Chapter 11
Scarletta
"What is this?"
Ryan's grin shifts into something easier. Genuine, almost. "The future." He gestures toward the TRX rig. "This is my prototype. A full-body suspension training program. But not the basic crap you see in other gyms. This is advanced shit, ya know? A personal training program developed by me."
I stare at the modified table with stirrups. The restraint points. The cameras positioned at angles that would capture everything.
He really thinks I'm going to buy that?
Training?
To be fair, Scarletta, you bought the idea of being sold at a sex auction.
Then signed up for a hunt in a maze.
Touché.
"See, I've got this vision," Ryan continues, walking toward the rig with the confidence of someone who's practiced this pitch enough times it sounds genuine.
"I'm gonna convert this whole space into a suspension studio.
Group classes. Advanced programs. Something no one else in Idaho Falls is offering. "
He turns back to me, and his smile is the kind of easy that probably works on most women. Warm. Excited. Like he's letting me in on a secret.
"I've got a big-deal investor meeting tomorrow at noon. Massive money ask. The kind that could make this happen. But they want proof of concept before they commit to the buildout. They need to see it in action."
Of course, they do.
"That's where you come in, button." He winks at me. Actually winks at me. "I need a model. And… like I said when I took you on for training, you're my only client at the moment."
Like he took me on?
He's making it sound like it was my idea. It wasn't. He's the one who came on to me.
Of course, he did, Scarletta. He was setting you up for this.
Obviously, inner monologue. I'm not a complete fucking idiot. I do actually have real-world experience in the realms of performance sex.
I'm not sure what the look on my face is saying right now, but I'm fairly certain it's not what he expected. Because he launches into pitch number two. "I'll pay you." This comes out softer. Lower. "It's not a lot, but… like… ten grand?"
Ten grand.
He's right. To me, ten grand is half of the base pay for the sex auction. And while that was filmed, it was filmed by Caleb. Maybe I don't know him that well, but he doesn't come off as the type of man who likes to sell his videos.
And Ryan… does.
He makes porn. I'm a hundred-percent certain of it.
"Twenty," Ryan says. "Twenty grand."
"Twenty grand to… act in your presentation?"
"You don't understand the kind of money at stake here, button. It's three million dollars."
"Three million." I look around. "To turn this into a TRX studio?"
"The insurance is insane," he counters.
OK. I can see that he's going to keep this performance going, no matter what.
So I decide to cut to the chase. "What do you really want from me, Ryan?
Because while I'm definitely interested in what's going on here…
" I motion to the equipment, holding eye contact as I do it.
"Especially the stirrups on that table."
His mouth falls open.
"I'm not interested in being circulated on some porn site for the general public."
He laughs. It's small, but genuine. "You little fucking fiend. You've done this before."
I shrug. Feeling pretty bold. "Not this specifically, but… yeah. I get paid sometimes. And let me tell you, ten grand is an insult. Also—" I put up a hand before he can counter again, "I don't need the money."
Again, he's stunned. "You… you don't need the money. What are you saying, Scarletta? You'll do this for free?"
"Depends on what 'this' is."
Ryan steps closer, taking my face in his hands, tilting my head up and forcing me to look him in the eye. "I like to dominate. Do you like to submit?"
I'm dying to submit. But I don't say that, obviously. We're negotiating limits. "Only to professionals."
He laughs again. Absolutely delighted. "Well, I've heard that before. How can I be sure that you understand what will happen?" He moves one hand down my jaw, and begins playing with my lip. "How do I know you won't chicken out?"
He pushes a finger inside my mouth. Placing it firmly on my tongue.
I let him.
Then I answer with his finger in my mouth. It comes out warbled and weird. "I'll show you." But that's the point. This is a humiliation play. Making me talk around his probing finger is meant to degrade me.
It's clever, I'll give him that.
And hot. I like it.
He pushes his finger deeper towards the back of my throat—not quite enough to gag me but enough to press against that sensitive spot that makes my eyes water—and something inside me just... snaps.
It's not gradual. It's not gentle. It's a sudden, violent rupture of control.
Maybe it's the seven months without sex.
Maybe it's the months before that of white-knuckled masturbation sessions I haven't allowed myself since leaving the island.
