His Feisty prey

Clara was certain her memory wasn’t failing her. The last thing she remembered was being at the club, swaying her hips provocatively with her partner that night—a hot, Latin-blooded man as they kissed. But now she found herself handcuffed to the bed, with not a single memory of how things had ended up this way.

She pulled her hand back slightly, a little test to see how tightly the handcuffs were secured. When she realized they were tight enough that struggling would only make her wrists hot and red or even injure them—she decided to stop trying.

Her sigh echoed loudly in the room.

“Damn, am I really that drunk? I’ve never passed out before or been in a situation like this,” she whispered softly, letting her gaze sweep around the room. The room was large, dominated by maroon red a single bed where he was currently handcuffed and a TV. There was nothing else besides that. She noticed one main door and another door which seemed to be a connecting door on the left. The rest of the room was completely empty, as if the occupant had been too lazy to add any furniture.

A soft sigh escaped her lips; confusion still lingered, and her mind couldn’t come up with any other possible explanations for this situation. Her head didn’t hurt; she had a high tolerance for alcohol, that's the one of a reason she always ended up partying and having a wild night.

[ Maybe I’m just unlucky, or perhaps that Latin guy slipped something into my drink and is forcing me to play by new rules.]

A wave of heat washed over her entire body as she imagined the possibilities of what she might do with that partner.

Just as her imagination was running wild, the sound of a door opening and firm footsteps snapped her back to reality. She turned her face toward the source of the sound, and her breath caught in her throat when she saw who was making those footsteps.

A man in his thirties, with wavy brown hair left tousled, a thin mustache framing his face, and honey-brown eyes. Damn, those eyes were immediately fixed on her.

This man wasn’t her Latin partner. The man standing before her now had broad shoulders, but not to the point of being bulky. Just solid muscles that felt hot, even when those warm muscles were hidden beneath that neat, expensive suit.

[Fuck! Who is this? He’s massive—I bet his size is as massive as his body, because if not, I’ll have to fake my moans.]

The thought just popped into her head vulgar, but she was used to it because of the comfort she derived from her sex life. Especially given her current situation. Clara was already imagining the passionate play that awaited them.

"Hey, Hottie~ what's your name?" Clara greeted him in a teasing tone. She couldn’t help herself—just imagining the man’s broad hands cupping her breasts and then slapping them was enough to make her wet down there.

The man stopped right next to her bed; his gaze didn’t wander anywhere, focusing solely on her face even though she was already half-writhing in bed. The man leaned toward her. Clara held her breath and felt a little dizzy as the masculine scent a blend of cedar and the sharpness of his cologne assaulted her sense of smell, sending a direct thrill to her most intimate spot.

[ Fuck! Am I craving this badly? No way! I’ve got to hold my ground.]

She scolded herself, even though between her thighs she was already wet and trembling with desire.

"Not bad, but I like it when you put up a fight," the man whispered right in front of Clara’s lips, without kissing her or getting any closer. He kept his distance, making Clara want to lean in closer, but for some reason she couldn’t.

“I always put up a fight.” Her voice was hoarser than usual—why wouldn’t this man give her any breathing room? His eyes were fixed on her; his breath still lingered on her parted lips, yet he didn’t move any closer at all. Clara licked her own lips. To hell with everything—she wanted this man in her bed right now, making love until she passed out from pleasure.

“That’s good because I like it when my victims fight back,” he continued; his hand had already slid down and was squeezing Clara’s left breast, making her moan in a mix of surprise and uncontrollable desire.

The man watched every change in her facial expression. His hand didn’t stop squeezing; he took Clara’s nipple—which had been hard all along—and pinched it a little harder, drawing a soft curse from her.

She was already so wet down there, and this man was only playing with her breasts.

[ Shit, I’m already this wet so drenched that the strap of my thong is throbbing against my ass. This man is fucking bad in a good way.]

The man smiled in a way that Clara found infuriating. She was absolutely certain he could see her G-string beneath the short, sheer dress she was wearing, but his focus remained on squeezing her breasts. He didn’t move his hands any lower.

[ Oh, this madman why won’t he touch me down there? I’m already throbbing against that damn underwear. Does he want me to beg? No way! I never beg, though.]

Clara shifted slightly, trying to coax the man into moving to a different area without having to say a word, testing whether he was experienced in nonverbal communication or needed to be guided first.

The man’s smile grew even wider, and for some reason, Clara found herself getting wetter because of it. She was sure her juices had already soaked through her thin dress.

"I know what you want, but I’ll never go down there until I decide to do that—" He leaned down slightly and bit Clara’s lower lip, drawing a moan from her. "Later..." he said, then stood up. Clara was about to protest. They’d just been having fun. Why did he stop so suddenly?

“I forgot to tell you I need to handle the process of selling you.” Clara gasped in shock.

What? Sell? Me? I’m being sold?

"What do you mean? Sold what?" Clara asked sharply; she was still wet and aroused, but hearing those words set off her survival instincts.

The man tilted his head and chuckled softly.

"Your brother, Fernandez Brown, just sold you to me for 900 million dollars. So you’re officially my toy now."

Those words managed to extinguish all the passion she’d felt just moments before.

[ Fernandez! Fuck you! I’m going to burn you to death.]