Chapter 42: The Adventures of His Fingers: Wish It Were Me

The door of Jannah’s room rattled open.

The deep, late-evening shadows had already claimed the room. Jannah stood frozen by the edge of the wardrobe, her long, dark hair damp and clinging to her shoulder blades from a desperate, hours-long bath she had taken to scrub the persistent scent of Dorrent from her skin. She was wrapped in nothing but a single, pristine white linen towel—a garment so agonizingly short that it barely managed to conceal the swell of her hips, leaving the full length of her pale, slender legs completely bare to the cool air.

Dorrent stepped into the room. He had discarded his corporate suit jacket, his silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the hard column of his throat. His eyes flared with an immediate, unhinged predatory intensity the moment they locked onto her exposed, shivering physique. He looked at her with a slow, heavy deliberation that felt like a physical assault, his gaze tracing the path of the water droplets sliding down her pale thighs, undressing the very fractions of her body that the short towel attempted to guard.

"You’re late, Alpha," Jannah whispered, her voice a thin, defensive friction as she instinctively clutched the knot of the linen against her chest.

Dorrent didn’t answer immediately. He took two slow, dominant strides forward, compressing the distance between them until his pheromones completely crowded her lungs. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a small, sleek black drive card. He reached out, his long fingers deliberately brushing against her palm as he forced the card into her hand.

"Watch it," Dorrent commanded, his deep voice dropping into a thick, gravelly register that vibrated against her skin. "Watch every single second of it, Jannah. I want you to see exactly how I performed with Joanne tonight, so that your stubborn, defiant little mind will believe whatever outcome is recorded there, rather than assuming I manufactured a lie to keep you trapped in this house, on my bed."

The sheer, suffocating proximity of his naked gaze made Jannah’s core tighten with a sudden, unbidden wave of heat. Terrified of her own body’s treason, she snatched the drive card, shoved her small palm against his chest, and used every ounce of her leverage to push him backward out of her space.

"Get out," she hissed, slamming the double doors shut and throwing the brass latch into place with a loud, resounding click.

Left alone in the shadows, Jannah’s breathing was shallow, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She dropped onto the edge of the mattress, her fingers trembling as she stared at the black drive card. A dark, desperate anticipation burned within her chest. She needed to know. She was absolutely desperate to know the biological data contained within that drive.

Earlier that morning, during his breakfast assembly, she had secretly infused his tea with a concentrated, highly volatile extract of ghost-thistle—a rare, toxic herb her grandfather had taught her to harvest from the swamp districts. In precise doses, ghost-thistle did not harm the body permanently, but it acted as a severe neural dampener, targeting the pelvic blood flow of dominant Alphas and making physical arousal mathematically impossible under normal psychological stimulation. She had done it to humiliate him. She had no real intention of honoring her gamble or leaving the Grefo estate until she had thoroughly dismantled his pride and avenged the bloody smoke of the night her parents were slaughtered during his mindless rut. She had only weaponized the threat of leaving because she couldn’t bear the thought of him realizing how thoroughly her treacherous, weak body had craved his savage touch the night before. Sleeping with the killer of her parents and feeling such devastating, earth-shattering pleasure was a sin that shook her to the very soul.

With a rapid, frantic motion, Jannah grabbed her digital tablet from the nightstand. She inserted the drive card into the side port, her eyes reflecting the sudden, blinding flash of the screen as the media file initialized and opened the scene.

The video quality was pristine, captured from a hidden, high-definition security matrix mounted in the vaulted rafters of a hotel room.

The scene started with Joanne. The elite supermodel was already stark naked, sprawling across the dark silk sheets of the bed like a high-district trophy. Jannah’s breath hitched as she analyzed the visual data. Joanne was the absolute, polar opposite of her own fragile framework; she was statuesque, tall, her skin a rich, golden tan, her physical dimensions fuller and thoroughly developed. She was staring expectantly toward the edge of the frame.

Then, Dorrent appeared.

He walked into the camera’s view completely naked, his towering, magnificent S-tier physique rendered in flawless, sharp definition. His broad, muscular back was turned to the camera, the deep, symmetrical V-taper of his lats sliding down into a hardened, washboard lower back and tight, powerful glutes. Jannah let out a quiet, involuntary curse beneath her breath. Damn him, she thought, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as a wave of unbidden heat rushed to her cheeks. She loathed how physically perfect he was; she desperately wished he didn’t look that staggeringly hot, that his body wasn’t a living masterpiece of raw, masculine power designed to make an omega’s instincts whimper.

On the screen, Dorrent strode over to the mattress. Joanne reached up, her long, manicured arms winding around his neck as they dived into a heavy, suffocating kiss. They entangled themselves instantly, their bodies twisting across the silk.

But then, the geometry of the encounter shifted. Dorrent forcefully altered their positions, rolling onto his back and pulling Joanne’s tall frame completely on top of him. Joanne leaned down, her golden hair cascading over his face as she began to rain desperate, hungry kisses along his collarbone, her hips grinding against his thighs. Dorrent’s hands reached up, idly kneading and gripping her plush buttocks with a heavy pressure.

Then, it happened.

As Joanne trailed her wet kisses below his neck, moving downward toward his chest, Dorrent slowly tilted his head back against the pillows. His eyes opened, turning away from the woman on top of him to lock directly onto the exact angle of the hidden camera.

Jannah froze, the tablet nearly slipping from her pale fingers. The intensity of his gaze through the digital screen was staggering. It felt alive, piercing through the glass divider, locking onto her eyes across the distance of the corridor. It was as if Dorrent knew exactly where she would be sitting; it was the look of an Alpha who was completely imagining her—while lying beneath the hands of another woman. Jannah violently looked away from the tablet, her heart thumping wildly against her ribs as if the real, physical Dorrent were standing right in front of her in the room.

