Desperate Measures (Wicked Villains 1)

I press my lips together, hating how worried I am about him. “Okay.”

“Tink will be here Monday morning.”

He scheduled the appointment with her that I asked for. “Thank you, Daddy.” My lips form the words without thinking, and I can’t even manage to make it sarcastic.

“Be ready at eight Monday night.” Some amusement melts into his low voice. “I’m feeling generous, so I won’t even command you to kneel.”

“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper. I feel broken and filled with shards. The worst part is that I don’t hate the sensation, that I’m looking forward to whatever he has planned Monday night more than I’m looking forward to two days left to my own devices.

If I’m not careful, I might forget myself and grow to love this cage he’s built around me.

That fear, more than anything else, gets me moving again. I walk down the long hallway to the opposite end of the penthouse. My bed feels cold and empty after leaving Jafar’s, but I ignore the sinking in my chest. I have to put some distance between us. He’s too big, too dominant, too overwhelming. Too much. I forget how to fight when he’s touching me. No, that’s not right. I still fight. I love to fight Jafar.

I forget how to fight to win.

Despite my racing thoughts, I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know, soft light filters in through the gauzy curtains covering my windows. I sit up and push my hair out of my face. My body hurts in the most delicious way possible, and I press my thighs together, relishing the ache.

A note perches on my nightstand, a short line written in Jafar’s careless scrawl. Call me when you’re up. A phone sits next to it, one I’ve never seen before.

It’s so new and slick, it practically slips from my fingers when I pick it up. The first thing I do is pull up the contacts. There are only two. Tink. Daddy. I press his name before I even have a chance to consider disobeying. With a sigh, I flop back into my oversized pillows and stretch.

It rings three times before he answers. “Afternoon, baby girl.”

“Hi, Daddy.” Every time I say it, it feels more natural. Right and yet a little dirty, all at the same time.

“Did you dream of me?”

That startles a laugh out of me. “You mean did I dream about shoving you out a window? If so, then the answer is yes.”

“Brat.” His chuckle has my body perking up. I bite my bottom lip, trying to keep from squirming. How does he manage to do that? His voice lowers. “Are you still in bed?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have to apologize to you.”

I blink. “Apologize, because …”

“I’m not there to make your pretty pussy feel good right now.”

This time, I can’t keep my little whimper inside. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” I really shouldn’t find his amusement at me sexy, especially considering how we left things earlier, but my reactions to Jafar have never been logical. His voice deepens. “Pretend I’m standing at the foot of your bed and give me a show.”

“I could just go into your office again.”

Another of those delicious chuckles. “You could, but you’re sounding all rumpled and sleepy. I’d hate to push you past that.” The barest of hesitations. “Spread your legs, baby girl.”

“Mmmm.” I kick off my covers and obey, feeling wicked as the cool air licks at my exposed skin. “I like that.”

“I know you do. Now, put me on speaker so you have both your hands.”

It’s so easy to do what he commands in that moderate voice. Even after a few days, I can hear the tension below the low words, can tell that he’s just as affected by this as I am. I put the phone on speaker and set it next to me. “I’m addicted to the feeling of your mouth on my pussy.”

“It’s a mutual addiction.” A pause, and then his voice lashes me. “Can’t have you aching and empty, can we? If I’m not there to fill you up, you’ll have to make do with your fingers.”

I eagerly skate a hand down the center of my body to push two fingers as deep as I can. I must make a sound, something desperate and needy, because he doesn’t hesitate to keep talking, spinning his web of lust tighter around me. “You’re a wicked girl, aren’t you? How many times did you play with that pretty pussy and think about me while you were in your father’s house?”

A small voice tells me to lie, but I’m too far gone already. “A lot.”

“A lot,” he repeats slowly. As if it’s new knowledge. As if we didn’t spend so much of last night reenacting fantasies that we both had during the last five years.

I shouldn’t tell him more, shouldn’t reveal yet another fault line for him to take advantage of. And yet I can’t seem to help it. “Every time we verbally sparred, I’d go upstairs and touch myself. Every time, I’d be just like I am right now. Wet. Aching.”