Page 64 of Cruel Obsession

On screen, both her hands are moving now—one still beneath her skirt, the other switching between her breasts. Her head tips back against the cushions, exposing the long line of her throat.

Christ, what I’d do to that throat.

The thought slams through me, vivid and visceral. My mouth on her skin. Teeth scraping. Tongue tasting the salt of her sweat while my fingers replace hers between her legs.

Her body goes taut, every muscle locking as she reaches the edge. I can see it in the rigid line of her spine, the way she suddenly clutches at the sofa instead of her breast. Bracing herself.

My own release barrels toward me with devastating force. I stroke faster, rougher, chasing the pleasure that’s coiling tighter with each passing second.

She comes. I can tell by the way her mouth opens on what must be a cry, by how her entire body shudders with the force of it. Her hand keeps moving beneath her skirt—working herself through the waves, drawing it out.

That image—Mirabel lost in climax—destroys me.

I come with a strangled curse, biting down on my lip to muffle the sound. The orgasm rips through me, vicious and unrelenting. Pleasure radiates outward from my groin, setting every nerve ablaze. My cock pulses in my grip, spilling over my hand.

The intensity staggers me. My free hand grips the armrest hard enough that the leather creaks under the pressure. The tattoos across my chest feel like they’re burning, the wings at my throat constricting around my ragged breathing.

I’m left trembling, vision blurred at the edges, completely undone in a way I never allow myself to be.

On screen, Mirabel sits up suddenly, her face flushed and her expression shifting from satisfaction to something darker. Shame, maybe. Or horror at what she’s just done.

I watch her stand, straighten her clothing. Watch her smooth the sofa cushions.

My own breathing is still uneven, my body still humming with aftershocks. I grab tissues from the console beside me, cleaning myself while my mind struggles to process what just happened.

WhatIjust did.

Watched her fingerfuck herself. Got off on it like some kind of voyeur.

But before disgust can fully take hold, I notice her expression changing. The relaxation of climax giving way to something heavier. Darker.

She starts to leave. Then stops, turning back toward the urn.

She stares at it for a long moment, emotions flickering across her face that I can’t fully decipher. She says something—too quiet for the mic to catch, but it looks like “I’m sorry.”

Then she slips out, closing the door carefully behind her.

Fuck.

I shut down the feed, dropping the phone beside me on the leather seat. My body feels wrecked, my mind caught between afterglow and annoyance at what just happened. At what I just did.

I don’t know what this means. Don’t know where we go from here, or if we go anywhere at all. If this had been anyone else, they’d be out already. But not her. And I don’t know why.

All I know is that everything has changed.

And I’m not sure I want to fight it.

Chapter Twenty-One

Mirabel

The drive back to the estate passes in a blur of green and gray, my mind distracted by thoughts of next week’s payment for Dad’s treatment.

Over these past weeks, Ashwater Heights has become less of a prison and more of a routine—the mansion’s oppressive grandeur now familiar in ways I never expected.

My shopping trip yielded three bags of clothing I couldn’t afford without this job. Diana had begged off due to a deadline, leaving me with two stone-faced security men who tracked my every movement through the stores.

The car stops at the front entrance. A houseman waits at the top of the steps, his face tight with tension.