A low chuckle travels through the line, and I can almost see the predatory smile spreading across his face. That perfectly sculpted mouth has been everywhere on my body. I press my thighs together, hating myself for the response.
“Rules?” There’s amusement in his voice, as if I’ve said something particularly naive. “Do you honestly think I’m the kind of man who plays by rules, Keira?”
The way he says my name makes my skin prickle. Notlittle dancer,but my actual name. Somehow, that feels more intimate than anything they did to my body.
I don’t answer. Can’t answer. Because we both know the truth.
He waits, the silence stretching between us, patient in a way Cyrus rarely seemed to be in the Hunt. He’s waiting for me to admit what we both know—rules don’t apply to men like him.
Men who take what they want.
Men who saw something in me that I’ve tried to deny my entire life.
“You know what I think?” Cyrus’s voice drops lower, rougher. “I think my cock is missing its sleeve.”
My breath catches in my throat. The crude words shouldn’t affect me this way, but my body betrays me instantly.
“Is that what I am to you? Just a... cocksleeve?” I manage to say, even as heat floods through me. Despite my attempt at indignation, I can’t stop the soft moan that escapes my lips. My thighs clench together involuntarily, seeking friction, relief, anything to ease the sudden ache between them.
The sound must carry through the phone because Cyrus goes quiet for a beat.
“Well, well,” he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Sounds like my sleeve is missing its cock, too.”
He chuckles, the sound dark and knowing. It washes over me like a physical touch, making my skin tingle with awareness.
I’m mortified by how easily he can reduce me to this—wanting, needing, despite everything that happened during the Hunt. Despite knowing better.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice weaker than I intend. The question hangs between us—heavy, loaded.
“Just want to see how my pussy is doing,” Cyrus purrs through the phone. “And my ass. Video call. That’s all.”
I groan, pressing my face into my pillow for a moment before responding. My body is still tender, still recovering from their relentless attention. “Cyrus, you’re going to be the death of me. I need to rest. I can barely move as it is.”
“Can’t help it, little dancer.” His voice drops lower, sending unwanted shivers down my spine. “You’re fucking addictive. Every inch of you. Been hard since I woke up thinking about you. Just need to see you.”
I shouldn’t agree. I know this. But my finger hovers over the video button anyway, my body making decisions my brain protests. I tap it before I can talk myself out of it.
His face fills my screen—those hazel eyes that shift between amber and green, the sharp jawline, those full lips curved into a predatory smile. But my gaze immediately drops lower as he tilts the phone down.
He wasn’t exaggerating. His cock stands rigid against his stomach, the tip glistening with precum. The sight of it—so recent in my memory, the weight and feel of it still imprinted on my body—pulls a moan from my throat before I can stop it.
“That’s it,” he whispers, his voice a rough caress. “Let me hear how much you miss this cock and show me my pussy,” Cyrus demands, his voice rough with need. “Need to see what I’m coming home to.”
I shouldn’t. This breaks every rule of self-respect I thought I had. But my body isn’t listening to those objections anymore. With trembling fingers, I prop the phone against my pillow and slowly peel my underwear down my thighs.
“Spread your legs,” he orders. “Wider.”
I comply, exposing myself to his hungry gaze. The vulnerability of it makes my breath catch, but there’s power in his desperation, too.
“Fuck,” Cyrus groans. “Look at those marks. Still red from my cock.”
A second groan—deeper, from somewhere off-camera—makes me freeze.
“Who was that?” I ask, my fingers instinctively moving to cover myself.
Cyrus grins, wicked and unashamed. “Ace, of course.”
My stomach drops. “Ace is there? With you?”