Chapter 21
MILA
Mila kicks off her heels one at a time, watching them topple to the carpet.
Her arches ache, a deep, pulsing throb that makes her toes flex instinctively.
She unhooks the side zip of her tailored trousers, shimmying out of them with a slow roll of her hips, letting them pool around her ankles.
Her hands move to her blouse, every button undone with stiff, tired fingers until she’s stripped down to her black lace bra and matching panties.
She catches her reflection in the mirror across the room and pauses.
Her hair’s half-up, half-defeated, mascara faintly smudged under her eyes, and her lipstick long gone. She looks tired, her body humming with the dull ache that comes from being “on” for too many hours straight.
She exhales and lets that version of herself melt away.
Her body sinks into the mattress, every muscle sighing in relief as the cool sheets brush her skin. She stretches once, slow and languid, before letting herself melt back into the pillows.
She reaches for the box. Now her body aches for something else entirely.
The toy gleams in the soft light, sleek and curved, and a little intimidating. There’s a remote nestled next to it. And of course it’s Wi-Fi enabled, because apparently her sex life now comes with a user manual and firmware updates.
She smirks, but the dry humor fades as her fingers brush over the cool surface.
This is a line.
And she knows she’s about to cross it.
Her hand trails up, skimming over her ribs, her collarbones, the tops of her breasts—just light enough to tease. Her skin prickles. Heat blooms low in her belly.
Tell me what you’re doing.
I’m lying on the bed, touching myself. Care to join me?
You know I’m desperate for you.
Her pulse kicks up. She exhales hard through her nose and sinks deeper into the pillows, her body buzzing with adrenaline and want. One hand slips beneath the lace of her bra, fingertips circling a nipple until it pebbles. She gasps softly, pinching, tugging, but it’s not enough. Never enough.
Something in her snaps.
Desperate enough to come to room 411 and see for yourself?
She watches the screen as three dots appear. She holds her breath as they disappear and reappear again. Finally it buzzes, and her body lights up in anticipation.
Her breath is shallow now, caught somewhere in her chest.
Sit tight, Daisy.
Her mouth parts. Her thighs press together. She switches hands, kneading her other breast, the room suddenly hotter, the air heavier. Is he really coming? Is she really doing this?
Her phone vibrates again.
An incoming video call from an unknown number.
She hesitates, then answers without turning her camera on.
“Hello?” she breathes, heart hammering against her ribs. Is she about to find out who’s behind the mask, once and for all?
The screen floods with shadow and then light—him.
The Man in Black.
Same mask. Same sculpted black cowl. But this time, no costume cape. Just a long-sleeved black T-shirt stretched over thick biceps and a chest that rises and falls like he’s just run ten miles—or thought about her too hard.
“Daisy,” he rumbles.
His voice is slightly modulated, but the low timbre is unmistakable.
She leans closer to the screen, eyes narrowing as she studies him.
The room on his end is dim, shadows swallowing his face so completely that his features remain a mystery.
His arms are covered, denying her any glimpse of tattoos, but she takes in what she can his—build, how he carries himself, the shape of his hands, the curve of his neck, the lines of his chest.
Her heart hammers.
Theo?
Could it really be him?
She wants to ask. Needs to know.
“Let me see you, Daisy. I miss you.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Will I get to see you?”
A beat.
“If you’re a good girl,” he replies, dark and low.
Her insides clench.
Without another word, Mila taps the camera icon, and the screen shifts. Her image fills the lower corner. She lies back against the pillows, lips parted, body half-bared, the glow of the city softly lighting her face.
And she waits, anticipation crawling up her spine.
The Man in Black props his phone against something in front of him, and slides a muscled forearm down his stomach. He adjusts the angle and Mila’s eyes widen as his hand reaches into his jeans.
When he speaks, his voice is dark, commanding.
“Touch yourself. Start slow. Use one finger only.”
Licking her lips, Mila trails an index finger across the peaks of her breasts, then lower to her navel, drawing small circles there. She skims it over the lace of her panties, sliding over the wetness already gathering there.
