She Used Me for a Dare… Now I Own Her Mother - Chapter 321: A View From The Cold – I
Chapter 321: A View From The Cold – I
“Yes, Sir… please…”
Smack.
Jennifer flinched, her forehead resting against the cold mahogany of the locked door. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps that she desperately tried to keep quiet.
She couldn’t get in. But the burning, agonizing need to know what was happening behind those doors was tearing her apart.
Her panicked eyes darted up and down the hallway, frantically searching for another way, another angle.
Then, she saw it.
The door to the adjoining guest suite was hanging half-open, swallowed in shadows.
Jennifer’s heart hammered against her ribs as she realized the connection. That room opened up to the wrap-around stone terrace… the exact same balcony that led directly to the master bedroom windows.
Without thinking, she abandoned the locked door and slipped into the dark guest room.
She navigated by moonlight, pushing open the glass terrace doors and stepping out into the freezing night. The icy wind bit through her thin designer clothes, but she barely felt it.
The blood was roaring too loudly in her ears.
She crept along the stone balustrade, her heels completely silent, her eyes fixed on the master bedroom windows a few yards away.
The heavy velvet curtains were drawn shut, completely blocking the view. But as she took another step, she saw it.
A deliberate, two-inch gap right in the center of the drapes.
A sharp sliver of warm, flickering amber light bled out into the freezing darkness, marking the spot like a beacon.
As she drew closer, the voices grew louder.
Clearer.
The thick glass of the windows couldn’t muffle the wet, heavy slap of flesh, the frantic rustle of silk sheets, or the deep, guttural moans that seemed to vibrate right through the soles of Jennifer’s shoes.
“That’s it, little girl… Good job.”
Jennifer stopped dead, just inches from the glass.
A violent, burning heat rushed to her face, painting her cheeks a deep, shameful crimson. The flush spread down her neck, warming her chest despite the biting cold.
She hesitated. Her hand hovered in the air, trembling violently.
Every rational instinct she had left screamed at her to stop.
Leave.
She could still turn around. She could still sneak back down the stairs, get into her Porsche, and drive back to the city. She could crawl into her own bed and pretend she had never come here. Never climbed these stairs. Never walked toward whatever dark, twisted reality was waiting for her inside that bedroom.
If she looked, she could never un-see it. Her mother, her family, her entire worldview would be shattered forever.
But as another raw, breathless scream tore from her mother’s throat, the rational part of Jennifer’s mind simply surrendered.
The curiosity was a physical ache. A dark, magnetic pull that was infinitely stronger than her fear or her shame. She had to know. She had to see the man who had brought the Iron Lady to her knees.
Swallowing the last shred of her dignity, Jennifer made her choice.
She stepped directly into the sliver of light. She placed her trembling hands flat against the freezing glass, leaned forward, and aligned her eye perfectly with the gap in the curtains.
Shameless. Captivated. Ready to look.
Jennifer pressed her cheek against the freezing glass, her breath pluming in the icy air as she peered through the narrow gap in the velvet curtains.
The breath was instantly punched out of her lungs.
Her world didn’t just turn upside down… it shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces.
There, bathed in the flickering amber glow of a hundred candles, was her mother. But it wasn’t the Vivienne Vanderbilt she knew. The conservative power suits and icy, untouchable demeanor were completely gone. Instead, Vivienne was wearing a scandalous, barely-there scrap of black lace that left nothing to the imagination.
But the clothes weren’t the most shocking part. It was her position.
The billionaire CEO was kneeling on the floor between a man’s spread legs. Her hands were resting on his thighs, and she was looking up at him. Jennifer’s mind went entirely blank.
The expression on her mother’s face… it was impossible. The ruthless, calculating matriarch’s eyes were glassy and dilated, her lips parted in a look of pure, unadulterated, desperate worship. She looked like a starving beggar offering herself to a king.
Jennifer’s eyes darted to the side. Helena was there too, kneeling just as submissively beside the bed, holding a crystal glass of whiskey up like a sacred offering, her own face flushed with the same degrading hunger.
A violent, sickening wave of secondhand embarrassment crashed over Jennifer, quickly followed by a flash of furious disbelief.
