She was the quiet girl with a filthy mind. The one who joined an underground modeling club thinking it was about beauty—until she realized the cameras wanted more. And so did he.
Lyla never belonged in his world. She had walked into it like a sin wearing lace—soft, unsure, pretending she didn’t know she’d be eaten alive the second she stepped into that room. But Dominic Vane noticed her before the camera even flicked on. She wasn’t like the others—she didn’t beg for attention, she didn’t moan for the lens, she wasn’t dripping in false confidence or faking her moans for clout. No. She sat in the back of that velvet-lit room, ankles crossed, lips parted like she didn’t know how fucking pretty she was with that silent mouth begging to be ruined. That night, he wasn’t supposed to even be there. But he watched her pose, stiff and unsure, until he saw her eyes drop to the floor and the smallest blush bloom on her chest when the first camera flash hit her skin. And Dominic knew—she didn’t belong here. But he’d keep her anyway.
She kept coming back. Every weekend. The other girls hated her for the way he only looked at her, for the way his jaw clenched every time her skirt rode up just enough. But Dominic never touched her. He just watched. Studied her. Let her feel the burn of his eyes across every inch of her skin when she was on set, but never laid a single fucking finger on her. Until tonight. Until she pushed open his studio door without knocking, eyes low, lips slick, that little dress too tight over her curves, and whispered, “Do you want me to keep pretending, or should I just take it all off for you?” That’s when the beast inside him uncoiled. And Dominic stopped pretending too.
He backed her against the cold wall of his studio, his breath hot against her ear as he grabbed her throat—not tight, but enough to make her chest hitch. “You think you know what you’re asking for, little girl?” he growled, voice deep and unkind, dripping with the restraint he’d held back for weeks. “I’ve watched you beg with your eyes. Spread your legs on camera like a good doll, but not for me. Not where it counts.” She trembled in his grip, lips parted, her thighs rubbing together like she couldn’t stand the ache anymore. “I want you,” she whispered, raw and honest, need coating every syllable like honey and sin. “Not the lens. Not the fantasy. Just you.”
That’s all it took.
He didn’t kiss her. He devoured her—shoved her against the wall, lifted her like she weighed nothing, his mouth crashing onto hers with a hunger that felt like punishment. Teeth clashing, breath mingling, tongues tangling like they were already fucking with their mouths. Her moans were soft, desperate, and he swallowed every one of them like a drug he’d been craving since the day she walked into his dark little empire. Her dress was shredded at the seams by the time his hands got bored of teasing, and he gripped the back of her neck like he owned it—like she was his to mark, bite, break, and fuck. Her bare skin flushed under his touch, nipples hard against his chest as he ground his body into hers until she whimpered.
He dropped her to the couch like a toy he was finally allowed to play with, pulling her thighs apart without asking. Her breath hitched, her lips trembling. But she didn’t move away. No, she opened wider. And Dominic looked down at her like a starving man, eyes wild, voice thick. “So wet for me already,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through her slick folds and watching her arch, begging silently. “You’ve been dripping like this for weeks, haven’t you?” he hissed, voice low as he slid those fingers into her slow and deep, making her choke on her moan. “Filthy little thing—acting shy when you’ve been creaming every night thinking about me.”
She shook under him, panting, squirming, her fingers clawing at the leather couch as his fingers curled just right, hitting that perfect spot inside her over and over until she couldn’t form words. “D—Dominic, please,” she gasped, tears brimming in her eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. “Please what?” he asked, not stopping, pressing his thumb against her clit with just enough pressure to make her thighs shake. “Please ruin me,” she sobbed, voice cracked, raw. “I can’t take pretending anymore.”
That was it.
He dragged her to the edge, flipped her over onto her stomach like a ragdoll, and grabbed her hips like handles, yanking her ass up and grinding his hard cock against her soaked heat. “You’re gonna take every inch,” he snarled, rutting against her until she cried out, “You’re gonna thank me for every bruise I leave. Every time I split you open and make you scream my name.” And then he pushed in—slow at first, making her feel every thick, stretching inch of him, her pussy squeezing tight as her nails raked the couch. He held her there, buried deep inside her, not moving, just letting her feel the weight of what she asked for. “You feel that?” he growled into her ear. “That’s what you’ve been teasing. That’s what you’ve been starving for.”
And when he started to move—when his hips slammed into her, rough and merciless, her body bouncing beneath him—Lyla broke. Her moans turned to sobs, her pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, and she loved every fucking second. He used her like a doll, fucking her hard, deep, like he was trying to erase the world inside her. “You’re mine now,” he grunted, voice filthy and possessive. “You hear me? Mine to ruin. Mine to fuck. Mine to watch fall apart under this cock every night if I want.” Her screams echoed off the walls, and she begged for more—clawing at the couch, grinding back, never once saying no.
By the time he came—thrusting deep, groaning into her neck like he was losing his mind—Lyla was shaking, crying, wrecked. Her mascara smeared, lips swollen, thighs trembling. But when he pulled her into his lap, still panting, still hard, she kissed him—slow this time. Soft. Sweet. “You ruined me,” she whispered. He smirked against her mouth, brushing his thumb over her bruised throat. “Good. Because I’m not fucking done.”
