Chapter 14 #2
She goes still, finally. Completely spent. But then I feel it—the way she burrows her head deeper into my chest, turning her face away, pressing herself against me not in surrender but in retreat.
Hiding.
Oh. Oh, no. Absolutely fucking not. She does not get to hide from this. Not from what just happened. Not from what her body just proved.
"Look at me," I command, my voice cutting through the post-orgasmic haze with the sharp edge of authority.
She shakes her head against my chest, still breathing heavily, ragged and uneven. Refusing.
"Scarletta." I let her name roll off my tongue like a warning, dark and deliberate.
"Either you look me in the eyes right now, or I will pry them open with an eye speculum.
Don't make me do that, you beautiful little slut.
I don't want to hurt you—not like that—but if you earn it, I'll be forced to balance the scales. "
The words slip out without thought, unplanned and raw, pulled from somewhere deep and instinctive. The threat hangs between us, unexpected even to me.
A beat of silence. Then her eyes snap to mine—wide, shocked, darkened with lingering pleasure and something sharper. Her voice comes out low and gravelly, roughened by screaming. "What?"
Perfect. There she is.
I stroke her hair again, gentler now, and I smile beneath the ski mask, satisfaction radiating off me.
"There she is. See? I knew you could follow directions.
" My voice drops into a purr, warm and approving.
"That's a very good girl, Scarletta. You squirted your release all over me. I'm absolutely soaking wet."
"Oh, god," she moans, and I watch the embarrassment flood her face—cheeks flushing darker, eyes squeezing shut again as if she can erase what just happened by refusing to see it.
"Don't look away, Scarletta," I murmur, my tone warm with admiration even as my hand tightens possessively in her hair—not painful, just firm enough to keep her exactly where I want her.
"This is a beautiful gift. Have you ever squirted before?
I've never seen you do it, but perhaps you have.
In the days before me, when you thought no one was watching. "
The words slip out deliberately this time, calculated and precise. I watch their impact, the way understanding begins to dawn in those beautiful hazel eyes.
She's still looking at me, held captive by my grip and the weight of what I've just admitted.
Then her eyes narrow down into dangerous little slits, confusion sharpening into comprehension and then fury.
"What?" The word comes out strangled, disbelieving.
"What the hell are you talking about? You've never seen me do it?
The times before you? What does that mean? "
She struggles in my grip, trying to push herself up and out of my lap, her body suddenly rigid with adrenaline-fueled panic.
But I hold her absolutely still, my arm like iron across her waist, my hand firm and unyielding in her hair.
My voice drops lower, darker, brooking no disobedience. "Do not move."
She freezes—not from obedience, but from shock.
Her breathing comes harder now, shallow and quick, her pupils dilating as fear crashes into the post-orgasmic haze still softening her edges.
"What does that mean?" she demands, her voice rising, cracking slightly.
"The time before—have you been… spying on me? "
"Of course I have." The confession rolls off my tongue smooth and easy, like discussing the weather. "I put cameras in your apartment six months ago."
I watch the words hit her. Watch them process. Watch her face shift from confusion to horror to something sharper, more dangerous.
"I've read all your stories, ScarletSins.
" I let the username sit between us, deliberate and heavy.
"I've watched you write them too. Fingering yourself during that scene in 'Bend Me Over'—you know the one, where Marcus bends Isla over the desk and fucks her while she's trying to finish her essay.
You got so wet writing that scene you had to stop three times to make yourself come. "
Her mouth opens, but no sound emerges. She's gone pale beneath the flush of exertion, her eyes wide and glassy.
I keep going, my voice dropping lower, more intimate.
"The way you humped your pillow every day for a week when you wrote 'Two at a Time.
' Every single day, Scarletta. Sometimes twice.
You'd finish a chapter, post it, then read the comments while grinding against that sad little pillow like it could give you what you actually needed. "
"Stop," she whispers, the word barely audible.
"Do you crave two at a time, Scarletta?" I tilt my head, considering her with clinical interest even as my cock throbs against the wet fabric of my boxers.
"Two cocks filling you up, stretching you, using you?
Is that what gets you off when you write those scenes?
