Chapter 3 #2
And my following across YouTube, TikTok, and other sites grew exponentially. I’d had millions of followers already, but now I had tens of millions.
Because I’d long ago focused on the specific homeless people who’d gone missing, there were trails for people to follow.
Their families were all contacted by other news organizations, but the victims themselves were mostly kept off-grid.
Ember had told me the bikers had managed to get them all to the cities they wanted to return to, and most of them had families who’d taken them in.
The ones without families were all in a city with an RTMC chapter, and were being taken care of.
Bud was actually prospecting one of them into the Atlanta chapter, and I hoped it worked out for this man who’d never felt like he fit in anywhere.
I hadn’t contacted anyone in Birmingham.
While Ember was with me, she kept me updated on what was happening with the victims, but once she went home, I had nothing.
A month to the day, and I didn’t know if I should call Magnum.
Were people listening in on my phone calls?
I had no way of knowing, and I worried I’d fuck up all we’d done to keep the bikers out of it by calling or texting him.
He didn’t call me, so I figured maybe it hadn’t been long enough yet.
But then out of the blue, five weeks after the op, I opened my door to find Magnum on my front porch wearing khaki pants and a light blue button-down shirt with his hair cut like a damned businessman and dyed blond.
He was completely wrong and didn’t look like himself, but it was still the same eyes, looking at me like he could see inside me.
I dragged him into the house and tears fell from my eyes, wetting my face before I even realized I was crying.
“Hey hey,” he said in that low voice I’d missed so damned much. He caught my face in both hands, thumbs wiping at the wetness while those eyes scanned my face and looked inside me, analyzing me, figuring me out. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I’ve been so busy.” The words came out broken. “I’ve just worked and worked. Cramming food in when I can, but…” I dragged more air into my lungs and sobbed it back out. Took another breath. “Fuck, I need you. I’ve stayed busy enough I thought I was okay, but I’m fucking not okay.”
Another sob, and I admitted, “My last orgasm was at your house!” My voice broke, and the rest came out as a whisper. “I’ve given up trying to give myself one! It doesn’t work anymore!”
He lifted me like I weighed nothing. One second my feet were on the floor, the next I was in his arms and he was carrying me to the sofa.
He sat and settled me sideways across his lap, one arm locked around my back, the other already sliding under my loose shorts and inside my panties.
He rammed a thick finger inside me without warning, and my head fell back with a broken gasp.
He added a second, then a third, stretching me open with the same relentless certainty he always used.
My hips jerked up, silently begging for more.
“I have you,” he said against my temple. “You don’t have to open for me. I’ll fucking open you.”
Four fingers, and he wasn’t gentle, but I didn’t want him to be. My sobs grew more intense, and I started begging, the words tumbling out without thought. “Please, I need… Please Sir!”
“You’ll hold onto it until I give you permission, slave.” God, the voice alone could make me come. “Open your eyes and let me see your fucking need.”
I almost came around his fingers when he made me look at him.
My mouth opened in a silent scream, and my body clenched hard.
I fought with everything I had left, and he just made it harder and harder, curling his fingers, pressing into me to spread me so fucking wide it hurt in the most beautiful way ever.
He worked me over until tears were streaming into my hair and I shook in his arms, so close to coming apart.
Finally, he said the magic words. “Come, little fuckslave.”
The orgasm ripped through me in long, violent pulses while I sobbed his name.
My body arched off his lap, my vision whited out, but he kept the same steady rhythm, dragging every aftershock higher until I was desperate all over again, and then he ordered me to come again, and the second orgasm slammed into the first. This one was deeper, painful in its intensity, and my muscles clamped down so tight I could feel every fucking knuckle.
I clung to his shoulders and rode it out while he murmured low praise against my ear.
When the last tremors faded, he eased his fingers free and pressed them into my mouth without a word — and I cleaned them while meeting his gaze, tasting myself, still trembling and completely wrecked.
Then he simply held me.
One big hand stroked down my spine and made me feel cherished while the other stayed wrapped around my waist, anchoring me. I could feel his heartbeat under my cheek, solid and fucking real.
“I missed you,” he said quietly. “Every motherfucking day, I worried about you constantly. Were you still alive? Was someone torturing you? Were you being careful? I waited for your livestreams every morning, and breathed out in relief when they popped up.”
He exhaled hard. “I’m so glad you survived it and you’re still here. Still you.”
I turned my face into his neck and breathed him in. The khaki and the button-down still felt wrong, but the arms and the voice were unmistakably him. For the first time in five weeks, my body finally believed I was safe.
But then I started worrying. Why had he fingered me to orgasm? Why hadn’t he fucked me?