Chapter 8
Alistair
Callie was asking for trouble, and I was lapping it up. But she had to be sure before she came to me.
I took a calm sip of my tea.
“Break my rules,” I said, “and I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t ever forget. Every time you shove that little toy inside yourself, you’ll wish it was me.”
Another slow sip.
She choked. “So you did open my parcel!”
“But you have to come to me,” I continued, ignoring her outrage.
When she stayed speechless, I decided to toy with her—since that damn toy had been toying with me all week.
“Did you soak that black rubber, Callie?” I asked, voice low. “How many times did you come on it?”
She gasped, colour flooding her cheeks.
“I—I never—it’s none of your damn business!”
I finished my tea, unfazed, and stood with my mug in hand.
“Text me your answer,” I said over my shoulder with a chuckle, heading to the kitchen to rinse the cup and grab my tool bag.
Mission accomplished.
?? ?? ??
I stared at her text in shock.
Callie: 28 times.
My thumb hovered over the screen.
No emoji. No follow-up. Just the number.
Twenty-eight.
I had no idea whether to be impressed, concerned… or hard.
Probably all three.
Me: Where did you find the time to study all week?
Callie: How long do you think it takes a woman to come?
Oh-ho. So it was like that—a question with a question.
Game on.
Me: It varies. Depends on how naughty she’s been.
Callie: I saw you with that woman in your kitchen a few months back.
I frowned, trying to place the moment—until it clicked.
Trisha.
We’d dated casually. Nothing serious. It fizzled after a few weeks.
Me: You’ve been spying on me?
Callie: Hardly. Our windows face each other. You had your blinds open.
I thought about that night—how much she might’ve seen.
The cheeky little minx.
Me: Did you think of me when you used it? Did you wish it was my cock rearranging your insides?
I waited.
No reply.
Then the bubbles started to dance.
Callie: Maybe.
I smiled and set my phone down on the desk.
?? ?? ??
My home had always been my sanctuary.
But tonight, as I sat in front of the television with my dinner, something felt off.
The quiet was usually a source of peace, but it settled around me differently tonight.
What once felt like freedom now felt like space.
Empty space.
I glanced at my phone.
No new messages.
As if by magic, her name lit up my screen.
I tapped the notification.
There were no words.
Just a picture of her violated toy—slick, glistening, streaked with her come. My dick stirred at the sight. I stared at it—at her essence—for a few long seconds before dragging my eyes back to my food.
She thought she was being clever.
She’d pay for every last infraction.
?? ?? ??
Day after day, she kept getting under my skin. Callie Shaw—quiet on the surface, chaos underneath—had tied me in knots I couldn’t loosen.
Her texts grew bolder. Sharper.
Half-teases, half-confessions, always landing at the exact moment my patience was worn thin and my restraint was paper-fragile.
She was nothing like the women I’d dated and promptly discarded.
They’d always hid something—motives, insecurities, demands.
Callie?
She was transparent in a way that was almost dangerous.
Smart. Funny. Disarmingly honest.
And she didn’t even realise how much that fed my obsession.
Did I hack into her Wi-Fi and monitor her location activity?
Maybe.
I justified it to myself easily—habit, instinct, professional paranoia.
But the truth was simpler.
I wanted to know where she was.
All the time.
And I did.
I watched her routines fall into patterns: morning classes, late-night study sessions, the occasional walk to clear her head.
Every time she passed my house, she glanced toward my window.
Every single time.
She thought she was being subtle.
She wasn’t.
And as much as I wanted to drag her inside and prove exactly how far those bold little texts could go…
I waited.
Tightly coiled, but controlled.
Because when Callie finally came to me, it needed to be her decision.
She was getting close.
So close I could feel it tightening around me like a wire.
I sipped my coffee and watched her walk up the street—slow, thoughtful, her bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. When she paused at my gate, I set the mug down and reached for the binoculars.
She crouched, brushing her hair back as she looked toward the hedge.
Was she talking to herself?
I stood.
Downstairs would give me a better view.
And right now, I didn’t want to miss a single thing.