Crocodile had never been a man to hesitate.
Not in war. Not in business. And certainly not when he wanted something.
So when he strode into Sineka's room that morning, cigar balanced between his fingers, expecting to find her lounging in bed or seated at her vanity, he hadn't expected to be greeted by emptiness.
His golden eyes narrowed. Where the hell was she?
Exhaling a slow curl of smoke, he scanned the dimly lit space—the untouched sheets, the half-empty glass of water on the bedside table, the faint lingering scent of jasmine and smoke that always clung to her.
Then, from the other side of the room—the faintest rustle of fabric.
The closet.
Crocodile stepped forward, his heavy boots barely making a sound against the marble floor as he pushed the door open without warning.
And then—
He went still.
For the first time in a very, very long time, something caught him completely off guard.
Sineka stood before a grand, floor-length mirror inside the walk-in closet, her back partially turned to him, hair still damp from her bath, cascading in heavy, inky waves down her spine.
But that wasn't what stopped him.
No, it was what she was wearing.
Or rather—what little she was wearing.
She was dressed in black lace and sin, the kind of lingerie that no woman wore by accident.
A sheer, delicate bralette, thin enough to be utterly useless in terms of modesty, the intricate floral patterns barely covering the taunting swell of her breasts. Her stomach was bare, the soft curve of her waist leading down to an equally scandalous piece of lingerie, high-cut lace panties, hugging her hips like an invitation to be touched, gripped, devoured.
Long, golden earrings dangled from her hands, as if she had been selecting jewelry when he had interrupted.
Her face—bare of any makeup, untouched, natural—was reflected in the mirror, dark eyes flicking up as she noticed him standing there.
She didn't gasp. Didn't shy away.
She smirked.
And that was what undid him.
Because she knew what she was doing.
She knew what she looked like.
She knew that she had just become the most irresistible, wicked temptation the world had to offer.
And she was enjoying every second of it.
Crocodile inhaled slowly, his cigar long forgotten, still smoldering between his fingers.
"Are you going to keep standing there, or do you need an invitation?" Sineka murmured, smooth as silk, turning fully now to face him, owning the moment.
His control snapped.
Crocodile moved, closing the distance between them in a single, lethal stride, and before she could blink—
His golden hook slid under her chin, tilting her head up.
She exhaled softly, lips parting just slightly, as if daring him.
"You really have no self-preservation, do you?" he muttered, voice low, gravel rough.
Sineka's smirk deepened. "If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?"
Fuck.
He didn't let her have another second of control.
Crocodile's free hand—his real hand—gripped her waist, fingers sliding over silk, over lace, over skin, until he had her pinned against the mirrored wall, the cold glass pressing against her back.
Sineka's breath hitched, but her eyes burned with challenge.
Good.
He liked her defiant.
Liked her taunting.
Because it made it all the more satisfying when he finally broke her.
Crocodile's fingers trailed lower, past the lace of her bralette, brushing over the dangerous strip of bare skin between her ribs and the wicked lace hugging her hips.
"You dress like this," he murmured, tracing the delicate waistband of her lingerie, "and expect me to ignore it?"
Sineka let out a soft laugh, though it was shakier than before. "I was just getting dressed."
Crocodile chuckled darkly, his lips grazing the shell of her ear.
"You don't dress like this when you want to be left alone, woman."
She shivered.
And he felt it.
Felt her breath stutter. Felt her body tense—anticipating, bracing, wanting.
He smirked against her skin.
"Are you going to fix that sharp little mouth of yours," he murmured, lips trailing lower, closer, "or do I need to do it for you?"
Sineka's fingers clenched against his chest, gripping the fabric of his coat.
And then, in the wickedest, most sinful voice imaginable, she whispered—
"Make me."
Fucking hell.
Crocodile's restraint shattered.
His mouth crashed against hers, and it was war.
Teeth, tongues, heat—his hands gripping her hips, her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, hungrier.
Sineka gasped into his mouth when his hook caught the lace strap of her bralette, pulling just enough to expose more skin, more sin, more temptation.
He felt her arch, felt her press against him, heat meeting heat, breathless, reckless, lost.
This wasn't soft. This wasn't sweet.
This was devouring.
And Crocodile was finally, fucking tasting her.
He dragged his mouth down her throat, sucking, biting, leaving marks that would last, because if she was going to look like this—
She was going to look like his.
Her head tipped back against the glass, a sharp moan escaping her lips, and Crocodile growled, low and dark, drinking in the sound like a goddamn victory.
She was losing.
And she loved it.
His fingers slid lower, just under the lace of her panties, pressing, teasing, coaxing a shudder from her.
"Crocodile—"
His name was barely a breath.
A desperate, ruined thing.
He smirked.
"Say it again."
Her nails dug into his shoulders, eyes hazy, lips swollen from the way he had claimed her.
"Crocodile," she whispered again, breathless, undone.
