Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
The minutes crawl. I try to sleep, but my brain is on fire, running every possible scenario in fast-forward. Maybe Trevor is just fucking with me, and in the morning he’ll bring me a coffee and say it was all a lesson, a test, some billionaire’s version of tough love. Maybe this is just a kink thing, some power trip he’s on, and by lunch tomorrow I’ll be laughing about it with Stella over mimosas. Or maybe—and this one makes my pulse stutter—maybe I’ll never get out, and this will just be my life now, forever at Trevor’s mercy.
His doll.
His toy.
His plaything.
Why does the thought make my heart flutter?
But there are too many emotions swirling through my head at once, and at some point, I’m overcome with everything that’s happened. I start to cry, but it’s not the good kind of crying. It’s silent, slow, the tears seeping sideways into the pillow so I can pretend it isn’t happening at all.
When the crying stops, something else takes its place. A warmth, spreading from the base of my throat down through my chest and into my belly. I can’t name it, but it’s bigger than anything else I feel. It’s hot and embarrassing, and it makes me want to hide under the covers, but the cuff rattles when I try and I end up just laying there, totally exposed.
Eventually, I fall asleep, the city a white noise machine humming forty floors below. When I wake, it’s still dark—just the lamp, just me, just the cool weight of the cuff reminding me where I am and what I’ve become.
I’m his.
And I am, impossibly, exactly where I’m supposed to be.
19
MY STEPSISTER, MY TOY
Trevor
The corridor from my bedroom to the maid’s quarters—now a glorified panic room, complete with windowless chill and its own ventilation—is longer than it needs to be. At this early hour of the morning, the floor is a blue gradient, deepening with each step, and the only sound is the low hush of the climate system, patient and predatory, like the ocean just before it pulls you under. My feet make no noise on the hardwood, and that suits me; I’m always at my best in other people’s silences.
This walk should be nothing: thirty seconds of tile and shadow, but my body betrays me with every stride. There’s a pressure in my groin, a slow tightening behind the zipper of my pants, a lightness in my arms and shoulders that only grows as I near the door. I’m not sure what it is—anticipation, desire, something simpler and lower—but I let it pulse unchecked. I’m not here to be a good person, or a better man. I’m here to lay down terms. That’s always been the point: rules, boundaries, the explicit contract that allows me to own and operate every relationship I have, especially with women. Rules are kindness. Rules keep things from going sideways.
I pause at the door, hand curled around the steel lever, and listen. Nothing. The panel is heavy, but I fish out my key, unlock the door, and then press it open slow, careful not to startle the girl on the other side. I don’t want her to think I’m a monster. Not right away.
She’s still asleep. The room is a white shoebox: narrow twin bed with hospital corners, one slim desk, a chair that looks more suited to torture than study. A little ceramic lamp glows in the corner, its light just enough to show what matters. Kayleigh is curled on her side, one hand still cuffed, knees up, hair a glowing gold corona against the white pillow. The black dress from last night is rucked up, bunched above her waist, the fabric clinging to the soft round of her ass and leaving her legs bare from thigh to ankle. Her feet are pale and arched, dainty even in sleep, and on the floor next to the bed are her heels, toppled to the side.
It’s the panties that kill me. They’re not the kind of lingerie that scream seductress; they’re plain, white, a little too snug, and riding high where the dress left off. They cut a straight, innocent line across her thighs. No lace, no frills, no heavy-handed attempt at seduction. Just simple, vulnerable cotton, stretched a little at the crotch. There’s something so young about it, so clearly not staged for effect, that it makes my pulse stutter for a moment, then come back doubled.
She’s not faking. She’s not even aware she’s being watched. Her lips are parted, the tiniest wedge of tongue visible between her teeth. Her cheeks are flushed with sleep and maybe the cheap wine from last night. There’s a pink mark on her wrist where the cuff’s edge pressed too hard; the chain is just long enough to allow her to roll over, not enough to reach the bathroom or the door. I watch her breathe for a few seconds, each slow exhale making her chest rise.