Oliver's POV
The submissive was already there, kneeling on the plush rug. She was beautiful in a conventional way—a lithe body, dark hair, and a submissive gaze that should have settled the storm in my chest.
"Master," she whispered, her voice a practiced silken purr.
"Get to work," I commanded, sitting back on the velvet sofa. My jaw was locked so tight it ached. I wanted to erase the memory of Aurora's smile. I wanted to drown out the sound of Oscar's voice telling me I was too broken to love.
The girl moved between my legs with practiced grace. She unzipped my fly, her fingers nimble. When she took me into her mouth, I closed my eyes, waiting for the release, waiting for the familiar spark of pleasure to override the jealousy.
She was good—her tongue was warm, her movements rhythmic and deep. I could feel the heat building in my gut, the physical reaction my body couldn't ignore.
But my mind was a traitor.
