Page 93 of Damsel in Disguise

Not in the way my pulse stutters under the weight of it.

Not in the way I stay exactly where I am—like I belong here.

I momentarily forget about the stinging sensation on my wrists.

Alistair reaches into his coat and withdraws a thick fountain pen. The metal catches the low light as he leans forward and offers it to me.

My mind scrambles, tripping over itself trying to make sense of it—what use is of a pen when my hands are bound?

Still, instinct overrides logic. I shift on my knees and reach out, wrists straining against their restraint, managing to take it with my right hand.

He smiles. “You should be taking that with your left hand.”

“Huh?” My head snaps up, eyes locking onto his as I look at him from below, confusion tightening my brows.

What’s that supposed to mean?

30. PEN

ariella

A quiet scoff leaves him as he steps back. Alistair casually settles against the coffee bar cabinet like he has all the time in the world.

“I need you to fuck yourself with it, Ariella,” his crisp British accent curling around every filthy syllable with deliberate precision.

He nudges his glasses higher along the bridge of his nose, watching me over the rim. “Go on. Show me how desperate that tight little cunt is for me. How badly it aches to be filled… if not by my cock, then by whatever I allow you to use.”

My eyes widen, breath catching somewhere between my throat and my lungs.

For a second, my brain simply… stops. Freezes under the weight of the vulgarity. The command. The way the filthy words sound far delicious in his crisp accent—polished, controlled, utterly depraved yet addicting.

My jaw parts before I can stop it.

“You’re drooling, little kitty,” he murmurs, amusement threading through his tone, sharp and mocking.

Heat floods my face, my body reacting faster than my pride can keep up with. My heart rate stutters violently under my skin as the reality of what he’s asking settles in—which I know is inescapable.

His gaze lingers on me for a fraction longer before drifting to his watch, as if what he’s asked of me is nothing more than a task on his schedule.

The dismissal in that small movement does something ugly to my chest. It’s embarrassing.

My lips press together, and I look away.

“Shy now?”

“I’m not!” I shoot back too quickly, the denial tripping over itself, letting color flood up my neck, spreading traitorously across my cheeks and the tips of my ears.

“Do as I said, and I might reward you with my cock filling your pussy,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just enough to curl under my skin.

My breath stutters. I hate that it does.

I hate that he noticed it.

Something tight coils low in my stomach, hot and humiliating and impossible to ignore. Instead of obeying what he’s clearly expecting, I look away again.

“No,” I mutter under my breath, barely audible.

I can’t. I really can’t. Not when he’s watching me like this and wants me to put on a show instead of him leading it like he did last night.