He just loved to see me broken. I was sure of it. My humiliation was his entertainment, my desperation his symphony.
My hands fumbled at the lapels of his suit, my fingers clumsy and desperate as they clawed at the pristine fabric. I wasn't trying to undress him; I was trying to tear down the last barrier between his control and my skin.
"I never knew you were this starved," he murmured, his voice a dark caress against my ear.
Then his hand shot up, gripping my throat, pinning me harder against the cold, unyielding concrete. "When was the last time you had sex, Camilla?"
His other hand slid beneath my gown, his fingers pushing aside the thin silk of my underwear. His thumb found the aching, throbbing centre of me and pressed down—a hard, deliberate rhythm that stole the air from my lungs.
"I… d-don't… know," I moaned, my hips jerking involuntarily toward the pressure, betraying my every plea.
