Page 84 of The Contract

Dillon lunges forward, tearing the contract from my grip.

His eyes gleam wickedly as he skims the page, disbelief melting into filthy delight. “Fuck me sideways—‘Complete and explicit surrender, including but not limited to bondage, spanking, merciless edging, filthy outfits, ruthless brat-breaking, and forced begging on all fours.’”

Mateo chokes on a laugh. “Wait—Kennedy’s baby sister agreed to what?”

Dillon waves a hand, fighting back laughter. “It gets better. ‘Owner shall be addressed exclusively as ‘His Grace,’ as signee willingly accepts erotic punishment delivered via bare hand, belts, floggers, riding crops, anal beads, rocket dildos, or a vintage silver hairbrush crafted explicitly with a smooth, flat back for discipline and a handle designed solely for her dirty pleasure. Or, should His Grace feel particularly creative, a pickleball racket.’”

By this point, they’re both howling, doubled over.

“Pickleball racket?” I echo softly, dangerously, heat surging beneath my skin. Oh, I’ll show her exactly how creative I can get with a pickleball racket.

Dillon holds up a finger, wheezing. “Mandatory safewords listed: ‘Banana Flambé,’ ‘Control Freak,’ and ‘Yes, sir.’”

Mateo doubles over, tears streaking down his face. “Holy shit, Dante. Touché. You’ve finally met your match.”

Dillon shrugs casually, eyes glinting wickedly. “Hey, never kink-shame the nobility.”

At the thought of punishing Pom, my cock hardens painfully—so rigid it feels like it might snap clean off.

Which is exactly why I don’t immediately rise and snatch the contract back.

“If you value your hands,” I warn, “drop the contract and leave. Now.”

They freeze, recognizing the lethal sincerity in my tone. Dillon reluctantly sets the contract down on my desk, eyes wary. Mateo trails after him, still shaking from hysterical laughter.

I wait until the door clicks shut before grabbing the contract, flipping through the pages until one devastating clause brands itself into my brain.

Hymen: Intact.

My pulse slams to a violent halt.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Hmm. Then again, this is Riley.

She could be lying.

Teasing me. Taunting me. Torturing me with visions of pinning her down, driving deep, splitting her open as she screams, “Yes, Your fucking Grace,” in defiant surrender.

But what if she’s not lying?

My cock strains painfully against my zipper, blood roaring savagely in my ears, one hundred percent certain it won’t enter her without obliterating that fragile cherry into a million delicious pieces.

The ultimate fucking turn-on slams headfirst into an iron door marked No Entry.

Fucking fuck…fuck.

CHAPTER 26

Riley

I adjust the lopsided bunny ears and yank down the oversized tee until it barely covers my ass. Still, it’s a million times better than the stripper-wear provided by the Inferno. Because tassels, sheer pink lace, and a thong with a built-in vibrator?

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

I’ve ransacked every luxurious inch of this room, including a walk-in closet so massive it could host the Oscars after-party. Yet somehow, there’s not one respectable pair of panties in sight.

So I settled for silk boxers. Ridiculously soft. Embroidered with a discreet D.

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