Scarlett #2
The shame slams into me, molten and unbearable, but my body betrays me, pressing forward into his chest like I can’t stop myself. His grip on my waist tightens, dragging me closer, until the heat of him is all I know.
“You whispered your fantasy,” he says, low, filthy, every syllable cutting right through me. “Now I’m going to make you live it.”
I shake my head weakly, eyes stinging, but his hand holds firm over my mouth, smothering the protest, turning it into a muffled moan that makes his breath hitch. He leans down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers, obscene and reverent at once. “I’ll keep you quiet.”
His free hand trails lower, deliberate, slow as death. My thighs quiver, knees locking together out of instinct, but he pries them apart like its nothing, like I’m already his.
The floor creaks faintly above us—Mum shifting in her sleep? Dad rolling over?—and my blood runs cold. I should shove him away, scream, run. Instead, I cling to him harder, nails digging into his arm as he presses me back into the couch, swallowing my ragged, trapped breath behind his palm.
Every nerve in me is on fire. Every thought is overwhelmed by the obscene fact that he’s doing this here, now, with them asleep above our heads.
And God help me—every second feels exactly like the fantasy I prayed I’d never confess.
His palm covers my mouth before the words can escape, swallowing the gasp that claws up my throat. The heat of it silences me, forces me still, forces me to feel every rough line of his skin pressing into my lips. My shame surges, but so does the ache.
“Shhh,” he whispers against my ear, his voice so low it makes my stomach twist. “You’ll wake them.”
Them. Mum. Dad. Just a floor away. The thought alone should make me shove him off, but I don’t move—can’t. His hand holds me in place, and the filth of my own confession burns through me like wildfire.
“You wanted this, didn’t you, Scar?” he breathes, his nose brushing my temple, the words brushing straight into my skull. “Don’t lie to me now. You wanted me to fuck you with their voices just down the hall. You wanted to choke on your own moans.”
Tears sting my eyes, trapped against his palm. I shake my head because it feels safer than nodding, but my body betrays me—hips twitching, thighs clenching, chest heaving beneath his weight.
His thumb strokes across my cheek as if he’s soothing me, as if this isn’t the cruelest kind of torment. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Stay quiet. Don’t you dare make a sound.”
I try to speak—try to beg or deny or anything—but all that comes out is a muffled whimper swallowed into his skin. His grip tightens, and he presses closer, his breath hot and jagged against my hairline.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he says, and I can feel the smile against my ear. “How filthy you are. How badly you need me. And I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Every nerve in my body is screaming. I can’t run, can’t speak, can’t confess again—but the burn of wanting him like this, hand silencing me, shame eating me alive, is worse than anything.
His palm seals over my mouth, hot and heavy, muffling the breath that wants to turn into a cry.
The whole house is silent above us, the kind of silence that feels like it has teeth, ready to bite if we’re caught.
My chest rises too fast, too sharp, and the burn in my lungs is nothing compared to the heat that spreads when his other hand leaves my hip.
It drifts lower, deliberate, cruel. Over my ribs, grazing the edge of my stomach, then pressing flat so I can feel how steady he is while I’m shaking like a leaf.
He doesn’t rush. He drags every second out like punishment.
My thighs clench instinctively, shame flooding me before his fingers even get there.
“Shhh,” he breathes against my ear, the word molten and taunting. “They’re asleep upstairs, Scar. You don’t want to wake them, do you?”
I try to shake my head, but his palm tightens, forcing my answer into a broken whimper caught in his skin. His hand explores lower, skimming the waistband of my leggings, not pushing in, just hovering, making me ache.
“You think I don’t remember the things you whispered?” His voice is a dark curl of smoke. “Your filthy little fantasy. Wanting me here. Wanting me to touch you with them just a few steps away.”
The shame stabs sharper than the desire, but my body betrays me, arching into his touch, tears burning at the corners of my eyes.
His fingers don’t go where I need them—they ghost, cruel, over the seam of my clothes, enough pressure to make my pulse spike, not enough to give relief. He keeps me trapped between his palm over my mouth and his hand tormenting me lower, like he owns every sound and every breath.
“Show me, Scar,” he whispers, the words so soft and filthy they melt into my skin. “Show me how much you hate yourself for needing this.”
His palm still seals over my mouth, hot and unyielding, the press of his skin a warning and a promise.
