16. Protecting Against The Past
Protecting Against The Past
~MAVERICK~
T he attic at Cactus Rose Ranch is my domain—a cramped space filled with outdated equipment that I've jury-rigged into something resembling a modern security system.
Dust motes float through the single shaft of morning light as I check the monitors, each screen showing a different angle of the property.
It's routine, this morning patrol through digital eyes: perimeter fence intact, barn doors secured, main house quiet.
My fingers move across keyboards with practiced efficiency, logging timestamps and noting anything unusual.
Which, at 6:47 AM on a Thursday, is absolutely nothing.
Until the speaker crackles to life with a sound that freezes my hands mid-keystroke.
A moan. Soft, muffled, but unmistakably feminine. Unmistakably Willa.
My body goes rigid, every muscle locking as my brain processes what I'm hearing.
The audio feeds from the bedrooms are supposed to be for emergencies—smoke alarms, break-ins, or someone calling for help.
Not for... this . Breathy gasps now fill the cramped attic space, each one hitting my nervous system like a cattle prod.
I should turn it off.
My hand hovers over the kill switch, trembling slightly.
This is a violation of privacy, of trust, of every professional boundary I've maintained in my five years at this ranch.
But another moan filters through— longer, needier —and my hand moves to the volume knob instead, turning it up just enough to hear clearly.
"Fuck," I mutter, the word barely a breath. My cock is already responding, blood rushing south with embarrassing eagerness. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. But I'm already reaching for my phone, thumb moving to the security app with a mixture of self-loathing and desperate curiosity.
The camera angle is high and wide—designed to show the whole room in case of intrusion, not to provide intimate details.
But God, it's enough. More than enough.
Willa lies sprawled across her bed, and my breath catches hard in my throat.
She's wearing some kind of white crop top, sheer enough that I can see the dark outline of her nipples through the fabric.
The morning light paints her skin gold, highlighting the flush spreading across her chest. Her auburn hair fans across the pillow like spilled copper, and her legs— Christ, her legs are spread wide, knees bent, giving me a perfect view of her fingers disappearing into her pussy.
My cock throbs so hard it’s painful, the denim biting into sensitive skin as my erection strains against its prison.
I shift in the plastic chair, the creak deafening in the otherwise dead-quiet attic, terrified my body might betray me by making enough noise to draw someone up here.
Each heartbeat seems to pump molten need straight through my veins, until my hands shake with the effort of not palming myself right here at the workstation.
I know I should look away.
The right thing to do— in any universe, under any code of ethics —would be to close the app on my phone and go for a freezing shower.
But there’s something about her, sprawled out and so utterly unguarded, that makes reason irrelevant.
It’s not even about getting off; it’s about wanting to know her, every last secret, every quirk and shiver and gasp she’ll make when she thinks no one’s watching.
Fuck, I want her.
Everything about her is raw and honest, not performative for the camera, which just makes it ten times hotter.
The flush on her face, the way her hips roll up to meet her own touch, the desperate urgency in her rhythm—it’s pure need, animal and unfiltered.
There’s no acting, no pretense, just this desperate, beautiful hunger.
God, if she knew I was watching her right now… that thought alone nearly undoes me.
I picture her catching me in the act, turning those wild orange-gold eyes on me, shame and defiance battling across her face. Would she hate me? Would she blush and look away, or would she hold my gaze and make me watch, make me own the violation I’ve just committed?
The possibilities slingshot me straight into dangerous territory, and my hand drifts south, thumb flicking my zipper open just enough to relieve the growing pressure.
I can see how wet she is even through the camera feed, her fingers glistening as they pump in and out with increasing urgency.
She's got a pillow pressed over her face, probably trying to muffle the sounds, but the microphones catch everything—every gasp, every whimper, every broken moan that escapes despite her efforts.
I can see how wet she is even through the camera feed, her fingers glistening as they pump in and out with increasing urgency.
She's got a pillow pressed over her face, probably trying to muffle the sounds, but the microphones catch everything—every gasp, every whimper, every broken moan that escapes despite her efforts.
