Page 37 of The Villain We Tempt

The idea, of course, came from a book. In it, the hero grabs the heroine right before she goes into an important interview and stuffs a vibrator into her panties. He waits until she’s sitting down for her meeting with her potential new boss and thenturns the fucking thing on, forcing our poor girl to sit there trying to answer interview questions while she squirms and tries not to come.

I mean,hot.

In hindsight, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I gave it a shot.

I gave a video review of the latest mafia romance book I’d read. I did it sitting in a chair doing this goofy little dance, rolling my shoulders and running my hands over my chest. My fanslovedthe lacy semi-transparent top I was wearing, and that I’d printed out the mafia family crest of the book I was reviewing and had it framed on the wall behind me. They said my makeup was “on point”.

They didn’t realize that the whole time I had a U-shaped vibrator both inside me and resting against my swollen clit. They didn’tguess that the whole time I was filming, that vibrator was going at full speed, setting every nerve ending between my legs ablaze.

Not a single person knew that at the very end of the video, when I dropped my head back and shoved my hands into my wig, it wasn't an act.

I was coming.

On camera.

So, yeah. I might have the most supportive, amazing, loving and wonderful fathers in the world. But there isn’t a reality in any dimension where myDADSseeing me orgasm in a social media video with a million views goes over well.

I meanJesus.

“Loved watching you dance in person for me.”

I read the comment again, the full weight of his threat pressing down on me.

I want to be furious at this fucker. I mean, Iamfurious, obviously. The problem is, I’m not furiousenough.

…As demonstrated by the fact that I masturbated myself to a gasping, shattering orgasm while replaying grinding on his huge erection last night.

…Aaaandthe night before.

Fuck, fine. The last three nights.

And I hate that.

I hate that I can’t look at what happened as an assault. I’m trying to, because that would make thisso muchsimpler, in a way.

But whenever it comes up in my head, it inevitably devolves into fantasy.

Desire.

Burning need, both exciting and terrifying.

Like it or not, what happened the other night—his bare chest against my back, his swollen erection bulging against my dripping center, and my hair wrapped around his fist while he called me a good girl—was,no question, the hottest sexual experience of my life.

And yes, I’m aware how pathetic it is that my steamiest experience involvesdry humping.

I’vehadopportunities to have sex. Like, a lot of them. I’m outgoing, I dress well, and at the risk of sounding like a conceited cunt, I’ve got great genes. I mean, combine Papa’s absurdly handsome Nikitin DNA with that of Dad’s close friend Cora, a professional runway model, and you get a good-looking kid.

Aka,me.

You could even swap Papa’s Nikitin genes for Dad’s Bancroft ones andstillget a ridiculously attractive spawn, as evidenced by my big brother Zane, who had the same surrogate and ourdad’sgenetic input.

I guess it’s just that I never got close enough towantto fool around with any of the boys who came calling and who weren't immediately scared off by Papa and Dad.

Therewasone guy, Ian, that I dated a bit in high school. Believe me, it’s not like I wasin lovewith him or anything close to that. But eventually, heavy making out and some over-the-clothesstuff ensued, and Ian got me to sneak out of the house to meet him.

The plan was to “go all the way”, of course.

I got dressed to the nines, including a gorgeous set of matching lingerie. I snuck out of the house, which was a superhuman feat, given my two fathers.