His Plaything | 18+

SNEAK PEEK•••

"You're nothing but my pawn, my slut, and a convenient hole for my pleasure." I scoffed, dragging my finger slowly across her trembling lips, letting it linger just long enough for her to taste herself on it. "You're replaceable, but you'll be loyal to me and me alone. I don't care if other men touch you, but only I get to fuck that tight little cunt of yours. Is that clear?"

Bianca nodded slowly, her determined gaze fixed on mine as though she'd not heard a derogatory word uttered.

"I only want you body, no more. Understand?" I looked down at her small form before me, noting how perfectly proportioned she was for my tastes.

She nodded again like an obedient little pup—and it was getting on my nerves. All I wanted to do was shove my boner down her throat to get more sounds out of her mouth. 'How slow can this woman be?' No matter how desperately she craves my touch, there had to be a limit to how pathetically needy someone could become.

A devious smirk formed at my lips as my second hand gripped her hair tightly, watching her wince was satisfactory—I couldn't wait to hurt her, to turn that flawless skin red from spanks and strokes. I needed to break her, to watch those wide blue eyes fill with tears, pleading for mercy that would never come.

[Bianca]

'The donor's dying wish was that their identity remains anonymous, so please don't ask about it.' The doctor had said, flipping over to the next page of the written report in his hand. His nose wrinkled as he squinted behind his glasses.

'Is there a problem?' I asked, catching the hesitant look in his gaze.

'The donor didn't have any heart problems, rest assured, and the operation was impromptu so after you're discharged, try to take it easy. You might feel slightly different in the case that your outlook on life differs from what it used to be, but it would be merely a lingering feeling and nothing to worry about.'

My brows furrowed, recalling the words of the doctor who performed my heart transplant. My name is Bianca Campbell and I'm twenty-seven years old.

People used to call me "America's sweetheart." Blonde hair, blue eyes—a face people wanted to see in magazines, to admire from a distance. They even named me the most beautiful woman in North America once. I used to believe it all meant something. That it was... me. But now? Now I felt like I was standing on the outside, looking in on someone else's life, trying to remember how to play the part.

Five years ago, shortly after gaining my title, my heart had begun to act up. From unnaturally high blood pressure to extremely low ones. The severity of my condition peaked about a year ago.

Oh, I had it all! Money, fame, sponsorship and a dazzling future ahead—even a fiancé, Christoph who I'd thought to be my soulmate. The only thing I didn't have was time.

My heart, they said, was failing me, and without a transplant, I wouldn't make it past a year. The irony wasn't lost on me—

I remember the despair, the nights spent lying awake, clutching my chest as if I could will my heart to beat just a little longer.

My health had deteriorated to the point where I couldn't leave the hospital at all. At the time, my popularity helped me gain donations and sponsorships to finance the hefty medical bills—but you know what they say about fame. The quicker you reach it, it's faster you lose it.

No one wanted to assist a woman who visibly wasn't getting better, leaving me to my own devices.

For those excruciating six months, I'd lived on life support. I was my crutch and very own sympathiser. The lower you go, the faster you realize how fleeting life could be.

My 'soulmate' said he couldn't love a woman whose lifespan was already at its limit. Whatever happened to 'in sickness and in health?' Though we never got to the marriage part, it just proved that he wasn't worth the effort. My family and I had never seen eye to eye. My mother was the only one who'd bothered visiting me and helping with the medical bills. But she's dead now.

Even the nurses scorned my circumstances.

'What's the point of being the most beautiful woman if you die young?'

They'd snicker in pairs outside my room while I feigned sleep.

My career, my life and my future was over—I'd lost everything. When I finally learned to accept it, willing to die before I lost myself in the process, I'd woken up to find my doctor blabbing that the surgery was a success.

Surgery?!

There were so many questions on my mind; from who the donor was to why the hospital hadn't seen it fit to seek my double permission to do so. Yes, I'd hoped for a transplant months ago but with no suitable donor—the throng of them being suicidal fan-boys, I'd long since given up on the idea and accepted my fate.

Honestly, I was grateful to be given a second chance but had my queries about why the donor wanted to remain anonymous after death. I longed to know their identity—from their hobbies to their family and life's work.

The doctor had mentioned that my outlook on life might feel slightly...different, but so far it had gone pretty smoothly.

Reality hit the second I stepped out of the hospital and I quickly grasped how broke I was. I needed to make money and no one wanted the 'ex-most beautiful woman in North America who'd just got a heart transplant.'

I was stuck, conflicted between my pride and the debts I was being pressured to pay back.

But after being on death's door once, you realise that your 'pride' doesn't put food on your table or pay the bills that need to be paid. No, money does.

And to get money, you needed to work for it—body and soul.

Or just body in my case seeing how no one could shove their dick down my soul.

"Bianca Campbell?" the sharp voice of a male called from behind me.

My head snapped around, searching the darkness for the source of the sound. We were standing on the top floor of a building and it was quite chilly so I'd worn a sleeved get-up. It reminded me of the cold nights I'd spend in the hospital without knowing whether the next day would be my last—alone. The wind whipped against my face, scattering my hair as I squinted to focus on him.

He had broad shoulders, sizeable arms and a puffed chest that signified regular visits to the gym. There was a white mask covering the upper half of his face, obscuring his eyes but leaving his strong jaw and thin lips exposed. The mask was stark white, smooth and unadorned. It curved around his cheekbones, resting over the bridge of his nose, almost like porcelain moulded to perfection.

The lips that peeked out from beneath the mask were thin and pale, contrasting sharply with his well-groomed, dark moustache that traced the contours of his upper lip. His jawline was sharp and clean-shaven, the kind that suggested meticulous care.

This man was no pushover.

"Yes?" I replied slowly, sliding loose strands of blonde hair behind my ear while wondering who in their right mind would set the venue of a hook-up on the highest floor of a skyscraper! Was he some sort of kinky psychopath or worse, a killer?

The man didn't respond immediately; instead, he took a measured step forward, his polished shoes clicking against the cold concrete. The suitcase he held looked unassuming, but the way he gripped it made me uneasy.

His cologne wafted toward me, a musky blend of something dark and seductive that seemed too edible for a man's taste. My pulse quickened as he stopped just a few feet away, close enough for me to catch the faint outline of a frown on his lips.

"The password?" He inquired casually.

I stared at him incredulously, wondering if he lacked the slightest bit of courtesy, not bothering to introduce himself when he already knew my identity.

"Raw..." I said, ignoring the voices in my head that screamed 'danger.' The fact that there was a password was already shady but the venue and his unbothered way of speaking screamed serial killer!

What if he threw me off the building? What if he wanted to dissect me and stuff my organs inside his suitcase? What if he was one of those cannibals that revelled in human meat and his tools were in the box?

"What's in the box?" I finally asked, unable to hide my nervousness.

"My tools for work."

"Tools?"

"You talk too much," he spoke huskily, the words leaving his lips seemed to caress my ears as he squatted to open the suitcase. "Take the skirt off if you still need my money."

My legs buckled, thighs rubbing together as my heart raced. Yes, this stranger had offered me a hefty sum for tonight—money which would keep me out of business for a few months. Walking away wasn't an option, I knew that—he knew that, and the fat bonus he'd promised after an enjoyable night knew that.

I slid my mini skirt down, walking to perch my ass on one of the elevated slabs of concrete.

There was no point in thinking about it now. I needed the money, and if my body would suffice as a medium, then so be it.

A shameless grin formed on my lips as I spread my legs wide open, inviting him to look between my thighs. "You like what you see, Daddy?" I murmured, arching my back provocatively while one hand moved to massage my soaked panty.