This is for her protection, I tell myself, even as my hand moves to my belt.
The cameras, the audio—it's all to keep her safe.
To make sure no one can hurt her again like that bastard Blake did.
If something happened and I wasn't monitoring.
.. The justification rings hollow even in my own mind, but I'm already unzipping my jeans, already reaching inside to grip my aching cock.
The first stroke nearly makes me groan aloud.
I'm harder than I've been in months, maybe years.
Pre-cum already beads at the tip, and I use it to slick my palm, trying to match my rhythm to the movement of her fingers on the screen.
She's building faster now, her free hand moving up to squeeze her breast through that thin fabric, and I can see her back starting to arch.
Through the speakers, I hear it— my name, muffled by the pillow but unmistakable.
"Mavi."
Just a whisper, mixed with Cole's name and River's and Austin's, but it shoots through me like lightning.
She's thinking about us.
About me.
While she fucks herself with those slender fingers, she's imagining it's me touching her, me inside her, me making her feel this good.
My hand moves faster, squeezing the base of my cock to stave off the orgasm that's already building.
I want to make this last, want to watch her fall apart completely.
On screen, her movements become more frantic.
Her hips roll up to meet her fingers, and even through the pillow I can hear her gasps getting higher, more desperate.
The wet sounds of her fingers working her pussy fill the attic, obscene and perfect.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, fighting to keep silent.
If anyone heard me up here, if they knew what I was doing.
.. But I can't stop. Can't look away from the screen where Willa's whole body has gone taut, trembling on the edge.
Her fingers move in quick circles over her clit now, her other hand pinching her nipple through the fabric, and I know she's close. So fucking close.
"Come on," I murmur, the words guttural and shaking as I stare at her through the grainy feed. My hand pistons faster over my cock, pre-cum already slicking the path; I’m barely holding back from just losing it right here and now. "Let go, baby. Let me see you."
She’s close—I can tell by the way her hips buck up, greedier, more demanding, like she's chasing something just out of reach. Her knees collapse inward, squeezing her wrist, and her other hand claws the sheets, white-knuckled and desperate. She’s biting the pillow hard, hair fanned in a copper halo, but I can still hear the helpless whines building up in her chest as her rhythm turns frantic.
God, she’s beautiful when she’s unraveling.
I want to be the one to pin her wrists, the one making her sob and squirm, but this is all I get: a pixelated window into her most private ache.
It’s the purest torture, and it only feeds the sick compulsion that’s rooted deep in my gut.
I keep whispering to her, filthy encouragements that no one will ever hear.
“That’s it, sweetheart… Give it to me. Show me how you fall apart.”
I imagine my hands in place of hers, my teeth on her neck, my scent everywhere until her breathless cries are all for me.
The fantasy burns brighter than the sun, white-hot and ruthless.
She’s not even my Omega, not officially, and the guilt gnashes its teeth in the back of my skull, but I can’t stop.
I won’t. For once, I want to see something through to the end.
Even if it means crossing a line I can never uncross.
Her body is a living prayer on the screen: arching, trembling, caught between agony and surrender.
I match my rhythm to hers, desperate for that final connection even as the attic closes in tighter around me, thick with the animal rank of my own need.
The sounds from the speaker—her voice breaking on my name, the wet slap of her hand between her thighs—ratchet me higher, until the whole world narrows to this: the pulse in my fist, the blurry glow of her skin, the rhythm of her pleasure matching mine beat for beat.
I fist my cock harder, the pressure building at the base, and I want her to see what she does to me—to know that she’s not alone in this hunger, that I ache for her with every atom in my body.
The control room smells of dust and ozone and my own sweat, air sharp with longing and shame.
My heart pounds, heavy and erratic, as I urge her on through clenched teeth:
“Come for me, Willa. That’s it. Don’t fight it.”
My voice is a fucking wreck, broken down to its rawest parts. I hold her gaze, willing her to meet my eyes through the goddamn feed, to feel me on the other side of everything.