The candles burn low around us, shadows trembling across the walls, and I swear he can feel every frantic beat of my pulse beneath his hand.
My body betrays me—I’m trembling, restless, heat pooling low where I ache the most.
Kai leans in, his breath brushing my ear, dark and unrelenting.
“Do it for me, Scar,” he whispers, voice smooth as broken glass. “Play with yourself. Right here. Let me watch you fall apart.”
The words slice through me like a sin I can never undo.
My shame claws up my throat, but his hand keeps it trapped there, my whimper swallowed against his palm.
My thighs clamp together like I can hold the shame in, but his other hand pries them apart with cruel patience, fingertips biting into the soft insides until I can’t resist the pressure anymore.
“Show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone,” he murmurs, softer now, like he’s coaxing, like it’s tender. But there’s nothing tender in the heat coiling behind his eyes. “I want to see it. I want to know if you made yourself this wet thinking of me.”
The shame makes my vision blur, but my hand is already moving, sliding hesitantly down, the tremor in my fingers betraying me more than any words could.
My hand shakes as it slides lower, every nerve screaming at me to stop, to pull away, to shove him off—but his hand stays clamped over my mouth, forcing silence into me, forcing me into this. My palm hovers, the heat between my thighs unbearable, the ache so sharp it almost feels like punishment.
Kai’s eyes darken, fixed on me like I’m his captive, his creation. His whisper is velvet and venom all at once.
“That’s it, Scar. Don’t hide from me. Touch yourself like you do when you’re in your room pretending I don’t exist. Show me how pathetic you get for me.”
The shame makes me sob against his palm, but my fingers obey. I slide them between the slickness of my folds, the wet sound obscene in the room’s hush. His chest rises sharply against my back, his breath jagged, like every tiny motion I make is pulling him apart.
He presses harder against my mouth, muffling the strangled cry that slips out when my fingers brush my clit.
“Fuck,” he groans low in my ear, his words as filthy as his stare. “You’re soaked. Drenched for your brother. Do you know how wrong this is? How good it makes me feel to watch you break yourself open just for me?”
Tears burn down my cheeks, but my body doesn’t stop—it can’t. Every circle of my trembling fingers pulls me closer; every filthy word from him pushes me deeper into the spiral.
His lips graze my temple, his voice softer now, cruel in how sweet it sounds.
“Let me see you cum for me, Scar. Make yourself fall apart while I watch. Prove you’re mine.”
His palm smothers my mouth, forcing every whimper back down my throat, but the filth he breathes into my ear leaves me trembling. My hand moves, frantic, clumsily, desperately—and then his fingers close over mine, slowing me, forcing me to move the way he wants.
“Too fast,” Kai whispers, his breath ragged, his tone cruelly calm. “You don’t get to decide how you fall apart. I’ll guide every stroke, every twitch of those pretty fingers, until you forget your own name.”
I try to jerk my hand free, humiliated, but his grip is iron. He drags my trembling fingers in lazy circles over the swollen ache, cruelly steady, keeping me on the edge without mercy. My body bucks, a sob choking against his palm.
“That’s it,” he hisses, pressing me tighter to him, his chest hard at my back. “Feel how close you are? How badly you want to snap? You’ll stay right here, Scar. You’ll tremble and soak my hand until you’re begging me to finish what you can’t.”
Tears sting my lashes, shame and heat tangling in my throat. I try to plead through his palm, muffled and broken, but he only chuckles, low and filthy.
“Pathetic,” he breathes against my skin. “Grinding your own hand while your brother makes you. You’re mine, Scar. Even your body knows it.”
And then he slows me even more, pulling me away from the breaking point, leaving me shaking, clawing for more, utterly helpless.
His hand clamps tighter over mine, holding me in that cruel rhythm until I’m sobbing against his palm, every nerve begging, every muscle straining. I think he’ll leave me there forever—ruined and unsatisfied—until suddenly his grip changes.
With a sharp tug, he rips my trembling fingers from between my thighs, shoving them uselessly to the side.
“Pathetic little liar,” he growls in my ear, his voice low and raw. “You think you get to touch yourself when I’m right here?”
Before I can catch my breath, his own hand replaces mine, rougher, firmer, merciless.
The difference makes me gasp against his palm, my body arching before I can stop it.
His fingers don’t tease—they drive, sliding through the mess he’s made of me, pressing hard, cruel, dragging me closer and closer to the edge with every brutal stroke.