Page 4 of Twisted Tate

But it’s not just her body—it’s the way she stands with her shoulders back and her chin up, like she owns this place and everyone in it. The way she scans the room with those gray eyes, like she’s looking for her next target.

That’s a look I know quite well.

I find a spot in the shadows and order a whiskey I don’t plan to drink. My eyes don’t leave her.

Reese Donaldson finishes her drink and sets the glass down. Then she moves.

She doesn’t just walk through the crowd. She cuts through it, her hips swaying in a way that turns heads. Everything about her is captivating and commands the attention of everyone around her. I watch the muscles in her thighs flex with each stride, watch the way her ass shifts under that tight pink fabric. My cock is rock fucking hard.

Her eyes lock on someone I can’t see yet. I shift position, and that’s when I spot him—some mid-thirties asshole in an expensive suit, standing near the back hallway.

He doesn’t see her coming.

She approaches with a wide smile. Her hand slides up his chest. Her lips brush his ear. Whatever she says makes him set his drink down so fast the liquor sloshes over the rim.

She takes his hand and leads him down the back hallway.

I follow.

The hallway is dim, lined with doors to private rooms. She doesn’t use any of them. She pushes him against the wall between two doors—somewhere semi-private but not hidden. Anyone walking by could see them.

She drops to her knees.

Holy fuck.

The position hikes her dress up. From where I’m standing, I can see the curve of her ass, the arch of her back as she leans forward. She looks like a fucking goddess, and she’s about to suck off some random bastard who doesn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.

Her hands work his belt until she frees his cock, strokes him twice, and takes him into her mouth without hesitation.

I should go back to the main floor and wait for her to finish whatever the fuck this is.

My feet don’t move.

The man’s head falls back against the wall, his hands fisting in her hair. He’s moaning, thrusting into her mouth, clearly close to finishing, and she takes it all.

But she’s not performing for him, and she’s not making it pretty or drawing it out. She’s in complete control of the man.

He comes with a grunt that echoes down the hall.

She swallows without flinching, then pulls back and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

And then she stands up and walks away without looking at him.

She doesn’t fix her hair, doesn’t check her makeup, and doesn’t glance back.

The man is still slumped against the wall trying to catch his breath, his dick hanging out of his pants. She’s already gone.

My cock strains against my zipper so hard it aches.

I knew she was hot from the photos. But this—watching her use that man and throw him away—that makes me want to take my cock out and fist myself. And I haven’t done that since I was fucking teenager.

She would be the perfect fucking challenge. Every woman I touch surrenders before I have to work for it. They want to be used and hand over control because I’m a Sinclair and saying yes to me is easier than saying no. There’s no chase, nothing to win, and nothing that makes the conquest mean a goddamn thing.

Reese just used that man and threw him away like he was nothing.

I want to know what it would take to make her kneel for me like that. What it would take to break through that control, strip it away piece by piece, and watch her fall apart. Because I’d be the one in control, and I crave a fucking challenge.

She’s heading toward the exit now, moving fast. I follow, keeping enough distance that she won’t spot me.