Page 60 of Twisted Shot
She tugs the bow loose and lifts the lid.
Her breath catches, and her heart starts to pound.
Nestled in a satin cushion is a sleek, jet-black vibrator. It looks high-end, with a small, egg-shaped end paired with a slimmer, curved wand she assumes is for her clit. Also in the box is a tiny remote that fits in her palm. There’s a folded card beneath it, thick cardstock, her name written in neat handwriting.
For when you miss me.
Mila sits down slowly, heart hammering.
It’s not just the gift—it’s the nerve of it. The boldness. The way it walks the line between reckless and intimate.
And God help her...she’s here for it.
She swallows hard, her body already betraying her as heat rushes low in her belly.
She grabs her phone and types, biting her lip.
This is next-level depraved stalker behavior.
Guilty. But you’re into it.
I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’m curious.
Say the word, Daisy, and I’ll satisfy your curiosity.
She exhales, throat tight, pulse racing.
This is reckless, she tells herself. Unprofessional. Probably crossing every line she’s ever drawn for herself in permanent marker. But her body doesn’t seem to care. Her skin prickles with heat at the thought of him—whoever he is—thinking about her in that way. Planning this. Wanting her to open it, to use it, to think of him while she does. A man who’s watching her, learning her, knowing what would fluster her.
She should send it back, she tells herself. She should say no. But herfingers are already brushing the edge of the sleek black toy, like they have other plans.
Making up her mind, she picks up her phone again.
You’re lucky I have terrible impulse control and a locked hotel room.
I’ve been thinking about you alone in that room all day. Don’t make me wait longer.
CHAPTER 21
MILA
Mila kicks off her heels one at a time, watching them topple to the carpet. Her arches ache, a deep, pulsing throb that makes her toes flex instinctively. She unhooks the side zip of her tailored trousers, shimmying out of them with a slow roll of her hips, letting them pool around her ankles. Her hands move to her blouse, every button undone with stiff, tired fingers until she’s stripped down to her black lace bra and matching panties.
She catches her reflection in the mirror across the room and pauses.
Her hair’s half-up, half-defeated, mascara faintly smudged under her eyes, and her lipstick long gone. She looks tired, her body humming with the dull ache that comes from being “on” for too many hours straight.
She exhales and lets that version of herself melt away.
Her body sinks into the mattress, every muscle sighing in relief as the cool sheets brush her skin. She stretches once, slow and languid, before letting herself melt back into the pillows.
She reaches for the box. Now her body aches for something else entirely.
The toy gleams in the soft light, sleek and curved, and a little intimidating. There’s a remote nestled nextto it. And of course it’s Wi-Fi enabled, because apparently her sex life now comes with a user manual and firmware updates.
She smirks, but the dry humor fades as her fingers brush over the cool surface.
This is a line.
