Velvet Vixen falls into the fantasy for a bit

For a long, breathless moment, Velvet Vixen doesn’t move at all.

The closet is quiet—muffled jazz floating in from the warehouse beyond, the occasional murmur of Cleo Capone’s smoky voice—but here, in the darkness, she can hear only the pounding of her own heart and the creak of the ropes every time she shifts against them.

She gives a soft tug against the bonds at her wrists.

They hold firm.

Her corset presses into her ribs.

Her boots are locked together, tied with the same silk rope that now encircles her thighs.

And she moans.

Not from fear.

From heat.

Her head rolls back against the cold metal of the cart, and she lets out a helpless, gag-muffled whimper. Her legs squirm, only to feel the embrace of tight rope tugging her back into place. Her mind replays the kiss—Cleo’s lips, the gasp of the henchwomen, the utter thrill of being the center of all that attention.

She doesn’t want to enjoy it. But she does.

More than she ever imagined.

She writhes again, just to feel it.

Just to remember.

“They all hate me,” she whispers into the gag, “but they all want me.”

Her thighs clench. The cart creaks. The rope pulls taut.

She bites the gag, breathless, cheeks burning in the dark.

But then—

A voice filters in from the warehouse beyond.

Cleo’s voice.

“Remember, we intercept the armored truck at Glenwood and Fifth. Mask up. We roll out in twenty.”

Kendrick’s eyes snap open.

She blinks away the fog of heat and fantasy, taking a deep breath and shaking her head hard against the soft silk of her gag.

“Focus, girl,” she growls through the cloth. “You’re here to stop the bad guys. Not dream about them.”

And so...