Chapter 14
SOPHIA
Ihaven’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Same paragraph. Same fucking sentence. I’ve read it four times and couldn’t tell you a single word because my mind is trapped in that room, replaying every filthy second on loop.
My back flush against the wall. His huge body pinning me there like I weighed nothing.
Those burning eyes locked on mine while his rough hand pulled my shirt down and greedily palmed my breast, rolling and pinching my nipple with slow, deliberate strokes like he’d been starving to touch me for too long.
Like every single time he watched me from the shadows, he’d imagined exactly how my skin would feel under his palm.
Oh, God, and the way his thumb dragged across my bottom lip, the way he murmured “cherry-red” like he’d been saying it in his head every single day for years, like finally voicing it made his cock throb so hard he could barely breathe.
Fuck. I can still feel how hard he was. How big. How perfectly the ridge of him rubbed right against my swollen clit with every roll of his hips.
My thighs clench tightly on the stool. It doesn’t help. It only makes me ache more.
This is so fucked up.
The man who kidnapped me has me soaked. My panties are ruined—slick and clinging to my pussy like a second skin. My clit is pulsing so hard it’s almost painful, and every tiny shift sends fresh wetness flooding out of me.
I shouldn’t want him. I shouldn’t be dripping for the man who stalked me, tied me up, and locked me in this house. But my body doesn’t seem to give a shit about logic. It only knows it wants him.
I drop the book, not bothering to mark the page. I’m not coming back to it. Then I brush a hand through my hair as I exhale loudly. Everything in me is wired, every muscle tense, every nerve on edge like it needs something.
Shit.
My hands are shaking as I slip one beneath the waistband of my pants, straight into my soaked panties.
The second my fingers slide through my dripping folds I moan out loud—embarrassingly loud.
I’m absolutely drenched. My clit is swollen and slippery, my pussy clenching around nothing like it’s begging.
I tell myself it’s just relief. Nothing more, nothing less.
A quick, shameful fix so I can finally get him out of my system.
But the moment my eyes close, everything shifts. The room disappears. The stool, my own trembling fingers—none of it matters anymore. He’s here. Standing right behind me. His heat at my back, his low, filthy voice sliding into my ear like he’s been waiting forever to give the order.
“Spread your legs, Sophia.”
I obey instantly, thighs falling open wide on the stool, knees trembling.
“Wider. Show me that greedy little cunt I’ve been dreaming about for years.”
Heat floods my face, but I slide lower anyway, ass barely balanced on the edge, legs splayed like a desperate slut in heat.
“Touch yourself. Rub that swollen clit for me. Let me see how wet you get just thinking about the man who owns you.”
My fingers circle my clit, and my hips jerk hard. Electricity shoots up my spine so violently my toes curl. I’m already so slippery my fingers keep sliding off the swollen bud. Every stroke makes a soft, wet sound that amplifies the sensations flooding my senses.
“Good girl,” he growls, his voice thick and dark and so fucking real in my head. “Look at you… dripping for your kidnapper. Now slide two fingers inside that tight, needy pussy. Fuck yourself like you wish it was my cock splitting you open.”
I push two fingers in deep, and my head falls back on a broken moan. I’m so wet the obscene, squelching sound fills the air, nasty and hot and so close to the edge it’s pathetic.
My walls clench around my fingers like they’re trying to pull them deeper, and I curl them hard, stroking that perfect spot, and my thighs start shaking uncontrollably.
“Harder. I want to hear how fucking messy you are for me.”
I pump faster, thumb grinding my clit in tight, frantic circles. My hips are rocking on their own now, chasing his voice, chasing the fantasy of his thick cock replacing my fingers, and the shame of it only makes me wetter.
“God, you’re perfect,” he rasps, and I swear I can feel his breath on my neck. “Keep going. Finger-fuck that cunt like the desperate little whore who gets soaked for her stalker.”
I slam my palm against my mouth to muffle the noises, but it’s pointless. Every bit of shame makes it worse, makes me fuck my own cunt harder, makes my legs spasm out wider.
In my head, his huge, rough hand comes down to completely cover mine, thick fingers forcing mine deeper, harder, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that has my eyes rolling back.
