Page 61 of Twisted Shot
And she knows she’s about to cross it.
Her hand trails up, skimming over her ribs, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts—just light enough to tease. Her skin prickles. Heat blooms low in her belly.
Tell me what you’re doing.
I’m lying on the bed, touching myself. Care to join me?
You know I’m desperate for you.
Her pulse kicks up. She exhales hard through her nose and sinks deeper into the pillows, her body buzzing with adrenaline and want. One hand slips beneath the lace of her bra, fingertips circling a nipple until it pebbles. She gasps softly, pinching, tugging, but it’s not enough. Never enough.
Something in her snaps.
Desperate enough to come to room 411 and see for yourself?
She watches the screen as three dots appear. She holds her breath as they disappear and reappear again. Finally it buzzes, and her body lights up in anticipation.
Her breath is shallow now, caught somewhere in her chest.
Sit tight, Daisy.
Her mouth parts. Her thighs press together. She switches hands, kneading her other breast, the room suddenly hotter, the air heavier. Is he really coming? Is she really doing this?
Her phone vibrates again.
An incoming video call from an unknown number.
She hesitates, then answers without turning her camera on.
“Hello?” she breathes, heart hammering against her ribs. Is she about to find out who’s behind the mask, once and for all?
The screen floods with shadow and then light—him.
The Man in Black.
Same mask. Same sculpted black cowl. But this time, no costume cape. Just a long-sleeved black T-shirt stretched over thick biceps and a chest that rises and falls like he’s just run ten miles—or thought about her too hard.
“Daisy,” he rumbles.
His voice is slightly modulated, but the low timbre is unmistakable.
She leans closer to the screen, eyes narrowing as she studies him. The room on his end is dim, shadows swallowing his face so completely that his features remain a mystery. His arms are covered, denying her any glimpse of tattoos, but she takes in what she can his—build, how he carries himself, the shape of his hands, the curve of his neck, the lines of his chest.
Her heart hammers.
Theo?
Could it really be him?
She wants to ask. Needs to know.
“Let me see you, Daisy. I miss you.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Will I get to see you?”
A beat.
“If you’re a good girl,” he replies, dark and low.
