Chapter 74 - SEVENTY FOUR

Chapter 74: Chapter SEVENTY FOUR

ANGEL

His cock twitched. I saw it through the fabric, a hard, involuntary jerk, and something dark and triumphant unfurled in my chest.

"There might be a few extras stuck inside," I whispered tauntingly. "They got pushed pretty deep. I had to really work them up in there." I bit my lower lip in mock concern. "Hope I can reach them all. My fingers aren’t as long as Daddy’s."

I slid two fingers back in.

The sound was wet. I was so slick that my fingers had no resistance. They sank in easily, and the noise they made entering me was filthy enough to echo.

I let my eyes fall half-shut. My lips parted on a slow exhale.

Another candy—I found it and pulled it free, dropped it to the floor without looking.

Then my fingers went back in and I stopped pretending this was about sweets.

I curled them. Found the spot. Pressed into it and felt my knees go soft. Pure undiluted heat bloomed outward from my core.

A part of me knew I was spiraling. That this had started as a weapon and was turning into something else, something I couldn’t control, because the truth was I hadn’t been touched by anyone since Damien and my body was starving for it.

Even my own hand felt like relief after weeks of nothing but Vincenzo’s saintly bathing and the ache of missing hands that knew how to be rough.

"Daddy," I moaned.

Vincenzo tensed again, his jaw ticking. Once. Twice.

The reaction fed me. It ignited me from the inside.

"Daddy," I said it louder, letting the word fill my mouth the way Damien loved it. My hips rocked harder against my hand. "Daddy, that feels so good—"

The pleasure was sharp, building fast, feeding off the adrenaline and the power and the look on Vincenzo’s face.

My fingers curled and pressed and my palm ground against my clit and every nerve in my body was firing and Vincenzo was right there—wearing the expression of a man being forced to watch his own damnation.

I fucked myself on my own fingers and moaned another man’s name three feet from where he stood.

"Daddy—oh god, Daddy, yes—"

I wanted him to break. Needed it like oxygen. Because if he broke, if he crossed that line and put his hands on me, then the wall between him and Damien was a lie and I was right about everything.

"Daddy, please—" My thighs were trembling. My fingers moved faster, wetter, as I played with my pussy. "Daddy, I need it, I need your cock, please—"

I came looking directly at him.

It hit me like a convulsion—my back arching, thighs clamping, a raw scream tearing from my throat. "Daddy! Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—"

I rode it out with my eyes on his face, watching him absorb every second of it.

The aftershocks pulsed through me in vicious waves and my legs nearly gave out and my vision went white with pleasure.

When I could see straight again, I pulled my fingers out slowly. One last candy sat on my fingertips, the wrapper dripping.

"Oops." My voice was hoarse, shredded from screaming. "Got them all out."

I held it up, a lazy smile curling on my lips.

The kind of smile that Damien used to reward with a kiss and murmured how much of a good girl I was.

The silence that followed was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.

Vincenzo moved. He walked toward me with measured steps, his face wiped completely blank.

There was no anger. No disgust. Not even the brief glimpse of arousal I’d caught earlier.

It was as if someone had taken an eraser to every human emotion.

He picked up my shorts from the floor and held them out to me.

I took them. My fingers were still trembling, still wet. I searched his face for a fracture, a tell, anything that he’d been about to snap.

"Aren’t you going to check me?" I lifted my chin. "Make sure I got them all?"

"Put on your shorts. Angel." His voice was ice pressed flat into syllables.

He bent down and gathered every candy from the floor. Each one. The dry ones. The wet ones.

He collected them in his palm like he was handling evidence at a crime scene.

Then he walked out of the room without looking back.

Some seconds later, I heard a door above close with a soft click, and I stood there half-naked with my own slick cooling on my thighs and the taste of victory turning to ash in my mouth.

I’d wanted him to break.

He hadn’t.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Dinner was a very awkward situation. The silence between us was deafening—almost having a sound of its own.

Vincenzo ate without looking at me. Not once. Not when I sat down, or when I reached for the water.

He didn’t even flinch when I knocked my glass against my fork loudly enough to make the sound ring through the dining room.

I’d become invisible to him, and the absence of his attention itched under my skin worse than his surveillance ever had.

For these past weeks, I’ve wanted him to stop watching me.

Now that he had, I felt... weird.

Like I might float away and nobody would notice or care.

I went to bed without speaking, lying in my suffocating pink room staring at the wall and waiting for sleep that refused to come.

I pressed my face into the pillow and screamed silently. And I kept screaming until my voice was hoarse, I wanted to hurt something. Break something, but every item in my room that could potentially turn into a weapon had been taken away by Vincenzo.

Then the knock came.

I sat up. My pulse was already racing. "What?"

Vincenzo stood in the doorframe, dressed in dark clothes, his sleeves rolled to his forearms. His expression was unreadable in the dim light from the hallway.

"I’m taking you to see a therapist tomorrow," he said.