“That’s it. Get that pussy sloppy for me. Make it loud, Sophia. I want to hear how fucking wet you are for the man who owns you.”
I’m whimpering helplessly into my palm, hips bucking frantically, completely lost.
“Come for me. Come, and think about the monster who’s been hard for this cunt every single night he watched you.”
The orgasm slams into me like a violent freight train.
My back arches so hard I nearly topple off the stool as my pussy clamps down around my fingers in powerful, rhythmic spasms. A raw, guttural cry tears out of me despite my hand—loud, broken, shameless.
Wave after filthy wave crashes through me while I keep grinding my palm against my clit, forcing out every last pulse.
My cunt gushes hard, hot slick flooding around my fingers and running messily down my ass and thighs in thick rivulets. My legs shake violently, toes curled so tight they cramp, my whole body convulsing as the pleasure edges into something almost painful.
I can’t stop. I keep fucking myself through it like a woman possessed, riding the brutal waves until my vision whites out and my mind blanks completely.
When the last vicious spasm finally fades, I slump forward, gasping and trembling, fingers still buried knuckle-deep inside my twitching, oversensitive pussy. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
Reality trickles back in slowly, cruel and unforgiving.
I just came harder than I ever have in my entire life—violently, messily, shamefully—fantasizing about the man who kidnapped me.
The man who admitted to stalking me for years.
The man who put his fist through the wall six inches from my face and then looked at me like that was the least of what he was capable of.
And the worst, most fucked-up part? I still want him. Even now, with my pussy still fluttering and pulsing around my soaked fingers, my thighs sticky with my own cum, my body still twitching from aftershocks…
I still. Want him.
Worse than before.
The admission lands like a stone in my gut.
I squeeze my eyes shut, desperately trying to summon the version of myself who sits across from traumatized children and adults every single week—the calm, rational Sophia Sinclair who knows the boundaries, red flags, and preaches self-preservation like it’s gospel.
This man is every warning sign I’ve ever memorized. He’s violent, damaged, hidden behind scars and secrets and that fucking mask.
I’ve sat across from women who fell for men exactly like him, trying to justify why their bodies betrayed them. How fear and desire can twist together until they’re indistinguishable. Why trauma bonds feel like love but are just survival wearing a prettier mask.
I studied the science. I know the patterns. I’ve said the words a hundred times. “Your nervous system is just trying to keep you alive. It’s not your fault.”
And yet here I am—heart racing, thighs still sticky, pussy still throbbing—because the same man who terrifies me also makes me feel more alive than I ever have in my life.
None of my training is working. None of the late-night sessions dismantling dangerous attachments or the careful language I use to pull people out of the dark can touch this.
How is it possible that everything I’ve learned and studied gets annihilated the second Reth looks at me like I’m the only thing in his universe? How the fuck does desire get to win when logic is screaming?
I don’t have an answer, and that scares me more than he ever could.
I wipe my fingertips on the edge of my cotton underwear, drawing back a shaky breath. The aftershocks are still rolling through me in slow, traitorous waves, but the high is already collapsing, leaving something hollow and ugly in its place.
My skin is still flushed hot, my core still twitching around nothing, but none of it feels good anymore. The image of him—his voice in my ear, his hand forcing mine deeper, the way he growled good girl like he’d been waiting years to say it—won’t leave my head. It clings like smoke.
A wave of embarrassment crashes over me, so sudden and violent my stomach twists.
Then the guilt follows, thick and choking, because I didn’t just come thinking about my kidnapper.
I came harder than I ever have in my life.
I begged him in my mind. I spread my legs like a desperate slut for the man who stole me.
And the worst part—the part that makes my chest cave in—is that some broken piece of me liked it. Wanted it.
Still wants it.
I sit there on the stool, spent and aching in a way that brings completion but no peace. My thoughts and my body feel like two completely different people sharing one terrified heart, and I don’t know which one is winning.
A tear tracks hot down my cheek. Then another.
And another. I don’t bother wiping them away.
Call it embarrassment. Guilt. A complete fucking absence of self-preservation.
