Page 48 of Torment
“That’s it. Right fucking there, doll. Cum for me,” Karson orders and my pussy clamps down around him. My body shudders against the cold wall, and he lowers my hands to his shoulders.
“Gooooood fucking girl,” he growls against my neck. He continues thrusting recklessly, fucking me harder into the wall, and another wave of pleasure slams into me. He pulls the lace out of my mouth, dropping them to the floor.
“Let me hear you, terror.”
“Oh fuck. Karson,” I gasp before moaning his name over and over like a prayer, until he finds his release. His spine stiffens before his dick pulses inside of me, filling me with his cum. He peppers soft kisses along the side of my neck while he makes sure he’s completely filled me, pushing into me deeper. Once his breathing slows he carefully pulls out and another moan leaves my lips. He chuckles and adjusts the skirt of my dress then lowers my leg back to the floor.
Keeping a hand on my waist to steady me, he pushes the button again, and the elevator moves. Plucking my underwear off the floor, he stuffs them in his pocket, then pulls his pants back up. He adjusts his suit before standing next to me, allowing my head to drop to his shoulder. His fingers lace with mine, and he brushes his thumb along the top of my hand slowly. Helping bring me back down from my high.
The door slides open, and he leads me out into the valet. His Camaro pulls around the corner, the exhaust echoing off the walls. Leading me to the curb, he opens the door for me as the valet steps out of the driver's seat, and he helps me into the car. After buckling my seat belt, he rounds the hood, tips the valet, and drops into the driver's seat.
“Alright, doll. You ready?”
I smooth my hands over the silk at my thighs and lift my chin.
“Always.”
His lips curve slowly as he shifts into first gear. Perdition disappears in the rearview mirror. So does the version of me that used to walk into hell alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The closer weget to the Steele estate, the quieter she gets. Her fingers smooth the slit at her thigh in slow, absentminded patterns. Her expressionless gaze stays fixated on the windshield, though I’m sure she’s not seeing anything. The Camaro hums low beneath us as we turn down a tree-lined drive, and her spine straightens.
I have questions. About the adoption. About this house. About the people who tried to erase her from every record I tore through looking for her. I haven’t asked, and if she doesn't want to talk about it, I’ll get my answers another way.
Castleby Halsey plays through the speakers as the estate rises out of the darkness. White stone. Iron gates. Warm golden lights twinkle in the perfectly manicured hedges along the frontof the house. It looks welcoming, but her jaw sets as we pass through the open gates.
It’s pretty. Polished. Carefully controlled. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as we round the circle drive. Control doesn’t impress me. If anything, I want to break it.
Pulling the car to a stop, a man in a tux makes his way to her door to open it as I step out. He stops in his tracks, looking me over in confusion.
“I got it, thanks,” I tell him evenly, already rounding the hood. He backs off without argument, turning and making his way back up the marble steps.
Good.
Opening the door, her soft palm slides into mine, steady despite the tension running beneath her skin. I help her out, slowly, deliberately. Not because she needs it, but because I want them to watch. My hand falls to the small of her back, and I guide her up the steps. The beading of her dress catches the warm light that spills out along the porch. Golden and inviting in a way that feels rehearsed.
“Still good?” I ask as we reach the front door, low so only she can hear it.
She pulls her shoulders back, turns her head toward me, and puts on a smile. The one that’s for show. It’s eerie and also impressive how easily she slips effortlessly into the facade.
“I’m fine,” she says confidently.
I nod then step inside first, just a half pace ahead of her, letting my eyes adjust.
The foyer rises three stories high, crowned with a chandelier the size of a small car. Crystal catches the light and scatters it across marble floors that are veined in gold. Every surface gleams. Every edge is sharp. The air smells like polished wood, expensive perfume, and money that's been sitting untouched for generations.
A sweeping staircase curves along the back wall, the dark walnut railing gleaming beneath recessed lighting. Oil paintings in heavy gilded frames line the walls–landscapes, stern men in suits, women in pearls. Legacy, framed and watching.
A string quartet plays somewhere off to the right. Guests cluster in small groups beneath towering columns. Their laughter soft, almost muted in the vast space as servers in black weave through them carrying champagne and silver trays. One of them materializes in front of us.
“Champagne?” He offers smoothly, a tray balanced between white-gloved fingertips.
Ashlynn doesn't hesitate. She plucks a flute from the tray and brings it to her lips before I can say anything. The server moves on, and that’s when I see her. I wouldn’t know for sure which woman in this room is Melissa Steele on sight. But Ashlynn does. Her breath leaves her in a controlled exhale. One that silently screams resignation. Her fingers tighten around the stem of the glass, and she steps forward on auto pilot, straight across the marble toward a woman standing near the base of the staircase. She’s wrapped in a long, floor length blush colored dress, her dark brown hair twisted and pinned in a perfect updo. Not a single hair out of place.
That’s her.
I fall into step beside Ashlynn. Melissa catches us moving toward her, her bright white veneered smile faltering, just for a second, before it stretches wider. Polished, practiced, and fake. Her eyes drag over me, calculating. My hand settles at the small of Ashlynn’s back again, steady and deliberate as we close the distance. I don’t look away, and neither does she.
