Page 59 of Fool Me Twice

“Y-yes,” Hart choked out, and just like that, Cane was gone, letting him drop.

He barely held himself up against the desk as he watched Cane cross the small space of his office and slam the door shut. He walked back around the desk, back behind Hart, and his ears caught the sound of Cane settling back into his chair, followed by several beeping noises.

“The place is locked down,” Cane said. “Nobody is getting in here now. Nobody will see you.”

Hart could only nod, locking his knees and trying to stand upright again. He wasn’t sure he was able to.

“Fair warning,” Cane said, reaching out next to Hart and opening a drawer in his desk. “One more lie and this stops. You get nothing from me. Got it?”

Hart nodded furiously, so hard his neck clicked. Cane couldn’t stop now. Hart couldn’t lose this now that he finally had it. He’d die, he was pretty sure of it.

“Good,” Cane said, and the word was followed by a soft click, then silence, and then something cold slipping between Hart’s ass cheeks. Slick and slippery. Messy. The way he hated it. But just the way he needed.

He keened, loud and unabashed, falling onto the desk on his elbows. He knocked something over in the process. He could hear it rolling across the desk, hitting other things before it fell to the floor. He couldn’t bring himself to care, because Cane brushed a slick finger over his hole and he was gone.

He knew what it looked like. The position he was in left him completely open for Cane. He knew Cane could see the very core of him.

But then he always could, so it was nothing new.

A finger breached him, rough and stretching, not giving him a single second to adjust. It burned. He felt himself clench around it. His forehead dropped to the backs of his hands on the desk, and he dug his nails into the smooth surface.

He wished he could find an opening in it he could scratch at. Wished there was something to hold on to, because Cane’s fingers inside him made him feel like he’d float away. He tried to imagine how Cane looked behind him—fully dressed, sitting on his leather chair like the boss he was in this place, one hand bruising Hart’s hip, the other pumping in and out of his body like he owned it.

“Look at you.” Hart heard Cane’s growl as he crooked his fingers inside him and pressed against his prostate.

Hart was never too loud in bed. Not with others, anyway. Cane just had a way about him that made Hart shatter entirely. He moaned, pushing back onto his fingers, clawing at the desk. There was a puddle of spit in front of him, trickling from his open mouth, and sweat gathered on his temples and neck, sliding down his back.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Cane said, sliding closer in the chair as he kept fucking Hart with his fingers. “There’s nobody like you.”

Hart knew he should feel good about those words. They were meant as praise, and he knew Cane well enough to recognize it.

But he wasn’t himself. He was a baser, simpler version of himself. One who lived for the pleasure and the ownership Cane could provide. One who wanted it just for himself. Needed it to be just his.

This talk of others, whoever they were, was making him see red.

“How many?” he asked, barely able to lift his head, completely unable to stop the push of his hips back.

He wanted answers, but he also wanted to come, and he didn’t think his brain was capable of making decisions at that moment.

“How many what?” Cane asked, punctuating the words with thrusts of his hand, Hart’s cock sliding across the cool surface of the desk.

He was leaving a trail of precum on it. He could feel it on his skin, cool and slippery.

“How many people did you fuck?”

Cane’s fingers inside him stilled, then retreated completely. Hart whined at the loss and humped at the air shamelessly, wanting them back. Needing them to finish what had started.

“I can still make you swear,” Cane said, standing up and moving until he was glued to Hart’s back again. He trailed kisses and bites down Hart’s neck, his shoulders, and between his shoulder blades.

He bruised him. Left marks on him. His signature all over Hart’s body. But he didn’t answer the question.

“Tell me,” Hart moaned, close to sobbing from how overstimulated he was and how empty he felt.

“Why?” Cane whispered, stepping back. Hart did sob then—a broken little noise that hurt his throat.

“Please,” he said, the clawing animal inside his chest desperate to know how many people got treated this way.

Just how many of them had replaced Hart while he was gone? He wanted them all to disappear.