Imagining being so thoroughly fucked that you can't even think straight? "
She's shaking now—not from pleasure anymore, but from rage mixed with terror. Her hands push against my chest, weak and ineffectual. "Let me go."
"I'm afraid sharing is out of the question," I continue, ignoring her pathetic attempts to escape my grip.
"But I'd be more than happy to stuff your ass with my cock while fucking your pussy with a dildo.
Would that satisfy the fantasy? Would that be enough to scratch that particular itch you've been writing about for years? "
Something snaps in her.
She wrenches herself sideways with sudden, desperate strength—the kind that only comes from pure adrenaline and survival instinct.
Her small body twists in my grip, slippery with sweat and her own release, and she manages to slip free.
She hits the floor hard, stumbling, her legs still weak and unsteady from the orgasms I just wrung out of her.
But she doesn't fall.
She runs.
Laughter erupts from my chest before I can stop it—deep and genuine and utterly delighted. The sound fills the playroom, bouncing off the concrete walls and padded panels, echoing back at us in a way that probably sounds absolutely fucking unhinged.
I don't care.
This is perfect. This is exactly what I wanted without even knowing I wanted it.
"That's it!" I call after her, my voice ringing with dark amusement. "Run, little slut! Run!"
She pivots, her eyes wild and desperate, scanning the playroom for an exit. Her gaze lands on the sliding glass door at the far end first—the one that leads to the small outdoor patio area, currently buried under two feet of Wyoming snow.
She sprints toward it.
I don't chase her yet. I just stand there, watching, my chest heaving with laughter and exertion and something darker, more primal.
My cock is rock-hard now, straining against my soaked slacks, and the sight of her naked body running from me—thighs still glistening with her own come, ass bouncing with each frantic step—is the most erotic thing I've ever witnessed.
She reaches the sliding door and grabs the handle, yanking hard.
It doesn't move.
She yanks again, harder this time, her whole body throwing itself into the effort. The door remains firmly locked, the mechanism controlled by a keypad she doesn't have the code for.
"No, no, no," she gasps, her voice rising in pitch. She pounds on the glass with her fists, as if that might somehow make it open. As if the freezing wilderness on the other side would be preferable to staying in here with me.
I start walking toward her. Not running. Not rushing. Just moving with slow, measured steps that eat up the distance between us with predatory inevitability.
She hears me coming.
Her head whips around, and when she sees me approaching—sees the deliberate, unhurried pace of my advance—pure terror floods her features. She abandons the door and darts sideways, running along the wall, putting the bondage table between us.
I adjust my trajectory, following her with the same methodical pace, as I slip my suit coat off and let it drop to the floor. I'm not trying to catch her yet. I'm herding her. Cornering her. Letting her tire herself out while I conserve my energy and enjoy the show.
"You're making this so much better than I imagined," I tell her conversationally, my voice carrying easily across the space between us as I pull my shirt out of my pants and unbutton it.
"I knew you'd written chase scenes—'Hunted,' 'The Cottage,' that short piece called 'Prey'—but I wasn't sure if you'd actually enjoy being chased in real life. "
She's panting now, her chest heaving, her eyes darting around the room looking for escape routes that don't exist. "You're insane," she spits out, her voice shaking. "You're a fucking psychopath."
"Probably," I agree easily, still advancing, letting the shirt slide down my arms. "But you already knew that, didn't you? You knew what you were signing up for when you clicked that confirmation button. When you filled out that questionnaire. When you got in the helicopter."
She moves again, circling around the St. Andrew's Cross, trying to keep furniture between us. Her legs are trembling—whether from exhaustion, fear, or the aftereffects of multiple orgasms, I'm not sure. Probably all three.
"I didn't sign up for this!" she shouts, her voice cracking. "I didn't consent to being stalked! To having cameras in my home! To—to—"
"To having your darkest fantasies brought to life?" I interrupt, my tone almost gentle. "To being hunted by someone who knows every sick, twisted thought you've ever had? To being cornered and claimed by a man who's read every word you've written about wanting exactly this?"
I shift direction, cutting her off before she can dart toward the suspension rig. She backpedals, stumbling slightly, and I watch her catch herself against the padded wall.