Are these even the same women I’ve known my entire life? The untouchable CEO and her fiercely independent right-hand, reduced to groveling, lovesick pets on a bedroom floor. It was pathetic. It was utterly humiliating.
A suffocating heat rose in Jennifer’s chest.
Her trembling gaze trailed up from her mother’s hands, following the line of the man’s dark, tailored suit trousers.
Her eyes drifted higher. The man’s shirt was gone.
Jennifer swallowed hard, her mouth going completely dry.
Oh, God. It wasn’t just a man. He looked like a dark god carved from living marble and violence. He was impossibly tall and broad, his chest a solid expanse of dense, corded muscle that gleamed in the candlelight. His abs were sharply defined, cut deep and hard, with faint, pale scars crisscrossing his skin that gave him a dangerous, primal edge.
He was the absolute physical embodiment of every secret, guilty fantasy she had ever harbored. Everything she had ever wanted in a man, sitting right there, lounging on her mother’s black silk sheets with terrifying, casual dominance.
Desperate to know who this was… frantic to understand how a man this dangerously hot existed in her city without her ever hearing his name… Jennifer forced her gaze up to his face.
She braced herself for the reveal.
But a sharp wave of disappointment hit her.
He was wearing a mask. A sleek, black masquerade mask covered the upper half of his face, hiding his eyes completely in the shadows.
But even with his identity concealed, what she could see was devastating. A razor-sharp jawline. The thick, dark hair falling messy and disheveled over the top of the mask. And a pair of cruel, handsome lips that were currently curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.
Disappointment faded, instantly swallowed by a heavy, pooling heat in her belly. Mask or no mask, the raw, magnetic power radiating from him was simply too much to be true.
And then, as if sensing the eyes burning into him from the freezing darkness outside, the masked man’s smirk widened.
Instead of moving away or hiding them from view, he leaned back against the massive headboard, the absolute picture of terrifying, casual leisure.
He raised both of his large hands, extending them toward the two women kneeling between his legs.
Jennifer’s breath hitched, a fresh wave of disbelief washing over her. She watched, completely paralyzed, as his hands settled on Vivienne and Helena’s heads. His fingers curled into their perfectly styled hair, stroking them with the slow, deliberate rhythm of a master petting his favorite, obedient hounds.
And the most sickening part?
They didn’t pull away. They didn’t snap at him or demand respect. Instead, both Vivienne and Helena closed their eyes, their shoulders dropping as they leaned into his touch with soft, pathetic sighs of pure submission.
His fingers tangled briefly in their hair before sliding down their jawlines to grip their chins. With a casual, dominating flex of his wrists, he tilted both of their faces up to meet his masked gaze.
“Tell me again,” he murmured. His deep, vibrating voice bled right through the heavy glass, dripping with dark, mocking amusement. “What are the great Vivienne and Helena Vanderbilt reduced to tonight? What do my greedy little pets want?”
The words were a physical blow to Jennifer. The sheer humiliation of hearing her mother called a ’pet’—and accepting it—made her stomach churn.
Vivienne and Helena didn’t look offended.
They didn’t even hesitate. In perfect, sickening synchronization, both of their gazes dropped from his masked face straight down to his lap.
Jennifer’s eyes instinctively tracked their movement. She looked down at the dark fabric of his tailored trousers.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened to the point of pain.
The bulge straining against the zipper was monstrous. It was thick, heavy, and visibly twitching under the expensive fabric, stretching the seams to their absolute limit. It was impossibly huge—a terrifying, magnificent weapon that made Jennifer’s own thighs involuntarily clench together.
A wet, desperate whimper slipped past Vivienne’s lips. The Iron Lady, the billionaire who ruthlessly commanded boardrooms, actually shuddered with need.
“Your cock, Sir,” Vivienne breathed, her voice completely stripped of pride, reduced to a husky, begging rasp. “Please. We just want your cock.”
Helena nodded frantically beside her, staring at his crotch and licking her lips like a starved animal.
“We want to serve it, Sir,” she pleaded, her voice trembling with desperation. “We want to take every inch of it down our throats. Just let us taste it… please…”