“Like this?” she purrs.
“Exactly like that, Daisy. You’re such a good girl.”
She hums happily, trailing her finger across the lace over her clit as warm pleasure bubbles there.
“Are you wet for me?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to take the toy out now, Daisy. Slip it inside you, but don’t turn it on.”
Reaching down, Mila grasps the toy and skims it down her stomach, letting him watch as she glides it over the lace of her panties. She puts the phone down as she peels them down her legs, and positions the larger, egg-shaped end of the toy against her slick opening.
Grabbing the phone again, she angles it to her face as she slides the toy home, closing her eyes with a soft moan. It’s cold, but not unwelcome. The wand curves up to nestle close to her clit.
The Man in Black watches her, chest heaving. The hand in his jeans strokes himself slowly..
She shifts and reaches for the remote, but he growls, “No, Daisy. It’s my turn to play.”
Confused, Mila watches as he pulls out another phone and presses some buttons. The vibrator hums to life, pulsing softly inside her.
“Oh god,” she breathes, as gentle waves of pleasure wash over her.
He swipes at the phone again, and Mila feels the wand purr and stimulate her clit deliciously. It’s a low, sensual pulse, much slower than what she uses at home. She shifts her hips so the vibrations are right where she needs them.
She sighs, back arching into the pillows. She lets her legs fall open, surrendering to the sensation.
“Do you like that, Daisy?” His voice is dark. Smoky. It slithers past Mila’s defenses, stoking the fire between her legs.
“Mmm, yes,” she replies. “More please.”
“I would give anything to taste you,” he growls, and Mila bites back a moan at the images that flood her mind, a warm mouth pressed against her skin and then lower, firm hands kneading her body and his head between her thighs.
“I bet your pussy tastes like heaven.”
She’s breathing heavier now, her hips grinding in an invisible rhythm, bucking against the sinful pulses of the toy.
“Why don’t you come over here and find out?” she counters, looking at the camera.
He chuckles darkly and pulls his hand out from his waistband.
Slowly, he unzips his jeans, and Mila can see an impressive bulge in his black boxer briefs.
She watches, fascinated, as he draws his hand up his body, revealing a peek of chiseled abs, and to his mouth and bites his knuckles, stifling a groan.
“Fuck, Daisy. You know I want to. The things I want to do to that smart mouth of yours. To your perfect ass. I would have you screaming.”
Even with his voice modulated, Mila can hear the rawness. His desperation. It sends a painful pang of longing through her, settling in her core.
Her mouth turns dry as his tongue darts out and licks his palm before returning it to his thick, waiting erection.
His hulking frame leans toward the camera as his other hand grips the table his phone is propped up on. His throat bobs as he swallows and slides his saliva-soaked hand back into his boxers.
“Take it out,” Mila murmurs. “I want to see you.”
His responding groan is pure masculinity. She holds her breath as he pulls out his cock, pumping it up and down slowly. He’s thick and long, with the tip glistening.
Sweet Christ, he’s a masterpiece.
“Like what you see, Daisy?”
Every muscle in his stomach is taught as he rolls his hips, thrusting into his fist. The pearl of wetness at the head of his cock teases her, and she licks her lips before replying.
“You know I do.”
She’s whimpering now, squirming and writhing her hips to chase the sensation between her thighs. She feels the settings change again, and the new speed sends sharp bursts of pleasure through her body.
“That’s my tongue against you, baby. I’m making an absolute mess of you. You taste so damn good. Fuck, I would die a happy man if you let me taste you. If you let me lap at your pussy until you screamed and pulled my hair,” he pants.
Oh my God, the mouth on this man, Mila thinks. He makes her feel so fucking sexy. Like a goddess.
But he’s not done.
“I want to see you touch those magnificent tits. Play with them. God damn, I dream of your tits, Daisy. Of pushing them together and sliding my cock between them.”
“Oh god,” she moans, palming and squeezing her breasts. She pulls down a black lace cup of her bra and pinches her nipple, arching her back in pleasure. Rolling her hips against the vibrator, she feels her orgasm building, intensifying.
