Page 111 of Money Reigns
Every sound she made when she broke beneath me.
Every soft, greedy clutch of her cunt on my cock.
I want it again.
Now.
But I force myself to sit, to watch, to starve in silence. Because the ache in my chest, the hunger crawling under my skin, is almost sweeter than the release.
Almost.
She looks fragile like this. Breakable. But mine to break or protect and I haven’t decided which—maybe both.
No one else willeverget this view.
Her lashes flutter. She stirs. A soft sound escapes her throat, and I lean forward in the chair, pulse kicking like I’ve been waiting a lifetime for her to wake.
Her eyes crack open.
Wide, startled, doe-eyed.
Perfect.
“There she is,” I murmur, voice rough from disuse.
She startles hard, jerking upright in bed.
The comforter drops.
And theretheyare.
Her breasts, soft and flushed and perfect, bouncing slightly with the movement. The blanket pools at her hips like an invitation.
She gasps and reaches for the comforter, trying to drag it up.
“Don’t.” My voice cuts sharp across the room.
Her breath hitches. Her fingers still.
Good.
I rise from the chair, slow, deliberate, and cross to the bed. She watches every step like she can’t decide whether to run or melt into it.
That’s good. Fear and hunger look beautiful on her.
When I reach her, I set the tray across her lap, the legs sliding neatly into place.
“Eat,” I order.
She hesitates,always so hesitant,alwayssecond-guessing, but then she picks up the fork, testing a bite. Her lips part on a soft hum as she chews, and the sound knots low in my gut.
I don’t comment. I don’t need to. She’ll learn in time that everything she loves will always be provided.
As she eats, I cross to the closet and pull out the bags delivered this morning. Designer. Tailored. Every detail chosen because I’ve already memorized her size, her style, her preferences. Dresses. Shoes. A silk blouse the color of her blush.
Her fork slows as she watches me lay each piece out.
I pick up the mint green cashmere sweater.