Breathing heavily, she forced herself to look back at the screen.

Joanne had shifted further down his magnificent torso. Her fingers reached between his thighs, finding his completely relaxed, dormant manhood. The ghost-thistle had done its work perfectly. The thick length of his cock remained entirely soft, lifeless, and unresponsive despite the supermodel’s proximity. Joanne leaned down, taking his flaccid crown into her mouth, licking on it, rubbing the shaft with her wet tongue, and pumping her hand frantically along the length in a desperate, high-bred display of seduction.

It didn’t wake up. Not even a fraction of a millimeter of rigidity returned to his flesh.

Joanne tried until her jaw grew visibly tired, her breathing turning frantic and frustrated before she finally pulled away, sitting back on her heels as she stared down at his groin in sheer disbelief. "What... what is wrong, Dorrent?" her muffled voice echoed from the tablet’s speakers. " Are you alright?"

Dorrent’s face on the video remained a smooth, chilling mask of absolute composure. "There is a neurological medication I am currently taking for high-stress relief ," he replied smoothly, his tone flat and empty of any real emotion. "One of the side effects is a temporary dominance of my sexual appeal over my physical performance. I am sorry, Joanne... I had simply forgotten to warn you before you drove out here."

Joanne let out a long, disappointed sigh, her tall shoulders slumping as she smoothed her golden hair back. "What a total pity, darling... you truly must work less. The company is consuming you."

Jannah let out a low, venomous curse against the screen. This clever, deceitful bastard, she thought, her chest heaving with frustration. He had managed to protect his devastating secret perfectly, turning his biological failure into a clinical excuse that left his reputation entirely intact.

But the video didn’t end there.

"However," Dorrent’s deep voice resonated from the speaker, a dark, sudden sharpness entering his tone on screen. "Since your body is already wet for me, Joanne... I will still help you find your release."

Before the supermodel could argue, Dorrent reached up, his arms grabbing her waist with a sudden, violent leverage. He lifted her tall frame bodily and placed her tightly between his thighs, opening legs wide and forcing her pelvis to face directly toward the hidden camera lens.

He brought his right hand down between her thighs. Joanne’s vagina was cleanly shaved, glistened with a heavy, transparent wetness under the master suite’s lamps. Dorrent reached his left hand up, brutally clamping his fingers around her full breast, fondling and squeezing the soft tissue with a heavy pressure, while his right index finger slid straight past her outer folds, inserting itself deep into her tight entrance.

"Ah... Oh, god, Dorrent! Yes—!" Joanne let out a loud, sudden moan that echoed sharply through Jannah’s tablet.

Dorrent didn’t pause. Working with a rapid, mechanical velocity, he added a second finger, then a third, until his four fingers were buried completely deep inside her wet entrance, thrusting into her with a brutal, relentless rhythm that slammed his hand against her pubic bone.

"Ah! Ah! Yes! Faster, Dorrent, please! Oh, god... Mmmmaaaah!" Joanne’s moans turned into a continuous, high-pitched screaming, her body shaking violently on the screen as his hand thrust into her, her hips shifting and moving in frantic, desperate circles to meet the rapid velocity of his stroke. A loud, wet, and incredibly sloppy squelching sound filled the audio track of the file, a graphic testament to how drenched the supermodel was under his care.

And through every single fraction of a second of that brutal display, Dorrent’s gaze never left the hidden camera.

He kept his eyes locked entirely onto the lens, staring directly into the bedroom where he knew Jannah was watching. His fingers were frantically moving inside another woman, driving her to the absolute brink of a loud, screaming climax, but his focus was entirely fixed on the pale herbalist. It was an exhibition of pure, psychological dominance.

Jannah was completely flabbergasted, her mind spinning into absolute chaos as she stared at the screen. The sheer intensity of the scene was an absolute assault on her senses. The continuous, loud moaning of Joanne, the wet, sloppy friction of his fingers moving inside her core, and the unyielding stare of the Alpha looking back at her through the glass—it dismantled the last of her rational defenses.

A sudden, terrifying, and unhinged realization blossomed in her chest. She didn’t want to watch Joanne. As she looked at the frantic movement of his fingers, a desperate, taboo wish flared within her soul—she wished the woman in that video taking Dorrent’s fingers was her. She wanted those large, hot hands back inside her tight walls, destroying her pride all over again.

Driven by an involuntary, feverish impulse, Jannah’s left hand slowly slid beneath the hem of her short linen towel. Her pale fingers trembled as they guided themselves down to her own entrance—only to be met by a sudden, heavy rush of natural lubrication. She was completely soaking wet. Her omega core had already drenched her thighs in a thick, floral cream just from watching him pleasure another woman.

"Damn it..." Jannah whispered, a tear of pure shame welling in her eye as she lifted her damp finger, intending to lick the slick cream from her skin to hide the evidence of her betrayal.

Suddenly, a hot hand shot out from behind her.

The grip was ironclad, unyielding, and terrifyingly familiar. The fingers clamped tightly around her small wrist, freezing her arm in mid-air and completely stopping her from bringing her wet finger to her lips.

Jannah’s breath caught in her throat, her entire frame locking into absolute, icy shock as a massive, towering physique pressed against her bare back from behind, the unmistakable, suffocating scent of pheromones filling her lungs.

Dorrent leaned down, his lips brushing directly against the sensitive shell of her ear, his deep, gravelly voice a dark, rumbling rasp that vibrated straight through her soul as he took her wet finger, forced it past his own lips, and slowly licked the sweet cream from her skin.

"It seems your perverted little body wants the adventures of my fingers tonight, little omega..."