Maybe it's the accumulated weight of every suppressed impulse, every stifled fantasy, every orgasm I've denied myself because letting go meant remembering what it felt like when Caleb made me come apart.
Whatever it is, the arousal doesn't build—it detonates.
One second I'm standing there with his finger lodged in my mouth, trying to maintain some semblance of composure, of negotiation, of control over this situation.
The next second, a jolt of pure, concentrated pleasure slams through my body with such violent intensity that my knees buckle.
My eyes slam shut—not a slow flutter but a hard, involuntary clench as the sensation crashes over me in waves too powerful to process.
A moan tears out of my throat, muffled and obscene around his finger, and my head tips back without my permission, exposing the vulnerable line of my throat as the orgasm rips through me like lightning striking dry kindling.
It's over in seconds—sharp, brutal, utterly devastating.
And then the realization hits me with almost the same force as the climax itself.
I just... came.
From a finger in my mouth. From being degraded. From this.
The shock of it leaves me frozen, trembling, barely breathing as the aftershocks pulse through my core and my brain scrambles to catch up with what my body just did without asking permission.
"What the fuck just happened?" Ryan's voice comes out hoarse, ragged—each word scraping through the same breathless hitch that's shredding my own composure. "What the fuck did you just do?"
The question hangs between us like a lit fuse, crackling with the same electric charge that's still coursing through my veins, and I can see it written all over his face—the shock, the hunger, the dawning realization that whatever boundary we just crossed, there's no going back now.
I close my eyes and hold still for a breathless second—pulse hammering, cheeks flushed—forcing myself to gather the scattered pieces of what just happened. My mind swims in the after effects of the orgasm as I try to anchor myself back into the moment instead of dissolving entirely.
Then, slowly—deliberately—I pry my eyes open and lock onto his gaze.
His finger is still lodged against my tongue, thick and intrusive, forcing my jaw wide. I don't pull away. I lean into it. Let him feel the vibration of my voice around the digit pinning my mouth open.
"I jus' came," I whisper—garbled, slurred, utterly shameless.
"You little fiend." He looks at me for a moment, moving his finger inside my mouth. Then hurriedly says, "May I check you?"
The question hits me like a second climax I wasn't prepared for, and my entire body clenches reflexively—knees threatening to buckle, core spasming around nothing, breath stuttering out in a broken gasp.
The sheer audacity of him asking sends another vicious pulse of arousal through me before I can even attempt to wrestle it down.
Oh god.
I'm going to come again. Right here. Just from words.
That's how desperately starved I am. I fight to keep myself upright, coherent, functional.
His finger is still pressed flat against my tongue, pinning my mouth open like he owns it—owns me—and maybe that's what finally tips me over the edge. The sheer weight of that control. The casual, unflinching dominance radiating off him in waves.
I force myself to breathe. To focus. To answer him.
"Yes," I manage—barely more than a whisper, slurred and messy and trembling with the effort of holding myself together. "Yes. Please."
Immediately, his hand abandons my mouth and plunges into my leggings—no warning, no hesitation, no gentle exploration. Just a direct, ruthless invasion that makes me jolt like I've been electrified.
His fingers slide between my folds with obscene ease, finding me soaked through, drenched to the point of absurdity, and the wet sound of his touch moving through all that arousal is mortifying. My entire body flushes hot with shame even as another vicious pulse of want rolls through me.
Then he laughs.
Not a chuckle. Not a dark huff of amusement.
A real laugh—deep, genuine, delighted—and it reverberates through the narrow space between us like thunder.
"You fucking whore," he says, voice rich with astonishment and something darker, something hungry. "You actually came. Jesus Christ, Scarletta. You're so fucking wet I could—"
He cuts himself off, apparently too fascinated by his discovery to finish the thought. His fingers swirl lazily through the mess between my legs, exploring the evidence of my humiliation with the clinical thoroughness of someone cataloging a particularly interesting specimen.
Circling my entrance. Dragging upward to flick lightly over my oversensitive clit—making me gasp and flinch—then sliding back down through the slick heat again.
He's playing in it.
Savoring it.
Making sure I feel every second of his examination.
Then, just as abruptly as he invaded, he withdraws—pulling his hand free with another obscene wet sound that makes my face burn even hotter.
I'm moaning, unable to hide my disappointment.