All I know is whatever this is, it’s splitting me wide open from the inside, and I’m terrified there’s no putting me back together after this.
He’s supposed to be the villain. He’s not supposed to be a man I want.
Finally, I wipe my face with the back of my wrist and stand. I need a goddamn drink. Pretty sure I saw tequila in the kitchen cabinets, and right now I would drink it straight from the bottle without a single regret.
I pull the door open.
My heart stops.
He’s right there. Reth. Directly in front of me, filling the entire doorway like he materialized out of the air, like the universe decided the hallway needed a six-foot wall of mystery and sin and didn’t consult me first.
I slam a hand against the doorframe to stop myself colliding with him, my breath leaving my body in one sharp hit.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t apologize for being exactly where I didn’t expect him to be. He’s just there, still, his presence sucking all the oxygen around us.
My hand is braced on the doorframe, my heart trying to exit my chest through my sternum, because the way he’s looking at me…Jesus. I never knew blue eyes could burn like this.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
He doesn’t speak either. And the silence does what it always does between us. Expands. Fills. Presses against my skin until I’m aware of every inch between us and nothing else.
A soft gasp rolls from my lips as he reaches out, fingers closing around my wrist. Warm. Unhurried. The grip of a man who has decided he’s allowed and isn’t asking. I feel it travel up my arm before I’ve finished registering the contact. Into my chest. Pooling somewhere it has no business to.
I don’t pull back. I should. But I don’t.
My breath shallows into shaky, desperate little gasps I can’t control as he lifts my wrist with excruciating slowness, bringing my fingers that were inside me a minute ago right up to his face.
His burning blue eyes never leave mine for even a second, dark, ravenous, and completely shameless, like he wants me to watch exactly what he’s about to do.
Then his lashes lower…and he inhales. Slow. Deep. Devastatingly greedy.
The realization explodes in my chest like a bomb.
He watched.
He saw every second. The way I spread my legs on that stool. The way I fucked myself with two fingers while his voice growled filthy commands in my head. The way I came moaning for him—gushing, shaking, crying out.
Jesus Christ, he watched me come.
A violent wave of humiliation and raw, crippling heat slams through me so hard my knees nearly buckle.
I try to jerk my hand free, but he simply tightens his grip like he’s not even trying too hard, eyes now fixed on me.
I want to melt straight through the floor.
I want to run. But he won’t let me look away.
He inhales again, even slower this time.
The quiet, obscene sound he makes as he pulls the scent of my pussy straight into his lungs hits me like lightning.
His nostrils flare wide against the buff.
His broad chest rises and falls heavily as he breathes me in, savoring every filthy note of my orgasm like it’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever experienced.
A low, guttural groan vibrates from deep in his throat—raw, hungry, barely restrained. The sound goes straight to my clit.
My pussy clenches violently around nothing, forcing a fresh rush of hot slick to leak out of me.
My nipples tighten to painful peaks. My knees threaten to buckle.
I’m shaking, mortified, and so turned on I can barely stand while the man who watched me come now slowly, deliberately inhales the evidence of how hard I fell apart for him. What it does to me is catastrophic.
He holds my fingers there one devastating second longer, eyes on mine the entire time, dark and liquid and completely without shame, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt more exposed.
When he finally lowers my hand, my pulse slams through my bones. For one insane second, I think he’s going to walk me backward into the bedroom, spread me open on the bed, the bookshelves, anywhere, and the worst part is…I know I would let him.
“Reth—” The sound barely makes it out, cracked and ruined.
He releases my wrist. And then he walks away, leaving the hallway empty, the air rushing back in like it’s trying to pretend he was never there.
I stay frozen in the doorway, whole body humming like a livewire with nowhere to discharge.
Heart still jackhammering, I lean against the doorframe, trying to steady my breath.
But my body gives one last helpless flutter deep inside, another warm rush between my thighs as the memory of Reth breathing in the scent of what I’d done burns behind my eyes like a brand I’ll never be able to scrub off.
The tequila can wait. My legs aren’t taking me anywhere tonight.
And honestly… neither is the rest of me.