The Man in Black is pumping his dick faster now, his hips bucking forward. His teeth sink into his lip to stifle a groan, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the light stubble beneath his mask.
“Fuck. Come for me, Daisy. Let me see you come apart.”
Mila cries out as white-hot pleasure blazes through her. Every thought flees her mind, leaving only ecstasy behind.
The setting changes again, this time so powerful it borders on the cusp between pain and intense pleasure.
“Again. I want another one,” he pants.
“Please, please, please,” Mila babbles. She’s right on the edge of another orgasm, so overwhelming that she’s writhing on the bed, clutching the phone in her sweaty hand. Her thighs are shaking and slick as she bucks them into the air.
The Man in Black’s pace ratchets up, and he’s cursing and groaning low and fierce as he nears his own release. Mila watches, riveted, as every hard edge of him grows tight as he pulls at his length savagely. He curses before growling, “Daisy” as his release surges from his swollen cock.
The sound he makes completely undoes her.
Her moans blur together into one long, shaking sob, as another orgasm chases the first one, ripping through her and causing her to clench and writhe.
She rides the wave, hips thrusting, breath stuttering until she’s little more than a puddle, her entire body liquid.
The vibrator prolongs the blissful sensation, and she lets it go on. After a few seconds, or maybe hours, Mila returns to reality and feels the toy shut off inside her. The Man in Black is murmuring praise that her brain barely registers.
“Good girl, Daisy,” he breathes, voice thick and warm, the modulation softer now. Almost tender. “You’re perfect.”
Mila lies back against the pillows, her skin flushed, chest rising and falling in slow, uneven pulls. She blinks through the blissed-out haze clouding her vision, everything slightly dreamlike and overstimulated.
He had just talked her through not one, but two devastating, pulse-obliterating orgasms. No one had ever done that to her. Not like this. Not with just words, low and filthy and reverent all at once. Like he worships her. Like he knows her.
She’s never felt sexier. Never felt more wanted.
But now, as the aftershocks fade and reality claws its way back in, so does the ache. The need to know if the man in the mask is the same man she watched at the arena tonight.
“Please,” she whispers, “take off your mask.”
On screen, he’s still—arms tense, the cowl and half-mask shadowing his face. She can’t see his eyes clearly, but she feels the weight of them.
When his voice finally returns, it’s soft. Melancholy. Not the growl of the man who whispered filth to her a few minutes ago.
“I can’t, Daisy. It’s better this way.”
Her hope cracks—not fully, but enough to sting. The afterglow still lingers on her skin, but it’s fading, cooling, replaced by hollowness.
“Not for me,” she says quietly. “I want you. Please let me in.”
She watches him breathe. His eyes are shadowed beneath the sculpted mask, but she can see the conflict in his body. The tightness in his jaw. The tension in his shoulders.
“I can’t be who you want me to be.”
Mila’s heart twists, like something inside her has been pulled too tight and finally snapped. The words ring in her ears, heavy with finality. He doesn’t say the one thing she’s dreading most—not directly. But she hears it anyway.
He doesn’t want me.
She sits up, the sheet slipping down her bare stomach, fingers clenched tight around her phone like she could hold the connection together by force.
“How can you say that?” she whispers, the words spilling out raw and a little broken. “You don’t even know what I want.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes. Looks away from the screen.
“I know what you deserve,” he says finally, quiet and certain. “Sweet dreams, Daisy.”
The screen goes dark.
Mila blinks, her reflection staring back at her now, flushed and still half-naked in the city's glow. Her heart beats in the quiet. Too loud. Too fast.
She doesn’t cry.
But she feels it. The absence.
It settles on her skin like cold air after heat. That familiar ache of almost. Almost being enough for someone.
She sets the phone down, and folds into the pillows, curling into herself.
She doesn’t know who he is.
But she knows this much. He wants her.
And he’s afraid.
And if he thinks this is over—he doesn’t know her at all.