Chapter 13
Lorenzo
I only linger long enough to watch Maria approach my toy and peel off her blindfold before returning her belongings. I grin to myself as I watch the way Piper’s mouth runs a million miles a minute. Judging by Maria’s pinched expression, she’s not enjoying the barrage of questions.
A low chuckle slips out as I step into the waiting elevator, the doors closing on her questions and Maria’s thinning patience.
Since I already know my assistant will make sure the driver takes Piper straight home, I don’t need to wait around. It’s not my personal driver, but someone who has been with me for long enough.
As soon as I’m in my office, I reach for my tablet and send the draft email to Mrs. Ellis at Georgetown, letting her know that one Miss Piper Harrington has landed a very prestigious internship.
Waiting beside my tablet is a new phone. A single folded note rests on top.
Tracker placed. Here’s the clone.
Cy’s handwriting is sharp, efficient. Just like his work.
I power on the phone, and the screen glows to life. Every ping, every text, call, and move she makes will all be mirrored here. All without her knowledge.
With that out of the way, I pull up the surveillance feed from her apartment. I want to see the moment she arrives home—whether she’ll flinch after what she allowed at the interview… or if she’ll wear it like power.
Checking the camera in her living room, my eyes fall on the almost-bare wall. I considered hanging the puzzle of her face there. Even incomplete, it would have looked exquisite—haunting in the right light. But I decided against it. My toy’s not ready for that.
Instead, it hangs in my office. The original print, the one I designed for her. Full-color, her face rendered in shadow and light, framed in black like an icon behind glass. Eight pieces are missing; the ones I gifted her. And now the image gapes with that absence.
Of course, I could order a new batch, cut to the exact same shape, black as night and sharp at the corners. I could slot them in tonight and call it whole. But it wouldn’t be the same.
Those pieces— her pieces —were never just cardboard. They were part of our beginning, and she burned them like they meant nothing. Replacing them would be a lie. It would be a rewrite of history.
She doesn’t understand that I only gave her pieces of the shadow. That was my way of easing her into it, as I didn’t think she’d appreciate getting pieces of her face. No doubt that would have sent the wrong message.
My toy shouldn’t fear me, only want me—and, eventually, love me back.
She should be home by now. I refresh the app, but there’s still no sign of her. My jaw clenches. If there’s a delay, my men should have informed me. The second she arrives, I need to see her.
I light a cigar first—thin, dark, perfectly wrapped—letting the smoke curl toward the ceiling like a whispered promise. Something about the ritual soothes the more primal ache beneath my skin.
Then I settle onto the couch, lying on my back. My dick hasn’t softened since the interview. Not even flooding her throat with my cum took the edge off. If anything, it sharpened it. A groan builds in my throat, escaping before I can stop it. Fuck, I can still smell her pussy on my fingers.
Just as I’m about to give in to the carnal need thrumming through my veins, Piper steps into view. She walks in like nothing happened—like she didn’t kneel for me, didn’t orgasm with my fingers deep inside her.
Her posture is perfect, her movements calm. If she’s shaking, she doesn’t show it. And I study her closely—looking for the crack. But there isn’t one. I zoom in, anyway. Just to be sure. Her mouth is relaxed, her gaze steady. She drops her bag by the table like this is just another day.
“Good girl,” I rasp, the words meant only for me. My fin gers twitch, craving her skin, craving the slow, inevitable moment I stop watching and start taking.
I adjust my position on the couch, my fingers deftly working at my belt. As soon as I’ve released my hardness from its confines, my hand wraps around the length with a familiar grip. My breathing remains steady and controlled, eyes locked unwaveringly on the screen before me.
Pre-cum is already forming into glistening beads, and I spread it gently over the sensitive tip and down the entire length, feeling the slick smoothness under my fingers.
The sensation is intoxicating, an electric charge buzzing through my body with each deliberate stroke, sending waves of pleasure coursing through me.
A guttural growl tears from my throat as I fuck my fist to the image of my toy. Her hips sway with a tantalizing rhythm, each step a silent invitation. The dress she wears clings to her curves, accentuating her deliciously round ass with precision.
My grip tightens, strokes turning brutal, punishing. My toy. Mine.
“Fuck,” I hiss through clenched teeth, my hand moving with increasing urgency.
The same hand that had expertly made her come during the interview is now working my hardness. The symbolism isn’t lost on me; this connection through touch, this limb that bridges us, is driving us both toward the brink of release.
My grip turns punishing. I stroke faster. Harder. Like she’s still on her knees for me. My breathing becomes ragged, echoing the rising intensity. I can feel the tension building, my muscles tightening, and my body responding in anticipation.
I’m on the brink, so incredibly close to the edge, teetering on the precipice of release.
“Turn around,” I grunt. “Let me see that pretty face.”
