of our favorite brunch restaurants.

“Thank God,” I laugh.

Cackling, she starts arranging the eggs, bacon, and pancakes from Susie’s. I place the cups on the counter and hip-bump her out of the way so I can help. Once we’re done, she grabs the Chai tea I brought and after grabbing my vanilla latte, I follow her into the living room.

I lower myself onto her couch, balancing a chipped plate and cutlery in my lap. Without wasting any time, I dive in, moaning around a bite of the best scrambled eggs known to man.

Lena nudges my plate with the edge of her cup, smiling. “So,” she starts, cramming bacon into her mouth, “tell me about the internship at Blackwood Strategic Advisory. Are you making coffee for soulless lobbyists?”

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