He groaned, losing himself in the taste, the feel, the way she was completely his.
And this was just the beginning.
The world outside the closet didn't exist.
There was only Crocodile, only his hands, only the way he had her trapped between him and the mirrored wall, silk and lace doing nothing to stop him from touching, teasing, breaking her down inch by inch.
Sineka was losing.
And the bastard knew it.
His fingers, rough and wickedly skilled, slid through slick, heated softness, pressing deeper, stroking places she had never let anyone else touch.
She bit her lip, hard, trying to hold back, but then—
Crocodile's hook caught the thin strap of her bralette, dragging it down, baring her to the cold air.
She let out a sharp gasp, shivering as the chilled mirror pressed against her bare chest—a stark contrast to the heat of his body behind her.
The sight in the reflection was ruinous.
Her breasts, bare and soft against the glass, the delicate lace of her lingerie barely covering anything, her thighs trembling, her lips parted in helpless pleasure—
And behind her, Crocodile, fully clothed, golden eyes gleaming with predatory satisfaction, his hook resting at her side, a silent promise.
Fuck.
Her back arched instinctively, pushing her hips deeper against his fingers, letting him press higher, reach deeper—and shit, he was hitting something that made her knees nearly buckle.
She choked on a whimper, nails scraping against the glass, leaving faint smudges behind.
Crocodile's free hand gripped her hip, holding her steady, not letting her escape.
"You're already shaking," he murmured, voice gravel and smoke, his breath hot against her exposed neck.
Sineka bit back a sound, trying to find something sharp to say, but nothing came—
Not when he thrust deeper, dragging his fingers slowly, deliberately, stretching her, making her feel every inch.
She gasped, her forehead pressing against the glass, humiliated by how easily he unraveled her.
The cold of the mirror, the heat of his body, the way he handled her like she was his to ruin—it was too much.
Too much, too much, too much—
And then—
Knock. Knock.
A sound so normal, so out of place, that it barely even registered at first.
"Boss."
Daz Bones' flat, professional voice filtered through the heavy wooden door. "Stussy's on the line."
Sineka froze.
Crocodile didn't.
He didn't pull away, didn't stop, didn't let her catch her breath.
Instead—
He went deeper.
Her body tensed, a choked, mortified gasp escaping her lips as she barely stopped herself from moaning outright.
Oh, fuck.
Crocodile exhaled, completely unbothered, still deep inside her, still working her toward something uncontrollable.
"I'll be out in a minute," he called to Daz, his voice completely level, as if he wasn't currently fingering her into ruin against the mirror.
A pause. Then—footsteps retreating.
Thank fucking god.
Sineka exhaled in relief—only to let out a soft, wrecked sound when he curled his fingers again, hitting that spot so perfectly it nearly broke her.
"Crocodile—"
His lips brushed against her ear, his tone silk and command. "Be quiet."
She bit down on her knuckle, shaking, her body begging for release, for more, for everything.
Crocodile smirked against her bare shoulder, watching her through the mirror.
"Pathetic."
His hand tightened on her hip, holding her still as he dragged her back onto his fingers, making sure she felt every movement, every stroke, every inch.
"You were so smug earlier."
Sineka let out a shuddering breath, utterly humiliated by how easily he owned her body.
His voice was pure arrogance, dark and amused. "And now? You're already close. So fast. Like a desperate little thing."
She wanted to fight back, wanted to snap something sharp and cutting—
But her body betrayed her.
Because she was so close.
So fucking close.
Her hips moved without her permission, desperate for more, chasing the heat pooling low in her stomach, chasing release.
Crocodile felt it, saw it, knew it—
And he smirked, completely in control, completely cruel.
"Come, then."
His command shattered her.
The moment his fingers pressed deep, slow, relentless, she broke apart—
Her back arched, cheek pressing against the cold glass, mouth parted in a silent, ruined gasp as waves of pleasure wracked her body.
It was so fast.
Too fast.
And Crocodile knew it.
His smirk deepened, watching her through the mirror, utterly smug, completely satisfied.
Sineka panted, her entire body flushed, shaken, ruined.
And utterly embarrassed.
She had never—
She had never fallen apart like that before.
Not that quickly. Not that helplessly.
Crocodile finally pulled his fingers from her, dragging them down her thigh, smearing her slickness against her skin—a brand, a claim, something filthy and inescapable.
Then—without breaking eye contact—
He lifted his fingers to his mouth.
And licked them clean.
Sineka nearly fucking died.
Still breathless, still trying to recover, she glared at him. "You bastard."
Crocodile simply chuckled, completely smug, adjusting his coat as he took a slow step back, his golden hook trailing along her thigh one last time.
"Get dressed." His voice was low, amused, and still fucking hungry. "I'll deal with you later."
Sineka shuddered, her legs still weak beneath her, and Crocodile laughed lowly, clearly enjoying every second of her ruin.
And fuck.
This man was going to kill her.