I fixate on her full, pouty lips as she parts them ever so slightly. My mind immediately plunges into a memory of the tip of my cock brushing against her soft, moist lips.
The warmth of her mouth enveloping me, inch by agonizing inch. Her tongue, slick and teasing, circling the sensitive rim. Fuck. That’s the memory that finishes me. My climax crashes over me, and my body convulses with pleasure. Thick, white ropes of cum erupt from my dick.
I’m groaning her name. “Piper! Fuck!” I’m fucking drenched, my cum slicking my hand and staining my clothes—but I don’t care. I wipe my hand on my slacks and sit up.
Just as I’m about to set the tablet down so I can clean up, I see it. See him —the driver. What the fuck is he still doing there? His usefulness and job ended the second she crossed the threshold. He definitely shouldn’t be inside my toy’s home.
My entire body freezes as I watch him move closer, too close. Withou t warning, he reaches out and brushes her.
He. Fucking. Touches. Her.
Then he says something, but the rage pounding in my head drowns out his voice. His hand lingers on Piper’s lower back. She nods, but she doesn’t even look at him. In fact, she looks uncomfortable.
“Who do you think you’re touching?” I roar, surging to my feet.
Although there’s no way he heard me, the driver quickly removes his hand, but it’s too late. The damage is done. He touched what’s mine.
Reaching for my phone, I don’t hesitate to call Maria. It only rings once before there’s a reply.
“I need the driver who took Piper Harrington home to come pick me up at my office. Now.” My tone is clipped, my words angry. And instead of waiting for a reply, I hang up.
Grabbing my keys and coat, I stride out the door and into the waiting elevator. Even though I get a text halfway down to let me know the driver is on his way, it feels like I’m pacing the lobby for an eternity before he pulls into the spot in front of the building.
My body feels tense, wound tight like a spring ready to snap as I stride out through the gleaming glass doors, each step landing with a deliberate heaviness. The air feels cold as it brushes against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat of my nerves.
With calculated precision, I navigate around the sleek, polished car, its surface reflecting the world in a distorted dance of light and color.
I open the door and slip into the backseat, the leather cool and smooth beneath me, positioning myself directly behind the driver, every movement purposeful and controlled.
“Where are we going, Mr. Russo?” The driver’s voice wavers as he glances at me nervously in the rearview mirror.
“How long have you worked for me?” I snap, my voice a sharp blade cutting through the tension, anger boiling just beneath the surface.
“W-what?” he stammers, his eyes widening in fear, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as if it could anchor him against the storm brewing in the backseat.
I shake my head with a sharp jerk, making a deliberate show of adjusting my cufflinks with a precise, almost mechanical motion.
“The answer required a number,” I state, my voice cutting through the air like ice.
“Six days, six months, six years. What it didn’t require was a question.
” My eyes bore into him with a relentless intensity.
“So I’ll ask you again, and this time, I expect nothing but the truth. How long have you worked for me?”
He swallows with a loud gulp, and a bead of sweat emerges on his forehead, glistening under the harsh light. “Four years, two months, and twenty-two days,” he stammers, his voice trembling with unease.
I nod slowly, my eyes locked onto his as I deliberately reach for my tie, u ndoing it with measured precision. “That’s exactly what I thought,” I say, my voice cold and cutting. “Which means you knew better than to touch her. You knew—and you still fucking did it.”
“Touch?” he blurts, panic rising in his voice. “I haven’t touched anything, Mr. Russo. I swear, I—”
His denial ignites a blazing fury within me, surging like a storm ready to obliterate everything in its path. I lurch forward with ferocious intent, wrapping the tie around his throat with a vise-like grip, squeezing tighter and tighter.
“I saw you!” I bellow, my voice echoing with the force of an avalanche. “Touching my toy in her own home. You. Touched. Her.” The words explode from my mouth, each syllable a dagger aimed at his very soul.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with a glare that could slice through steel. There’s nothing he can say. Words won’t save him. Begging won’t slow me. He signed his own death warrant, and I’m here to execute it.
A dark thrill courses through me as I see the color drain from his face in the rearview mirror, his skin turning a sickly hue. Desperately, he raises a hand to tug at the tie choking him, but I slap it away with a force that leaves my palm stinging.
I don’t just choke him. I make him burn with it, just like I am. The betrayal. The audacity. And the fucking touch. My hands shake with rage as I squeeze.
His pulse thrums wildly beneath my fingers, a pathetic staccato begging for mercy. I don’t give in. I squeeze harder, feeling his struggle turn sluggish, his kicks weakening. His lips part—one last plea, one last breath. And then... nothing. Silence. Perfection.
My heart pounds, adrenaline surging as I text Cy, a single command for cleanup blazing across the screen. His response is instant and primal—a wolf emoji, howling back at me with the ferocity of a predator ready to devour the remains.